The Panther

CHAPTER TWELVE


Out in the hallway, Kate remarked, “An interesting man.”

“Especially at the end.”

“CIA?”

“No. He was too nice. Maybe State Department Intelligence.”

She nodded. “That would fit.”

“Right. Hey, do we get a certificate for this course?”

“Just a note in our file so we don’t have to take it again when we do another tour in Yemen.”

Not funny. We got on the elevator and rode up to the 26th floor. I said, “I think we just got a mission briefing—a glimpse of how we’re going to find and eliminate The Panther.”

She nodded.

And did I have a problem with that? “That” being a promise to the corrupt and nasty Yemeni government to vaporize some poor tribal leader or political opponent if the government gave us the location of Al Qaeda targets, including, hopefully, The Panther.

And how did Kate and I fit into this? Maybe we were on the team that would coordinate this with the Yemeni government, and/or we would be on the waste collection team, i.e., going out to the hills or desert where a Hellfire missile just turned some guys into hamburger, then collecting fingers for a print match or a DNA analysis to make sure we got The Panther.

Well, no use speculating. We’d know when we got there.

We got off on the 26th floor and Kate said to me, “I’m feeling a little more prepared for the country, but still not sure about the job.”

“Cultural awareness is ninety percent of the job.”

We returned to our desks and got some work done. I love reading memos and electronically checking that I’ve seen them. Plus, some e-mails needed a response. It occurred to me that none of this had anything to do with me anymore. I was going to the front. I was free.

Before I knew it, it was noon, and the sacred lunch hour had begun. Short of a national emergency, you cleared the building at noon. To have lunch at your desk was unpatriotic or suspicious, and you might be questioned by the Office of Professional Responsibility.

I grabbed my topcoat and met Kate at her desk, and we left the building with no plan other than to get some air and clear our heads.

Before we’d left on our last overseas assignments, Kate and I had gone for cocktails to the Windows on the World in the North Tower of the World Trade Center. That was no longer possible, so we walked to the observation deck at the WTC site.

It was a cold day, but there were dozens of people on the deck, mostly tourists, but also some office workers, construction guys, and a group of elementary school kids.

We don’t come here often—we don’t need to—but today seemed like a good day to reconnect with this place, to remember, as Buck said, who we are, why we’re here, and what we believe in.

We walked down to Battery Park, got a coffee and hot dog at a food cart, and sat on a bench, looking out at the harbor.

There was a time when everyone coming to New York from overseas—tourists, immigrants, and Americans returning home—had to sail past the Statue of Liberty. Now, ninety percent of overseas travelers came in through the airports, and they were definitely missing something. Almost everyone arriving here—immigrants, tourists, people on work or student visas, and businesspeople—was here for legitimate reasons. The ones who weren’t, like the bastards who took down the Towers, became my problem.

But now I was going to one of the breeding grounds of this sickness—to find one diseased sonofabitch. A guy who helped kill seventeen American sailors as well as other innocent people. Tom Walsh keeps telling me it’s not about revenge; it’s about justice. I keep telling him to get real.

Kate asked me, “Any other thoughts on what Buck said?”

“No, not about what he said. But about what he didn’t say.”

“Meaning?”

“Why us?”

“I’m sure he has no knowledge of that. And you can keep asking that all week and you’ll never get the answer. The answer is in Yemen.”

“Right.” But I think I already knew the answer.