Nelson Demille - The Panther

Brenner got the drift and said, “Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.”

Chet nodded, then stood and went to his duffel bag and retrieved a bottle of Hennessy cognac. Good move, Chet.

He passed the bottle around and we all took a swig, then passed it again.

The sky outside the east-facing windows was starting to get light, and I could hear birds singing. A black crow perched on a windowsill, then flew in and walked cautiously toward us.

Chet broke off a piece of bread and threw it toward the bird, who went right for it. Don’t shoot the bird, Chet.

More crows arrived and more bread was tossed, and the cognac kept making the rounds.

The dawn came, which was one of the few things you could rely on in Yemen, along with death.

Kate and I volunteered for the first guard shift and we relieved Zamo, who literally hit the hay and was quickly asleep with his boots on and his rifle across his chest.

Buck, Chet, and Brenner also lay down with their guns and boots on, and Buck said to everyone, “We leave here for the Bilqis Hotel about one P.M. Then we go to the ruins.” He assured us, “You’ll enjoy the ruins.”

I’m sure the Belgians enjoyed them, too, except for that problem.

I went to an east-facing window and watched the flat, distant horizon growing lighter.

Somewhere out there was Bulus ibn al-Darwish. It was hard to believe that this weirdo loser from Perth Amboy had come all the way here to metamorphose into The Panther.

And harder to believe I’d come all the way here to find and kill him.

In a day or two we’d see whose life journey had come to an end.

The straw bed was predictably uncomfortable, and the wool blankets smelled like camels or something.

And now a few words about the excrement shaft; it was basically a six-story indoor outhouse, with a hole in each floor. A squatter. So you had to look up, and if you saw someone’s ass above you… well, too much information. More importantly, the shit shaft could be a means of escape. Always look for an escape.

Buck was kind enough to share a roll of TP he’d thought to steal from the Sheraton. A man who thinks of TP is a man who thinks of everything.

We heard noises in the courtyard and I looked out the window. The eight Bedouin were kneeling and prostrating themselves on their rug, facing Mecca, which around here is northwest.

Buck informed us, “They are performing the noonday salat-the call to prayer.”

I looked at my watch. Right on time.

Buck also informed us that we were invited for lunch with our Bedouin hosts, but unfortunately the invite did not extend to Ms. Mayfield, who though she dressed like a man was still a woman. Kate took that well-she didn’t give a shit and she didn’t want to wear her balto anyway-and she took some bread and water up to the mafraj to keep an eye on our surroundings. Good thinking.

So the men of the A-team went down to the courtyard, and the Bedouin, who pride themselves on their hospitality to travelers, had hot tea for us and bowls of hot oats or groats, or some weird glutinous cereal product.

They also gave us plastic spoons, and Buck commented, “They eat almost everything with their fingers, but they’ve discovered spoons for certain foods.”

There’s progress. Next, napkins.

So we sat cross-legged on the rug with our eight new Bedouin buddies and we ate this glop, which was at least hot. The tea was herbal and did nothing for my cognac headache.

It was a little cooler here in the highlands than it was in Aden at this time of year, and on that subject my calendar watch showed that we’d rolled into March. You lose track of time when you travel back a few centuries.

The stone wall around the courtyard was about ten feet high, and the wooden gate was closed, so no one could see us, but neither could we see anyone approaching. There were, however, a few stone platforms around the walls for observation and shooting. I glanced up at the mafraj and saw Kate standing in one of the open arches with her M4 slung across her chest, enjoying the view through a pair of binoculars.

The Bedouin seemed very interested in our M4s, and Buck, against all regulations and common sense, allowed them to examine his weapon, which they passed around, fully loaded. They seemed amused by the compact size, small caliber, and light weight of the automatic carbine, and they passed around one of their AK-47s to show us what a real rifle felt and looked like. Yours may be bigger than mine, Abdul, but I can paint you red in a heartbeat with my little rapid-fire plastic toy.

The Bedouin also seemed interested in Zamo’s sniper rifle, but Zamo wouldn’t let them touch it and they seemed to respect him for that. But they did want to know about it, and Brenner said it was okay to let them know what this rifle could do.

So Zamo, through Buck, explained that he was carrying an M24 Sniper Weapon System, and it fired a 7.62mm NATO cartridge, which he said could blow their heads off at a thousand meters, though I don’t think Buck translated all of that.

Zamo also said that the U.S. supplied this rifle to the IDF-the Israel Defense Forces-and again I was sure Buck did not translate that provocative fact to these Muslim gentlemen.

They were fascinated by the telescopic sight, and Zamo explained that the magnification was adjustable from three-power to nine-power, meaning that at its highest power, an object that is nine hundred meters away looks like it’s only a hundred meters away.

The Bedouin seemed impressed, and since I can’t keep my mouth shut, I said to Buck, “Tell them that Zamo has killed fifty men with this rifle.”

Buck hesitated, then translated, and the Bedouin all looked at Zamo like he was a rock star. That’s worth another bowl of glop.

Anyway, I wasn’t sure this was a good strategy. I mean, on the one hand, it was good for Musa’s men to know that Zamo could put a bullet through someone’s head from a kilometer away. On the other hand, why advertise what you can do? People should find out the hard way.

Bottom line, though, there was a warrior thing going on here, and the Bedouin wanted to make sure they weren’t being overly nice to a bunch of girly men. You know, like guys who dragged a woman along to do a man’s job.

I mean, we weren’t even on the same planet with these people, but in some strange way I was getting to like them. I thought about bringing two or three of them back to 26 Federal Plaza to show some of the suits what real men looked like.

Maybe I was getting a little carried away with the moment.

Brenner, though, said to the team, “They remind me of the Montagnard tribesmen in ’Nam-basic, no bullshit, brass balls, and ready to kill without hesitation.”

Zamo, who also fit that description, and who’d fought men like this in the mountains of Afghanistan, said, “Guys like these are hard to the core. They live, eat, and breathe war.”

Right. This must be what the world looked like a thousand years ago. But the tribesmen did have modern weapons and vehicles and also cell phones. Things to make killing easier and more efficient. Nice to see, though, that they still carried their jambiyahs and dressed weird. Good for tourism.

Regarding the warrior thing, I’d worn my jambiyah for the occasion and the Bedouin thought that was funny. Unfortunately, by custom, none of us could draw our daggers to pass around-only to cut someone’s throat-but the Bedouin next to me, a guy named Yasir, examined my sheathed jambiyah, and Buck told me, “He says it seems of excellent quality,” making me feel better about the hundred bucks it cost me.

Our hosts insisted we have more tea and they pushed some khat on us that Buck took “for later.” Chet, of course, had his own stash, but he said, “Shuqran.” Thanks.