The Panther

CHAPTER THIRTEEN


On Tuesday night, some of our civilian friends gave us a going-away dinner in what used to be the basement speakeasy of the 21 Club. We celebrated the end of Prohibition in America, and drank enough to get us through a year of Prohibition in Yemen.

I invited everyone to come to Yemen and promised an exciting visit, including a civil war reenactment, except, I confessed, they weren’t acting.

We used Wednesday and Thursday to settle our personal affairs, including the usual of having our mail forwarded—in this case to a State Department address in Washington where it would be sent on to the U.S. Embassy in Sana’a in a diplomatic pouch. Can’t wait to get those Victoria’s Secret catalogues.

Our travel orders instructed us to take only a week or two’s worth of clothes and necessities, and to arrange with the State Department Travel and Relocation Office for a hundred pounds each of additional personal items to be shipped at government expense to an address in Yemen, which was not yet known. I wondered if I could sneak my La-Z-Boy recliner into the shipping container.

We arranged with Alfred, our excellent doorman, to let the shippers in and to have someone look after our apartment. I gave Alfred a nice tip and promised him a jambiyah when we got home.

We also saw our lawyer and gave him power of attorney for certain legal matters, including the shipment of our mortal remains—but only if we were dead. He asked for the name of a local funeral director, so I said, “Walsh Funeral Home,” and gave him Tom’s home address.

Kate wanted to shop for modest clothing that would be appropriate for wear both in the embassy and on the streets of Sana’a or Aden. I suggested, “A black balto is good for day or night wear, as well as the beach, and you can accessorize with different-colored veils.”

Kate had managed to get us a direct military flight from Dover Air Force Base to Sana’a, but later we got an e-mail from DOD—Department of Defense—informing us that the flight was full. I suppose a big C-17 could be full, but the question was, what was it full of? Military equipment? Troops? Hellfire missiles? Or maybe people we weren’t supposed to see or talk to. The e-mail further advised us that we were authorized to use a commercial air carrier, which we knew.

On Thursday night, a number of our Task Force colleagues—NYPD and FBI—gathered at Walker’s, a neighborhood pub on North Moore, a few blocks from the office. The supervisors, including our pal Tom Walsh, made an early appearance before the gathering got out of hand and before the owner had to call the police—most of whom were already there.

The FBI and NYPD don’t usually socialize, but this was a going-away party for two extremely popular colleagues, one of whom was FBI, and the other NYPD.

There were a few NYPD guys there who’d been to Yemen with the Evidence Response Team, and one female FBI agent who’d spent half a year there. They all had some useful advice, like sleep with your gun, never travel alone, and don’t chew the khat. The FBI lady, however, said to Kate, “Without alcohol, the only way your marriage is going to survive with this guy is to chew khat.”

Al Rasul was there, of course, and he got behind the bar and did a funny impersonation of a Yemeni bartender telling his customers it was ladies’ night and the women could drink for half price, but no women were allowed, and neither was alcohol. Al also accused the Christians of turning his water into wine.

Later, Al told me, “Still nothing on Nabeel.”


On Friday at 10 a.m., after getting our final shots in the nurse’s office, we were sitting in Mr. Walsh’s office.

Tom asked us how the rest of the evening went and apologized for not staying longer.

I assured him, “The party died when you left.”

We were again sitting in the preferred seating section, and Tom had thoughtfully ordered coffee, which I needed.

Tom Walsh is not really a bad guy—well, he is, but he’s not much different than any NYPD boss I’ve ever dealt with. It comes with the job—or it comes with ambition.

Tom, however, had been a little deceitful in the past, lying mostly by omission, then telling me after I’d found out the truth that I had no need to know what he hadn’t told me. When I was a cop, the bosses told you all they knew because you had a need to know everything about a criminal case. But this was a different game. Lots of classified information, compartmentalization, firewalls, and outright lies. Some of this was necessary; most of it was not. It’s gotten better since we lost three thousand people on 9/11, but old habits die hard.

With all this in mind, I listened to Tom Walsh’s final briefing. Basically, he had nothing new to add, but he did say, “You will be part of a five-person team. Two are already in place, and one will join you later.”

He put a manila envelope on the coffee table and said, “These are your travel documents, including your airline tickets. Also included is your contact info for when you arrive at Sana’a Airport.” He continued, “The Travel Office did the best they could, but you’ll be arriving in Sana’a at about two-thirty A.M. on Sunday morning. You’ll be met, of course, but in the event you’re not, you have instructions that will tell you what to do.”

I asked, hopefully, “Take the next flight home?”

“No.”

Kate inquired, “Why would we not be met?”

Walsh replied, “Things can go wrong.”

“So,” I inquired, “if four guys in white robes ask us to get into a black van, we should say no?”

“You should definitely say no.” He added encouragingly, “We’ve never lost anyone at the airport.”

I inquired, “Anyone ever delayed at the airport?”

“Now and then.” He reminded us, “But you’re traveling on diplomatic passports, so you’re not required to answer any questions, except for your destination, which is the American Embassy.” He added, “Demand a phone call to the embassy. The night duty officer is alerted to your arrival.”

“If he doesn’t answer, can I call you?”

“No.” Tom continued, “You will be met before you go through passport control. You will not have to go through customs, but if someone demands that you open your bags, then open them. And make sure there is nothing in your luggage that is offensive, compromising, or contraband.”

“Like soap?”

“Like weapons, alcohol, or certain magazines. Or anything made in Israel.”

“So no Uzi submachine guns?”

He informed us, “There’s a list in the envelope.” He continued, “Assuming all goes right at the airport, there will be a three-car convoy to take you to the embassy.”

I asked, “Do our guns travel in the dip pouch?”

“No. You will leave your handguns here. When you get in your vehicle in Sana’a, you’ll be issued handguns which you are authorized to carry at all times.”

Kate asked, “Who’s our contact person at the airport?”

Tom replied, “His name is Paul Brenner. There’s a photo of him in your envelope. I understand he’s former Army CID—Criminal Investigation Division. He’s now working for the Diplomatic Security Service.”

Kate asked, “Does he know why we’re in Yemen?”

“I don’t know.” Tom stood and said, “I want to thank you again for taking on this assignment. And I want to wish you both the best of luck.” He looked at me and said, “I know you have some reservations about this, John, but I also know that you will become more enthused about this assignment when you learn how important it is to the country.”

“I can feel it already, Tom.”

“Good.” He said to Kate, “You’ll have a more difficult time as a woman—and as the member of the team who has to keep John in line.”

They both got a chuckle out of that. Really funny.

Tom and I did a good, firm handshake, and Kate got a hug, which in a Federal building is sexual assault.

We promised to stay in touch by e-mail and send cards on the holidays.

Out in the hallway, Kate said, “I can’t believe we’re getting on a plane tonight to go to Yemen for a year.”

“Did you unplug the toaster?”

“Well… maybe it won’t be a full year.”

“Probably not.”

She asked me, “Are you excited?”

“I keep pinching myself to make sure I’m not dreaming.”

She stayed silent as we walked to the elevators, then said to me, “I feel better that we’re together and we can look out for each other.”

“Right.” I remembered an old Arab saying. “When walking through a minefield, make one of your wives walk fifty paces in front of you and your camel.” I didn’t say that, of course. I said, “If I had three more wives, we’d have a whole five-person team looking out for each other.” Actually, I didn’t say that either. I said, “We always look out for each other.”

She kissed me as we waited for the elevator, and we held hands on the way down.