The Panther Page 6
“No, I’ll go. I could use a break here. What’s this guy look like?”
“Green teeth.” I described Nabeel’s other features and related a little of my short conversation with him in Ben’s Deli. I suggested, “See if this deli is under the eye for any reason. Maybe we have surveillance photos.”
“I did that. Nothing.”
“Okay. Thanks, Al. I owe you one.”
My next task was to go to a separate stand-alone computer where I could access the Internet. We can’t do that from our desk computers, or we’d be playing video games all day. I did a Google search on Al Qaeda in Yemen, and got a few hits on al-Numair, The Panther, and I actually got his real name from Wikipedia—Bulus ibn al-Darwish. No wonder he changed it.
Apparently some of this info was not as classified as Tom thought. In fact, there is little that is not available online if you know what you’re looking for.
I checked out the Wikipedia entry. Bulus ibn al-Darwish, a.k.a. The Panther, was born in Perth Amboy, New Jersey, on May 8, 1965, making him thirty-nine years old in May, if he lived that long. So he was not a naturalized citizen—he was actually born here. Interesting.
His parents were both Yemenis who’d immigrated to America, but there was no further info on them. Dead? Alive? Living where?
Little Bulus attended public schools in New Jersey, then graduated from Columbia University in 1987 with a degree in economics—making him an Ivy League terrorist. He should have gone to Wall Street—same work, better pay.
At some point, according to the entry, Mr. al-Darwish became radicalized and went to Yemen in the early 1990s.
The remainder of the entry was a mix of facts and speculation about his activities in Yemen, Saudi Arabia, and perhaps Iraq. He was identified as one of the planners of the attack on the USS Cole and also the 2002 attack on the French oil tanker Limburg in the Gulf of Aden.
Additionally, the subject asshole had been implicated in two or three armed attacks on Westerners in Sana’a, Aden, and the surrounding areas, resulting in a number of deaths and kidnappings. Plus, while he was at it, he’d planned two rocket attacks—one on the American Embassy in Sana’a, one on the Sheraton Hotel in Aden. Both attacks had been thwarted. The planned attack on the Sheraton interested me, because that’s where I stayed with the other American personnel in Aden. We called the place Fort Apache.
And last but not least, Mr. al-Darwish and some friends had been involved in a shoot-out at the Saudi Arabian border last year, resulting in the deaths of six Saudi soldiers.
Bottom line, this was a bad guy. Maybe fearless, maybe nuts, and definitely angry about something. Maybe he got teased in school.
Also, I’d never heard of this guy. And I knew the names of lots of terrorists. So this guy was being kept under wraps. Why? Probably because this was strictly a CIA case, and they were not sharing the info with the FBI. Until now. The Agency only talks to you when they need you.
I clicked next onto the website of the U.S. Embassy in Sana’a and checked out Citizen Services and what’s called Warden Messages. The Department of State, I saw, was concerned about Al Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula and had issued a Travel Warning for Yemen regarding “possible attacks by extremist individuals or groups against U.S. citizens, facilities, businesses, and perceived interests.”
I guess that included the embassy itself, not to mention everyone working or visiting there.
The embassy website further informed me that “travel on roads between cities throughout Yemen can be dangerous.” Really? “Travel outside Sana’a is restricted.” Right. That’s where those roads are. “Travel in tribal areas north and east of Sana’a is particularly dangerous, and kidnappings are common.” Best to avoid the whole country.
There was also a mention of the ongoing civil war that Kate and I had seen reported on BBC. This rebel leader, al-Houthi, was taking control of bigger parts of North Yemen. And that led me to wonder why anyone wanted to rule this fucked-up place.
So to recap, Yemen was ruled by a corrupt dictator, and the country was half overrun by a rebel leader, and the rest of the place was run by tribal warlords, except the areas that were infiltrated by Al Qaeda. Plus, the Red Sea and the Gulf of Aden were infested with pirates. The good news was that everyone was stoned on khat and didn’t give a shit.
I read a last entry on the embassy website, which advised, “From time to time, the U.S. Embassy in Sana’a may temporarily close or suspend public services as necessary to review its security posture and its adequacy.”
With luck, they’d shut down before I got there.
Anyway, I could have spent a week surfing the Internet, getting background on Yemen and Al Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula and The Panther, but why bother? By Saturday or Sunday I’d be in the belly of the beast.
I logged off the computer and went back to my desk.
CHAPTER NINE
Kate and I decided to have lunch at Fraunces Tavern, the place where Washington gave his farewell address to his officers, and where I would now give my farewell address to Washington.
We exited 26 Federal Plaza onto Duane Street, which since 9/11 has been blocked to vehicles between Broadway and Lafayette on the theory that someone might want to detonate a car bomb under my window.
In fact, all of Lower Manhattan has become a security zone since that day, and though it’s not too intrusive, it’s annoying. More to the point, it’s a constant reminder that these bastards have made America the front lines. So maybe taking the war to them is good quid pro quo.
We got to Fraunces Tavern, in business since about 1762, which is a lot of grog.
A hostess showed us to a table in the crowded main dining room. The clientele was mostly out-of-towners who wanted to tell the folks back in Peoria that they had lunch at the very table where George Washington dug his wooden choppers into a mutton chop.
Mindful of Nurse Annie’s warning about mixing alcohol and vaccine, I ordered club soda with a shot of scotch on the side. Does that work? Kate had a Coke, and we looked at the menus. Mostly traditional American fare. I said, “I think I’ll have the Yankee noodles.”
“Dandy.”
We ordered—sliced steak for me, a sissy salad for Kate.
There’s another piece of history here that you won’t find in most tour guides, but you will find on the Automated Case System—back in January 1975, a group of Puerto Rican separatists exploded a bomb here during lunch hour, killing four people and injuring more than fifty. I’m not sure what kind of statement they were trying to make, but the attack shocked the city and the nation, which was not then used to terrorism on American soil.
It was this attack, along with some other Puerto Rican separatist activities and the activities of the Irish Republican Army and the Black Panthers, that led to the formation of the Anti-Terrorist Task Force in New York in 1980.
Now the focus has shifted, and The Panther I was looking for was an Arab. But he wasn’t here—he was in Yemen, by way of New Jersey and Columbia University. Hard to figure that out. I mean, I can figure out the foreign-born terrorists, but I can’t figure out the increasing number of American-born Muslims who have defected to Islamic countries that they’ve never even seen, and who have taken up arms against America. What was that all about?
Kate asked me, “What are you thinking about?”
“About when this place was bombed by the FALN. And I was also thinking about The Panther. Did you know he was born and educated in the U.S.?”
“I did. I went on the Internet after you did.”
“So why would a man who grew up in relative comfort, in a free society, and who went to one of the best universities in the country, choose to go to the backward and dangerous country that his parents had left, to engage in terrorist activities against the country of his birth?”
“When you find out, let me know.”
“But we need to find out why the melting pot is not working. There’s something wrong in our thinking—or their thinking.”
“Well… I guess because we’re going to Yemen to find this American-born Islamic terrorist, I’d like to get into his head a little.” I added, “It might help us.”
“It would, if we could do that.”
I thought a moment and said, “When I worked Homicide, we did a lot of psychological profiling on murder cases, especially serial killers, and it was helpful. But this is different. The common criminal is usually stupid, though they’re smart enough not to want to be killed or captured. These people don’t care if they die. They blow themselves up. They fly airplanes into buildings. Then they go to Paradise. That’s where the wine and virgins are. For us, it’s the opposite. We get our wine and women here, then we go to hell and get more.”
“Theology may not be your strong point.”
Our food came as my cell phone rang, and it was Al, who said, “Our guy Nabeel is not working today, and the twenty Yemenis living at his address haven’t seen him since Saturday, and he’s not answering his cell phone. I’m checking out the local hookah bars, the storefront mosques, other delis, and so forth.”
“Check the jiggle joints.”
“Is that an order?” Al went on, “Nabeel worked in that deli for only a week and no one knows anything about him, or his family, or friends.” He speculated, “Maybe he just got here, he got spooked by his conversation with you, and he bolted.”
I replied, “He said he was a regular guest worker.”
“Well, maybe he worked someplace else. No one at George’s knows him.”
“Maybe people are lying to you, Al.”
“They don’t lie to me, John. They lie, they die.”
“Right.” We need more guys like Al Rasul. I’m too easy on the usually uncooperative Mideastern community. Well… maybe “easy” is not the right word.
Al said, “I’ve asked for a surveillance team on his apartment and his place of business, and a trace on his cell phone. Meanwhile, I’ll keep checking out the neighborhood.”
“Okay.”
“There’s something not right about this.”
“Could be,” I agreed.
“See you back at the fort.”
I hung up and Kate asked, “What’s happening?”
“My Yemeni disappeared.”
“Not to worry. I know where to find lots of them.”
After lunch, we took a taxi to the Yemeni consulate on East 51st near the U.N.
The offices of the Yemeni Mission to the United Nations wouldn’t win any design awards, though the walls of the consulate section were decorated with very nice tourist posters showing spectacular scenery and happy people, not a single one of whom was carrying an AK-47.
We seemed to be the only customers today, though I’m sure this place is usually mobbed with people who want to travel to Yemen.
The receptionist was a middle-aged man, reminding me that women in Yemen didn’t get out of the house much. I stated our business, and the man took our passports and disappeared for a few minutes—long enough to photostat them—then returned with another middle-aged man who introduced himself as Habib, who asked me, “When and by what means do you plan to arrive in Yemen?”
This was none of his business, and he knew he shouldn’t be asking that of Americans with diplomatic passports.
I replied, “We’re awaiting our travel orders.”
“Yes? But you requested your visas for not later than Wednesday.”
I informed him, “We’re here to pick up our visas—not answer questions.”
He didn’t like that, but he ignored it and flipped through our passports, checking our photos against our faces. He said to me, “I see you have been to Yemen.”
I didn’t reply.
He glanced at Kate, but did not speak to her. Then he asked me, “Do you plan to arrive in Sana’a or Aden?”
“I plan to leave here with our visas in two minutes.”
He didn’t respond, but said something to the receptionist, who put two completed visa forms on the desk. I looked them over. My visa was for forty-five days, and Kate’s was for an indefinite stay. Both listed us as American Embassy staff with diplomatic status. The purpose of our visit was government business. No mention of Panther hunting.
I did notice that, as per security procedures, the State Department had falsified our home address by giving it as 26 Federal Plaza. Also, our U.S. contact information was the State Department Foreign Office in Washington. Fine, except that falsifying the required info on the visa app could get your diplomatic immunity nullified, or at least compromised if you got into some trouble in the host country. Well, I’d worry about that if and when there was a problem in Yemen. Or I’d let our friends at the State Department worry about it. I was on a diplomatic mission. Right?
Everything else looked in order, and Kate and I signed the visas along with two copies. The receptionist stamped the forms, then stamped our passports, and Habib said to me, “There is no charge. A diplomatic courtesy.”
They should pay me to go to Yemen.
We left the consulate, hailed a cab, and went back to 26 Fed, my home away from home.
By five we’d posted updates on our computers for all our cases and sent e-mails to friends and colleagues announcing our imminent departure to Yemen.
Most return messages wished us luck; some suggested we were crazy.
Al returned and reported that he’d had no luck locating Nabeel al-Samad, and that Nabeel’s cell phone was not sending a signal according to CAU—the Communications Analysis Unit. Al said he’d make a report and see what the bosses wanted to do, and I said I’d do the same.
Bottom line here, Nabeel al-Samad was not high on anyone’s list of people to find. Informants, Mideast or otherwise, are notoriously fickle and usually liars. And sometimes these guys are playing a double game, so I had the interesting thought that Mr. al-Samad had another job outside the deli, and he just wanted to get a look at me. Maybe he took a picture.
As Annie predicted, Kate and I were not feeling well, so Typhoid Kate and Anthrax John went home.
Back in the apartment, Kate got into her pjs and went on the Internet. I channel surfed. The History Channel had a special on Adolf Hitler’s dog.
Kate informed me, “According to the website of the Yemen Tourism Promotion Board, Yemen is, quote, ‘Arabia’s undiscovered gem, and so little is known about the real Yemen, that when visitors travel across the country, it is almost always a beautiful voyage of discovery.’ ”
“Watch that ‘almost.’ ”
She continued reading: “ ‘Camel racing is one of the old favorite sports of Arabs and of course Yemen, as Yemen is the origin of Arabs.’ ”
“I thought they came from Brooklyn.”
“ ‘Paragliding,’ ” she went on, “ ‘like in the legend of Suleiman and his bird, who cross the Yemen to see the Queen of Sheba, have fun and discover our country by flying above mountains and seas.’ ”
“Like Predator drones.”
“I don’t see anything about that.”
“Al Qaeda ambushes?”
“That might be under trekking and hiking.”
“Right. What’s for dinner?”
“A malaria pill.”
We took our malaria pills and watched a rerun of I Love Lucy. Could the world have been that simple?
CHAPTER TEN
Tom Walsh, as promised, arranged an appointment for Kate and me with the State Department Office of International Affairs for our cultural awareness course. The OIA is right here at 26 Fed, which is convenient, but still sucks.
On Tuesday morning at 8 A.M., we met Mr. Buckminster Harris—where do WASPs get these names?—in a small, windowless conference room. Mr. Harris asked us to call him Buck, and he invited us to sit.
Buckminster Harris was
a well-dressed gent of about sixty, and I guessed he’d seen some of the world during his long and I’m sure distinguished career with the State Department. This was probably his last posting before he retired to some genteel WASP enclave in the Northeast where he’d write his memoirs for Yale University Press. Meanwhile, he was stuck with me for the morning, and I with him.
There were apparently only two people going to Yemen this week—Kate and me—so the class was small and intimate. Kate had a notepad, of course, so I didn’t need the one I forgot.
There was a colored map of Yemen on the wall, and on the table were State Department handouts, which I’d be sure not to forget.
Mr. Harris took a seat at the head of the table and began, “So you’re going to Yemen?”
Why else would I be here?
He informed us, “I was there during the civil wars.”
I inquired, “How many were there?”
“A few.”
“Right. Who won?”
“The north,” he said.
“Good. Right?”
“The south was Marxist.”
“Karl or Groucho?”
He chuckled and continued, “The north is tribal, backward, and fundamentalist.”
“Glad the good guys won.”
I thought Buck was going to take me out in the hallway for a scolding, but he smiled and said, “They told me about you.”
Really?
“I understand you’ve been to Yemen.”
“Correct. Short assignment. Back in ’01.”
“Well, nothing there ever changes, except for the worse.”
“Looking forward to seeing that progress.”
He smiled again, then said, “It’s a country you can love and hate at the same time.”
Actually, it’s a country you love to hate. But this was Buck’s class and I wasn’t going to be like those dopey students who spent a month someplace and tried to impress their teachers with their half-assed observations.
Buck continued in his very prep school accent, “The capital of Yemen is Sana’a. South Yemen, also known as Adan, with an A, had its capital in the city of Aden, with an E.”