The Panther

CHAPTER FOURTEEN


Al Rasul said he wanted to see me before I left, so I went to his desk and he suggested a cup of coffee in the break room.

We sat at a table with our coffees, and I said to Al, “Tom has agreed to send you to Yemen with us.”

He smiled, then said, “You know, I’ve never actually been to a Muslim country.”

“Except Brooklyn.”

He smiled again and said, “I don’t think I’d like it. I know my wife wouldn’t.”

“She Muslim?”

“Yeah. But born here. She sees the new immigrant women with the scarves and veils and it makes her crazy.”

Which reminded me of the question that had been bugging me, and I asked him, “Maybe you can tell me why some American-born Muslims have gone to Sandland to fight for the bad guys?”

Al Rasul replied, “The short answer is jihad. The long answer is God, history, Sharia law, and lots of hate. And here’s a secret—they hate the West only slightly more than they hate their own corrupt governments, and a little more than they hate themselves.”

I thought about that, and I guess I understood what he was saying. But it didn’t really answer the question of how all this had translated into a growing jihad.

Al had part of an answer and said, “Islam began with military conquest, forced conversions, religious fundamentalism, and an intolerant theocratic state. And then there was a period of enlightenment. But what you’re seeing now is a return to the good old days. The Dark Ages.”

“Right. But don’t forget those seventy-two virgins in Paradise.”

He smiled, then got serious and said, “The fundamentalists take that literally. If you kill innocent non-believers, you don’t go to hell where you belong—you go to Paradise.” He added, “Their goal on earth is Sharia law and world domination. Their spiritual goal is to ascend into Paradise.” He advised me, “Don’t try to make sense of it. And don’t think that what these homegrown radicals need is a good dose of Western civilization and a few beers. They’ve had that—here and in Europe—and they reject it.”

“You don’t reject it.”

“I’m a bad Muslim. At least by their standards. I’m also a marked man.”

“Right. Don’t sit so close to me.”

I looked at the Department of Justice wanted posters on the wall. Mostly bearded guys with dark, dead eyes. Almost all the captions said Wanted for Murder, some said Suspected Murder, and some said Conspiracy to Commit Murder. Murder used to be my game, but this wasn’t murder. It was something else, and it wasn’t war; it was sick and it was evil.

Happily, a lot of the posters had big red Xs on them, and notations: Killed, Captured, Convicted.

There was no wanted poster for Bulus ibn al-Darwish, a.k.a. The Panther, and I wondered why not. I guess for the same reason that al-Numair came up empty on the automated case system; The Panther had gone from wanted by the Department of Justice to the CIA kill list.

Anyway, assuming that Al Rasul wasn’t Al Qaeda, I confided in him, “I’m going to Yemen to look for an Al Qaeda guy who was born here.”

“I know that. The Panther. Al-Numair.”

“How do you know that?”

“If I tell you, I have to kill you.”

“Right. Any advice?”

“Yeah. Watch your ass.”

“That’s it? That’s the total wisdom of the East?”

“That’s the total wisdom of East Flatbush, where I grew up, and the Lower East Side, where you grew up. But here’s another tip—this guy is not some rural desert hick like your last big cat, The Lion. You may or may not be able to get into The Panther’s head, but he’s multicultural so he’s already in your head.”

“Right. I know that.”

“Good. So don’t try to guess what he’s going to do as an Arab. Try to guess what his conflicts are. His strength as a Westernized Arab is also his weakness. His head is on Channel One some days, and Channel Two other days, and sometimes both channels, and that’s when he gets static. He would tell you that he has no sympathy and no admiration for the West, and that the West is not in his heart or soul. But it is in his head, and if he were honest with himself, he’d understand that his hate was, in fact, a form of respect. You don’t bother to hate what you think is contemptible.”

“Right.” And Al Rasul knew all of this because…? I asked him, “How do I actually find this guy?”

“You know very well that he will find you.”

I was afraid he was going to say that.

“Make sure you let everyone know you’re looking for him. The word will reach him—if it hasn’t already.” He reminded me, “You understand that you have somewhat of a reputation after The Lion. Asad Khalil was not Al Qaeda, but as you well know, he worked with Al Qaeda on his last mission here. And he was a respected jihadist, and because you sent Khalil to Paradise, you are not unknown to Al Qaeda.” And then the kicker. “In fact, Al Qaeda would like to see you in Yemen to even the score.”

Actually, that thought had occurred to me. In fact, it kept occurring to me, but I’d put it into my denial file. Now good old Al had pulled it out for me. Also, I think Tom Walsh forgot to mention that I was actually going to Yemen to be red meat for The Panther. See what I mean about Tom?

I asked Al, “Did someone tell you to brief me?”

He hesitated, then replied, “Not officially. And not Tom Walsh.” He confided to me, “I’m working this end of the case. Mommy Panther and Daddy Panther in New Jersey.” He let me know, “They’re clean. Good citizens. Very upset. But they’re not giving up their son… Still, we might get some leads through them.”

“Let me know.”

“Will do.” He also let me know, “Bulus ibn al-Darwish is on the CIA’s kill or capture list, and Mom and Dad have actually brought suit in Federal court to get their son removed from the kill list. Their reasoning is that their son is an American citizen and therefore can’t be assassinated by the American government.”

“Okay. But did anyone explain to them that their son has killed American citizens? Like seventeen U.S. sailors.”

“In fact, that’s why they may get their son removed from the CIA kill list.” He explained, “His parents have also made the legal argument that what their son did, did not constitute an act of terrorism, but was an act of war.” He further explained, “This legal theory is backed by some past decisions in American courts and the International Court. So if attacking an American military target—as opposed to attacking civilians—is ruled an act of war, then The Panther has committed no crime and he will not be brought to trial. He will be detained as a prisoner of war, and under the Geneva Convention he is not obligated to give any information other than his name, rank, and service number.”

That sucked. I mean, not only couldn’t I kill him, I couldn’t even torture him. I said to Al, “Sounds to me like Mom and Dad are playing it both ways. First, their son is an American citizen with Constitutional rights. Next, he’s a soldier in a foreign army and he has protections under the Geneva Convention.”

“Right. Whatever works.”

I said, “What he actually is, is a traitor to his country, and that’s a hanging offense.”

Al agreed, but reminded me, “We don’t assassinate traitors. We put them on trial. Bottom line, Mom and Dad may get Junior removed from the CIA terrorist kill list.”

I didn’t reply, but I wondered now what the goal of the mission was. It’s a lot easier to whack someone than it is to capture them and return them to U.S. soil. Therefore, someone—like the CIA—had perhaps decided that Bulus ibn al-Darwish needed to be killed quickly, before some Federal judge got him removed from the kill list. After The Panther was dead, the lawsuit became moot. Strange war. I mean, judges, lawsuits, and all that.

Al advised me, “You didn’t hear any of this from me.” He stood, we shook, and he said, “Good luck.”

“Thanks. See you next year.”

“Maybe sooner.”

I found Kate strolling around, saying a few good-byes to colleagues, but I hate long and repetitious good-byes, and I got us out of there in five minutes.

We began the six-mile walk back to our apartment—her idea, not mine—and we took in the sights and sounds of New York City, my hometown. Could be the last time, but with luck, we’d be back.

I thought about telling Kate of my conversation with Al Rasul, and how I’d just discovered the real reason I was being sent to Yemen. Bait. But… well, did she have a need to know that? Actually, yes. But she wanted to think that her pal Tom chose us for this mission because we were the best of the best. And we were. So Tom only half lied to us.

Also, Tom knew I wouldn’t go alone, so he told the bosses in Washington that they had to include Kate, who he knew would want to go. Plus, Kate had worked the Asad Khalil case with me, so for all I or Washington knew, Kate was also on The Panther’s menu.

A sane man would have pulled the plug on this. But… did it make any real difference? If Tom had told us we were bait, would we have said no? And if I confronted Tom with this, he’d say, as he always did, “I didn’t know that. Nobody told me that. Where did you hear that?”

In any case, I now understood what had happened behind the scenes. Actually, I always understood.


We spent our last afternoon in our apartment, taking care of some final details and calling our parents. Hers were in Minnesota, as I said, and mine were retired in Florida. Thank God none of them would visit us in Yemen. The place sucked enough.

I’d already convinced my parents that Yemen was the Switzerland of the Mideast, so they weren’t too concerned, though my mother warned me about getting too much sun. “You know how you burn, John.”

Kate’s parents were a little more hip to the situation, and they expressed a mixture of pride and concern for their little girl. And some advice for me. “Take care of our daughter.”

How about me? Maybe they were in on this with Tom.

Funny, though, that when all is said and done, the last thing you do is call Mom and Dad. I wondered if The Panther ever called home.

At 5 P.M., we phoned Alfred, our doorman, and told him we needed a porter with a luggage cart and a taxi to JFK.

As the porter was loading our luggage into the taxi, Alfred, who knew what we did for a living, and knew we were going to someplace in Sandland, said to us, “Thank you for your service to our country.”

Kate and I shook hands with Alfred, then got into the taxi. Kate, I saw, was wiping a tear from her eye.

I took her hand and squeezed it.

At least, I thought, I was going into the jaws of the beast armed, finally, with the truth, as revealed by Al Rasul. The truth is good, except when it’s bad.

And there was another truth that had occurred to me—another reason we were being asked to go to Yemen, and it also had to do with the past—but not The Lion—something else that happened years ago, that involved Kate and the CIA.

I put that thought in the back of my mind, but not too far back. The answers to Why me, why Kate, and why Yemen, were in Yemen.