The Panther Page 13

  Wise guy.

  I made sure both guns had a loaded magazine in place, and checked that there was a round in each chamber and the safety was on. I left the guns in the bag, but kept it open between us.

  I asked Brenner, “Do we get automatic rifles?”

  “If you should need to leave Sana’a or Aden.”

  “Right.” I asked, “How’s the civil war going here?”

  “I don’t know.” He asked Mohammed, “How’s the civil war going?”

  “Oh, I do not know, sir. I only know what I read in the newspaper.”

  Brenner informed us, “The government is downplaying it, and it seems to be contained to the north of here, but for all I know we could wake up one morning and find rebel troops outside the embassy.”

  “They could be there now,” I suggested.

  “I think someone in the embassy would have called me.”

  Mindful of Mohammed, we didn’t speak much on the drive into the city, but Brenner spent some time texting on his cell phone. He let us know, “I’m making a report.”

  “Spell my name right.”

  He looked at a text message and said to us, “We’ll stop at the embassy before going to your apartment.”

  I didn’t ask him for any details. In fact, there wasn’t too much we could talk about with Mohammed listening, and anything Brenner said was probably disinformation for Mohammed’s consumption.

  I’d noticed about five military checkpoints so far, though no one had stopped us, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they reported our position.

  The lead vehicle and the trail vehicle were keeping fifty-foot intervals, and now and then Brenner would speak to the American drivers on his hand-held radio.

  Mohammed said he had to make a cell phone call—“a security requirement,” he assured Brenner. I didn’t know how much Arabic Brenner understood, but apparently not enough to let Mohammed call his buds and say something like, “Hey, Abdul, where’s that ambush supposed to be? Did I miss it?”

  Brenner said to Mohammed, “La,” which means no.

  Mohammed shrugged.

  The good road had ended and we were in an unpleasant slum now. There weren’t many vehicles or people on the dark and unmarked streets, some of which were dirt, making them excellent places to bury an explosive device.

  Brenner, feeling an urge to be a good host and guide, said, “We’re close to the center of Sana’a, the old walled city, which is a World Heritage Site with buildings over a thousand years old and still standing.” He informed us, “The city, however, has spread out and the population has grown to nearly two million people, most of whom live in squalid shantytowns like this one, without indoor plumbing or sewers.”

  In fact, I noticed an aroma strong enough to penetrate the bulletproof SUV, which I guess wasn’t gas-proof. The good news was that we could all fart freely and no one would notice.

  Brenner said, “I’ll show you around old Sana’a tomorrow if we have time.”

  Kate said, “That would be nice.”

  I had missed seeing old Sana’a last time I was here, and I wouldn’t mind missing it again, so I didn’t second that. But I’m sure Mohammed made a mental note of it, which was maybe why Brenner said it. Bait has to advertise.

  We made a few turns that I could tell were solely for the purpose of varying the route to the embassy. In fact, Brenner said, “We never go the same way twice.” Brenner also let us know, “If we get hit, my first shot goes through Mohammed’s head. Right, Mohammed?”

  Mohammed did not reply.

  I glanced at Kate and saw she was handling this well. So maybe this wasn’t the right time to say, “I told you so.” I’d know the right moment when it arrived.

  We were now in the hilly eastern suburbs, a better part of the city, and Brenner said, “Five minutes to the embassy unless we run into an ambush. Then you have to add ten minutes.”

  Mohammed thought that was funny. It occurred to me that everyone here was crazy. Maybe I was in the right place after all.

  We approached the illuminated walls of the American Embassy compound, and I could see Yemeni soldiers sitting on the concrete barricades or lounging in white plastic chairs.

  Brenner commented, “These guys are members of an elite unit called Sleepy Company, part of the Slacker Brigade.”

  I inquired, “Is this their day off?”

  “Every day.”

  The lead vehicle stopped, and one of the soldiers stood and ambled over to the driver.

  The embassy walls were about fifteen feet high, except around the gates where an ornate section rose about thirty feet. Embedded in the wall over the gates was the Great Seal of the United States. A welcome sight.

  Brenner informed us, “If this place got hit, I’m confident these fine Yemeni soldiers would give their lives to protect the American Embassy.”

  “They look half dead already.”

  He laughed.

  The electric gates slid open, and two United States Marines with M-16 rifles, wearing body armor and battle dress uniforms, stepped outside as the lead vehicle entered the embassy compound into what’s called a sally port—a walled-in pen with another steel gate that opened as the first gate closed.

  It was our turn, and as we passed through the gates, two more Marines stood at attention and saluted. Kate, I thought, looked a little more relaxed. In fact, we both removed our flak jackets and threw them in the rear.

  We passed through the second checkpoint, and I could see the main embassy building—the chancery—about fifty yards ahead at the end of a wide driveway.

  The chancery building was of recent construction, and in the spirit of cultural sensitivity, it looked like a theme park sultan’s palace, with big arches, a white stone façade, and lots of fretwork.

  The embassy compound, I recalled, was about five or six acres, surrounded by high walls. On the grounds were several ancillary buildings, including the ambassador’s residence, Marine guard quarters, housing for embassy staff who lived inside the walled compound, and other structures that housed everything you’d need if you were suddenly cut off from the world, including an electric generator and a water tank. For fun, there was a small movie theater, a swimming pool, and two tennis courts that doubled as a helipad. Also, alcohol was served.

  The first time I saw this place, I recalled thinking, “Not bad if you had to live and work here.” I also recalled, however, that there had been a few terrorist plots to launch rockets into the embassy, which I recently learned were planned by The Panther himself. No Mideast assignment is perfect. In fact, none of them are. I remarked to Brenner, “I don’t see any shell casings.”

  “The incoming rockets blow them into little pieces.”

  Kate giggled. I think she found this guy funny. But if I had said that, she’d roll her eyes. What’s with wives?

  We stopped at the big front doors of the palace-like chancery building, and Brenner opened his door and said, “You can leave your luggage in the car.”

  I opened my door and said to Kate, “Take the guns, leave the cannolis.”

  Kate got out with the gun bag, which she gave to me to carry, and we followed Brenner up the steps of an arched portico. The three SUVs pulled away, and I saw that our luggage had been deposited at the curb.

  Brenner informed us, “You’re actually staying here tonight. Just in case Colonel Hakim is on the prowl. Later today, you go to the Sheraton Hotel.”

  Kate asked, “Why not our apartment?”

  Brenner informed us, “There is no apartment.” He let us know, “You may not be here long.”

  Kate asked, “Why not?”

  “We need to discuss a few things later.”

  Right. Like, do we want to be Panther bait? Or do we want to go home?

  Kate and I followed Brenner past a Marine guard who saluted. Former Chief Warrant Officer Brenner returned the salute.

  The big atrium lobby looked as impressive as it did two and a half years ago, assuring me again that our tax money
was well spent.

  There was a huge American flag on the wall, and also some photos of the chain of command, starting with the president down to the current ambassador, Edmund James Hull, who had a big smile on his face like he just got the word he was leaving this hellhole. In fact, according to the embassy website, his posting had come to an end. Lucky Eddie. I should be so lucky.

  As we passed through the empty lobby, Brenner said to us, “FYI, Mohammed probably works for Colonel Hakim’s Political Security Organization. Or maybe an outfit called the National Security Bureau, which was formed in 2002, after John was here, to patrol the main roads, protect tourists at historical sites, and protect oil fields and foreign oil workers in Yemen.” He added, “Sounds good, but they’re just a branch of the PSO.”

  I speculated, “So maybe Mohammed wasn’t his real name.”

  Mr. Brenner further informed us, “The PSO and the NSB have been infiltrated by Al Qaeda from other Arab countries. The Yemeni government knows this and doesn’t seem to care.” He concluded, “With allies like this, we don’t need enemies.”

  Nuke ’em all.

  Brenner stopped and said, “I know you’re tired, but before I show you to your room, I thought we’d have a nightcap and meet someone.”

  “Nightcap is good,” I agreed. Meeting someone maybe not so good.

  Brenner got on his cell phone and texted.

  He explained to us, “I can use my regular cell phone in Sana’a, because we have a secure cell station and tower on the embassy roof. But away from here, we have to use satellite phones, which I’ll give you later.”

  I replied, “Same as last time.”

  “Right. I keep forgetting you were here.”

  “I don’t.”

  While we waited in the lobby to meet someone, Kate asked Brenner, “Is my office here in the chancery building?”

  Brenner replied, “Yes. Most working offices are on the second and third floors. The legal attaché office in Yemen has just been authorized by a strategic framework agreement, but will not officially open for a week or two.”

  I said to Kate, “You won’t be the first government employee with nothing to do.”

  Brenner said to Kate, “Your boss will be a man named Howard Fensterman, who arrived a few days ago. He is the chief legal attaché, and you are his assistant.” He added, “Mr. Fensterman, like you, is FBI.”

  Right. Everyone here has two hats, but they keep one in the closet.

  Brenner went on, “As you may have heard or read, the ambassador, Edmund James Hull, has just left Yemen and will not be returning.”

  “Right.” And the official reason for his departure was given as personal, which could mean anything from diarrhea to his wife packing up and leaving this shithole.

  When you’re assigned to a small diplomatic mission in a small, backwater country, you actually get to meet the higher-ups, who are happy to speak to anyone from the States. Even me. So when I was here last time, I got to meet the former ambassador, Her Excellency Barbara Bodine, who had been in Yemen when the Cole was bombed. I’d spoken to her here in the embassy on two occasions, and once down in Aden when she’d visited the Cole investigators in the Sheraton Hotel and played volleyball with us on the beach—wearing knee-length shorts and a T-shirt. She was an attractive woman, and not a bad person, but I came to share the opinion of the FBI and others here that she had… let’s say, not handled the Cole crisis well. She, too, must have come to that conclusion, and she left in August 2001, about the same time I did. This place can make you or break you.

  Brenner said, “I don’t know when we can expect the new ambassador, and to be honest, things run better—for us—when the ambassador is on home leave, or quits.” He confided, “We have different agendas.”

  Right. The dips are here to make nice; we are not.

  Also, I was getting the impression that Paul Brenner’s job went beyond meeting people at the airport. He may actually be DSS, but as I said, everyone here has a second job. Brenner’s second job, which I’m sure he volunteered for, was panther hunting. Hey, anything to get out of the embassy. The real issue was, could I work with this guy? Did I have a choice?

  Brenner got a text and said to us, “This way.”

  We followed him to a set of glass doors that I remembered led out to a small covered terrace overlooking a patch of greenery.

  Brenner opened one of the doors and said, “We can sit out here. It’s a nice evening.”

  It was actually about five in the morning, and there was nothing nice about it so far, but for a drink I’d sit anywhere.

  There was wicker furniture on the terrace, and a man was sitting with his back to us. As we approached, he stood, turned, and said, “Welcome.”

  It was dark, but I recognized that preppy voice. It was, in fact, Mr. Buckminster Harris.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Bucky!” Kate and I did a group hug with Buck and we all spoke excitedly.

  Actually I said, “What the hell are you doing here?”

  He walked over to us, and I could see him smiling as he said, “I thought I’d continue my class here.”

  I replied, “I thought we were done.”

  “You’re never done learning, Mr. Corey.”

  He took Kate’s hand and said, “Welcome. I hope you had a pleasant journey.”

  Kate replied, “We did until we met Colonel Hakim.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Buck. “Colonel Hakim is like goat droppings—he’s everywhere.”

  Kind of funny. Anyway, Buck was wearing one of those white linen jackets that you see in 1930s British colonial movies, and for some reason I had an urge for Kentucky Fried Chicken. I asked him, “Did you take the C-17 direct to Sana’a?”

  “I did. Awful flight. Uncomfortable, and the meals come out of a box. And no alcohol.” He asked, rhetorically, “Have we become Muslims?” He assured us, “You did better taking the slow route.”

  “Well,” I said, “we’re taking the fast route out of here when the time comes.”

  “You will.”

  And then I had a mental image of a human remains box in the back of a C-17. Be careful what you wish for.

  Buck returned to the subject of Colonel Hakim and said to Kate and me, “Paul texted me about your delay at the airport, and it’s nothing to worry about.” He added, “We will file a formal complaint.”

  “Good,” I replied, not giving a damn. I said, “Thank you, a scotch and soda would be fine.” I thought you’d never ask.

  Buck invited us to sit, and he played host and moved to a rolling bar, asking, “And what would Mrs. Corey like?”

  “Just water, please.”

  Brenner, too, wanted water. Wimp.

  Buck seemed to be drinking what looked like a gin and tonic with lime, but no little paper umbrella.

  So we sat around a cocktail table, lit with a few bug candles, and Buck raised his glass and said, “To a successful mission.” We all clinked.

  Buck informed us, “I’ll be joining you on this assignment, as will Paul.”

  Mr. Buckminster Harris didn’t look like the killer type, but I’ve been surprised before. And as I suspected, Mr. Brenner was on the team.

  Buck reminded us, “I speak fluent Arabic and you’ll need that.” He informed us, “Paul speaks a little, but it’s not conversational. It’s giving orders, such as, ‘Get out of my way, you son of a goat.’ ”

  Brenner and Harris both got a chuckle out of that, as though they’d shared this joke before. So obviously they knew each other, and obviously Buck worked here, or maybe he shuttled back and forth to D.C. and/or New York. He had me fooled back at 26 Fed, and I was sure it wasn’t the last time I’d be fooled here, but it was the last time I’d take it so well.

  Buck continued, “There is a fifth person on our team, but he’s not here tonight.”

  Kate asked, “Where is he, who is he, and when can we expect him?”

  Buck looked at her and replied, “I can’t answer that now.”


  I said to Buck, “Maybe you can tell us now who the boss is.”

  “I am,” said Buck.

  “And may I ask who you work for?”

  “The United States government, Mr. Corey, the same as you do.”

  There’s always a CIA guy when it’s an overseas whack or snatch job, but as I’d concluded in New York, Buck didn’t look or act like any CIA guy I ever had the pleasure of knowing or working with, including the late Mr. Ted Nash. More on Mr. Nash later. Nevertheless, for the record, I asked Buck, “Company man?”

  “No.”

  I looked at Brenner, who shook his head. Well, I wasn’t CIA, and I didn’t think Kate was, so if everyone was telling the truth then the fifth person was the guy.

  I like to know who I’m trusting my life with, so I asked Buck, “SDI?”

  He nodded. State Department Intelligence was sort of a gentlemen’s game, so that fit.

  I looked at Brenner, who said, “DSS, as I said.” He added, “But this job sounded interesting, so I volunteered.”

  Buck leaned forward and said in a soft voice, “I’m enjoying the cool morning, but we’ll need to go inside to speak more freely.”

  Right. The embassy walls could have electronic ears, though that was unlikely here in Yemen. I mean, this wasn’t the Cold War, the Arabs weren’t the Russians, and the PSO weren’t the KGB. Still, you had to follow security procedures, and not make the common mistake of underestimating these people.

  Buck said to us, but really for anyone listening, “We have a number of very good leads on the location of six of the Cole plotters.” He winked and continued, “We have good sources inside the Political Security Organization.” Then for fun he said, “This Colonel Hakim that you met at the airport is actually on our payroll.”

  We all got a smile out of that. And if the PSO was listening, then poor Colonel Hakim would have electrodes clipped to his nuts in about an hour. Payback’s a bitch, Colonel.

  Buck, on a roll now, continued, “We’ve also been able to plant listening devices inside PSO Headquarters.”

  Okay, Buck, don’t push your credibility.

  Clearly he was enjoying this game, and you’d never expect Buck Harris to be so delightfully devious, or such a con artist. I had the thought, based on Buck’s age and my instincts, that Mr. Ivy League of State Department Intelligence had been an old Cold Warrior, and maybe this new war on terrorism was just a way to occupy his time and his mind at the end of his career. Or, like me, Brenner, and thousands of other men and women since 9/11, he was retired and called back as a contract employee to fill the ranks in the new war.