The Panther

PART III


Marib,

Yemen





CHAPTER FIFTEEN


Bulus ibn al-Darwish, al-Numair, The Panther, wearing the white robes and shiwal of a Bedouin, stood before a gathering of his fighters; forty-two jihadists, armed with AK-47 assault rifles and shoulder-fired rocket launchers.

It was past the midnight hour, but he could see his men sitting cross-legged in the bright light of a waxing half moon, and he could see, too, the flat, desolate landscape of rock and powdery soil, stretching to the star-filled horizon.

The Panther said to his men in a loud, clear voice, “This night, you will achieve a great victory for Islam!”

The men cheered and raised their rifles in the air.

“You will kill the infidel and cleanse the sacred soil of Islam with their blood!”

Another cheer.

The Panther looked out at his soldiers. They were mostly new recruits, hastily trained in the mountain camp. But among them were four hardened jihadists from Afghanistan, and two officers of the defeated Army of Iraq.

These two former officers had met the Americans in battle and had fled their homeland after the defeat, and they were now here in Yemen to avenge that humiliation. What they lacked in the spirit of holy war, they more than compensated for in hate.

One of the officers, Behaddin Zuhair, a former captain of the elite Iraqi Guard, would lead the attack on the American-owned Hunt Oil installation. The other Iraqi, Sayid al-Rashid, would be his second in command.

The Panther had great faith in these combat-proven soldiers, and he knew they would give courage to the young recruits. With these two Iraqi officers, and with the four battle-hardened jihadists from Afghanistan within the ranks, The Panther saw no reason to lead this attack against the American oil facility himself.

The Panther reminded his men, “The security forces of this foreign compound are all paid mercenaries—men who have no loyalty to the Americans, only to the American dollar. They will surrender and beg for mercy, or they will run—or they will die at your hands!”

The men cheered more loudly.

The Panther knew, as did his officers and men, that the Americans had also hired a hundred men of the Yemeni National Security Bureau to provide additional protection for the oil installation—the housing units, the offices, the trucks, the machinery, and the pipelines and pumping equipment. These one hundred para-military policemen were well paid by the Americans but poorly trained by the government in Sana’a, poorly equipped, and poorly motivated. And, as The Panther recalled from his dealings with these men at the Bilqis ruins, they were easily intimidated and more easily bought.

He reminded his fighters, “The police camp is outside the perimeter of the oil company, on the north side, and you will attack from the south.” He also assured his men, “The police will not engage you. And you will not provoke them.” He smiled and said, “They will be sleeping like lambs and will hear nothing.”

The men laughed, but Bulus ibn al-Darwish could sense that it was forced, nervous laughter.

Men on the edge of battle, he knew, were fearful. This was understandable. But faith overcame fear. Leadership overcame inexperience. And that was his job—to foster faith and show leadership.

He said to his fighters, “You have been shown the plans of the defenses of this American colony on the soil of Islam. You know that this place is weak, and you know the secrets of these defenses. And you know that the mercenaries who guard this place for the Americans are infidels without heart or soul. And the Yemeni laborers who are with them have sold themselves to the Americans and are unworthy of God. They are all sheep to be slaughtered this night!”

The men stood and cheered wildly.

Captain Behaddin Zuhair stood to the side and watched his men, then looked at his chief, Bulus ibn al-Darwish, who called himself The Panther, though some called him al-Amriki—the American, which al-Darwish did not like.

Behaddin Zuhair thought that al-Darwish had great presence and spoke well. The Panther had become a legend since he planned the successful attack on the American warship in Aden Harbor, so the men listened to him, trusted him, and revered him. Al-Darwish, thought Zuhair, was a great inspirer of men, a smart planner, and perhaps a great thinker. But he was not a great military strategist. In fact, he knew nothing about war. If the truth be known, this attack on a fortified compound, executed with poorly trained troops, had all the ingredients of disaster. But no one would tell that to Bulus ibn al-Darwish.

The men were still cheering, and The Panther motioned them to sit.

He let the silence fall over the desert, and he looked out at the star-filled night. A soft, hot wind came from the north, from Ar Rub al Khali, the Empty Quarter, the desert of the blazing sun and the massive, shifting dunes of scorching sand where even scorpions died.

It was here where God put the oil, and here where the Americans came to drain it from the soil of Islam. And The Panther was moved to say, “It is here where the Americans and their paid servants will die. And the dunes will march south and cover their bones and cover every trace of them, and all evidence that they were here and have polluted the sacred soil of Yemen and Islam.”

The men raised their voices in agreement.

The Panther shouted, “You will be victorious!”

The men stood again and shouted, “Victory!”

“You will show no mercy!”

“No mercy!”

“You will kill the infidels and their servants! No one escapes alive!”

The men cheered and continued cheering.

Captain Zuhair, too, cheered, as did his lieutenant, Sayid al-Rashid. But they exchanged glances with each other. These officers, who had seen battle against the Americans, against the Kurds and the Iranians, and against the Iraqi rebels who fought against the great leader Saddam Hussein—these two men knew victory and defeat, and they knew fear, cowardice, bravery, and death. The Panther knew none of this.

Zuhair looked at his men. Too young—not in their years, but in their hearts and their heads. Too many idealists and religious scholars who came from comfort. Too many Saudis who had seen battle only on television.

Well, thought Zuhair, what they lacked in hardness, perhaps they made up for in faith and zeal.

Zuhair looked again at Bulus ibn al-Darwish. The Amriki, too, must have had these thoughts and doubts. Which perhaps was why al-Darwish was not leading the attack tonight.

The Panther called out to his men, “You have gathered here from many nations of Islam to engage in jihad. Tonight will be the first victory, followed by many more, until the Americans are driven from Yemen. And then we will turn to Sana’a and annihilate the corrupt government men who have invited the Americans into holy Yemen.” The Panther raised his voice and said, “We will hang the ministers and the generals from the lampposts of Sana’a and celebrate our victory in the palace of the puppet president, Ali Abdullah Saleh!”

The men stood again and shouted, “Death to Saleh!”

The Panther smiled and raised his arms, but his thoughts were elsewhere. He himself would not be leading this attack, though some among his jihadists might question why he was not joining them. In fact, Captain Zuhair had raised this issue.

Bulus ibn al-Darwish did not fear death, but he did fear capture, especially at the hands of the Americans, his former compatriots. He feared prison, he feared torture, he feared the humiliation of having his family in America—his father, his mother, his sister—seeing him kept like an animal in an American prison.

Death was far better, and to die during jihad would assure his immediate ascension into Paradise. But there was no guarantee of death in battle.

If he were taken prisoner, the entire jihadist movement in Yemen would suffer or collapse. So for that reason, and because God willed him to stay alive and free to fight the Crusaders, he could not join the attack.

But he did intend to be there to join in the victory, and to oversee the execution of the survivors.

He motioned for his men to be silent, and he said to them, “I will be with you at the moment of victory.” He drew his jambiyah from its sheath—still stained with the blood of the Belgians—and raised it high. “I will join you in cutting the throats of all who fall into our hands. No mercy! No prisoners!”

The men cheered wildly.

Captain Zuhair tilted his head toward Lieutenant al-Rashid and whispered, “He does know how to cut throats.”

Al-Rashid nodded.

Bulus ibn al-Darwish turned and faced toward the Kaaba in Mecca, raised his arms, and called out, “God is great!”

“God is great!”

“Let us now pray.”

It was not the time of the dawn salat, though the dua—the prayers for supplication in times of crisis or danger—could be said at any time, so Bulus ibn al-Darwish sat cross-legged facing Mecca, as did his men, and he recited from the Koran, “ ‘When the heavens are stripped away, the stars are strewn, the seas boil over, the tombs burst open, then shall each soul know what it has given and what it has held back.’ ”

The Panther then said, “Let each man now pray silently to God for strength, for courage, and for victory in battle.”

Again the desert went silent, except for the wind from the Empty Quarter.

Bulus ibn al-Darwish prayed silently, beseeching God to give his men courage. He prayed, too, for himself and said, “Let me cut many American throats this night.”

But as often happened when he prayed for American deaths—such as before the Cole attack—other thoughts intruded into his prayers and his mind; thoughts of his childhood and school years in America. Thoughts of his family, and his former home.

These were troubling thoughts, confused memories, and they weighed heavily on his soul.

He had not been happy in America, but he was happy now in the land of his ancestors. Yemen was ancient and once pure, and he would make it pure again.

He looked up at the wondrous desert sky, a sky that had not changed since the days of his forefathers—since the day of Creation. He vowed, “The land of Yemen shall be as clean and pure as the sky above it.”

And God spoke to him: “You, Bulus ibn al-Darwish, will be the savior of Yemen and Islam.”

He felt a light touch on his shoulder and looked up to see Captain Zuhair, who said softly, “If you have a moment, sir, before I move the men to battle.”

The Panther stood and followed Captain Zuhair into a mud hut.

Inside the small hut, lit by a single candle, was Lieutenant al-Rashid.

Captain Zuhair began, “I am confident, sir, in total victory tonight.” He paused, then said, “But I must report to you, sir, that I have just received, by cell phone, some information from our friend who is inside the American compound.” Zuhair continued, “This man reports that the Americans and their security forces, who number perhaps thirty, are arming themselves and their laborers, including our friend, and they are preparing themselves for an attack.”

The Panther stood quietly in the dark and did not reply. Could this be true? Or could it be that Captain Zuhair was losing his courage?

Captain Zuhair suggested, “Perhaps, sir, we should delay this attack until another night. Perhaps a week. The men can train further. Also, sir, we should consider adding more fighters to the force.”

Again The Panther stayed silent, but then he said, “We attack tonight. And we cannot add any men to this force.” He reminded Captain Zuhair, “Forty men are as of this moment making their way to Aden to attack the Sheraton Hotel, and to kill the American soldiers and spies who live there. Another forty will soon be on their way to Sana’a to attack the American Embassy. And that, Captain, is all the fighters we have in the camp.”

“This is true, sir. But perhaps we should not divide our forces. Perhaps we should concentrate our forces on the American oil installation to ensure a complete and rapid victory.”

The Panther had already discussed this with Captain Zuhair, and now the man was speaking of it again—on the eve of battle.

The Panther said with some annoyance and authority, “I have made the decision to attack on three fronts. This will cause the government to react with fear and confusion. They will not know when or where to expect another attack, and they will become paralyzed with indecision, and they will begin arguing with the Americans, who always want action and decision.”

Captain Zuhair had no reply.

The Panther reminded Captain Zuhair, “I have told you this before.” Then he reminded the captain, “The Americans are arrogant and the government is cowardly. You will see both when these attacks are successful.”

“Yes, sir.”

“If you had been here after the attack on the Cole, you would understand what I am saying and doing.”

Like all bad generals, Zuhair thought, this one is reliving his victories and forgetting his defeats. But Zuhair said, “Yes, sir.”

The Panther turned to Lieutenant al-Rashid and commanded, “Speak. What do you say?”

Sayid al-Rashid said nothing, but then drew a deep breath and said, “I can certainly see the concerns of Captain Zuhair, but…” He glanced at Zuhair, then said to The Panther, “But I can also see that what you say, sir, is true.”

The Panther nodded.

Al-Rashid continued cautiously, “We… Captain Zuhair and I are simple soldiers, sir, and we think of tactics. But you, sir, know of strategy. And it is an excellent strategy. To throw fear into the government and cause strife within the government—”

“And between the government and the Americans.”

“Yes, sir. And of course, our victory tonight will be all the greater because of your leadership and planning.”

The Panther nodded curtly, then said, “If there is nothing further, I suggest you speak to each man now to be certain they understand the plan of attack.” He also said, “You will say nothing of what you have just said to me.”

“Yes, sir.”

He reminded them, “It is six kilometers to the oil installation, and if you start now, you will be there in less than two hours.” He ordered, “The attack must be completed at least two hours before dawn so that we may withdraw into the hill camp under the cover of night.”

Both men replied, “Yes, sir,” then Captain Zuhair said, “Nabeel would like a word with you.”

“Now?”

“He says it is important.”

“All right. Tell him to come in.” He also ordered, “You stay.”

Lieutenant al-Rashid ducked out of the hut and returned seconds later with Nabeel al-Samad, a junior aide to The Panther.

The Panther looked at his aide in the dim light of the candle. Nabeel, like himself, had lived in America, though Nabeel was an occasional visitor who went there only for business—Al Qaeda business. And also to deliver a verbal message now and then to the family of Bulus ibn al-Darwish, and to bring a message in return from his father, mother, and sister. Nabeel had already done this three days before, so what now did he want?

The Panther asked his aide, “What is it, Nabeel?”

Nabeel al-Samad made proper greetings, then said, “Sir, I have just heard from our friend at El Rahaba.”

“Yes? And what do you hear from our friend at the airport?”

Nabeel reported, “There is an Egyptair flight arriving in Sana’a at two forty-five this morning. The manifest for this flight lists two Americans from New York City who are traveling on diplomatic passports.” Nabeel also said, “We knew of these people perhaps two weeks ago when the American State Department applied for visas in their names.”

“Yes? And?”

“One of these Americans is a man named John Corey, and the other is a woman called Katherine Mayfield, who is his wife.”

“And they are diplomats?”

“No, sir, they are both agents of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

The Panther nodded and said, “Continue.”

Nabeel further reported, “Our friend in the New York consulate office informed me when I was in New York that these agents had arrived to pick up their visas, and our friend gave me copies of the visas and their passports. Both of these agents had listed their home address as the government building in which they work. Further inquiries revealed to me that they both are employed in the office of what is called the Anti-Terrorist Task Force.”

Again, The Panther nodded and motioned Nabeel to continue.

“This, as you may know, sir, is an internal American security agency, but the agents are sometimes sent to various places in the world—”

“Yes, I know that. They are here.”

“Yes, sir.” Nabeel continued, “The man, Corey, was in fact in Aden approximately three years ago. Now he is back.”

The Panther stayed silent awhile, then asked, “And how is this man and this woman different from the other American agents who come here?”

Nabeel informed The Panther, “These two agents have been specifically placed by name on the assassination list of the Supreme Council.”

“Yes? And why?”

“This man, sir, is the American agent who killed Asad Khalil, The Lion, in New York.”

The Panther nodded. He certainly remembered that. Was it a year ago? Perhaps less.

Nabeel reminded The Panther, “Asad Khalil had traveled to New York to kill this man, Corey, and his wife, Mayfield.”

“Yes, I recall.” But it had not gone well. Khalil was a Libyan, and he had gone to America on an earlier mission to avenge the bombing of his homeland by the Americans. He had exacted a degree of revenge, but not all that he wished. So he returned. And this time, they killed him.

Khalil was not within Al Qaeda, but he worked with Al Qaeda. And thus the Supreme Council had sought to avenge his death by calling for the assassination of this man Corey, who had killed the great jihadist, Asad Khalil, The Lion.

The Panther inquired, “Why do you think this man has come to Yemen again?”

Nabeel replied, “Perhaps, sir, to kill you.”

That came as no surprise to Bulus ibn al-Darwish. The Americans had a special hatred of Muslims who had been born or achieved citizenship in America and then joined the jihad.

The Americans, he understood from his more than twenty years in that country, were so arrogant as to believe that anyone who lived among them would come to love them and love their corrupt and licentious country. And when you did not love them, they hated you for your lack of appreciation of them and their wonderful nation. True arrogance and true vanity. Pride goeth before destruction, as it is written in the Hebrew Book of Proverbs.

And of course, the Americans in Yemen were here to avenge the killing of seventeen seamen on the American warship. And Bulus ibn al-Darwish knew from his parents and other sources that his name had been placed on what was called the CIA kill list. And this list, according to custom, or perhaps law, had to be approved by the President of the United States. That was interesting. Interesting, too, that this man Corey, who was perhaps here to kill him, was himself—along with his wife—on a similar assassination list that was approved by the Supreme Council of Al Qaeda. So the hunter and the hunted were listed for death. The question was, Who is the hunter, and who is the hunted? The answer for now is, Both are both.

Also, he knew, his mother and father had engaged an American attorney to have his name removed from the CIA list. Corey’s name would be removed from the list of the Supreme Council when he, Bulus ibn al-Darwish, killed him.

The Panther thought about all this. To him, it was an honor to have his name placed on that American list. But his mother and father—and probably his sister, who was an American—would rather see him rotting his life away in an American prison. They did not understand him because they had been too long in America. They did not understand martyrdom, and perhaps they had even ceased to believe that martyrdom in jihad earned a man his rapid ascension into Paradise. His parents, he thought, would someday go to hell.

“Sir?”

The Panther returned to the present problem and said, “So if this man and this woman are in Yemen to kill me, then they have made it convenient for me to kill them.”

Nabeel nodded, but said nothing.

It was possible, thought The Panther, that these two Americans were not here specifically to kill him, but in any case the man Corey had killed The Lion, and for that reason the Supreme Council had ordered a death sentence for him. So if he, Bulus ibn al-Darwish, could kill this American agent, he would gain great honor with the Supreme Council.

He said to Nabeel, “Kill them both.”

Nabeel nodded, then asked, “When? Where?”

“Whenever you can, wherever you can.” He added, “In Sana’a. Or in Aden if they should go there.” He thought a moment, then said, “Or in Marib, if they should come here seeking me. Take as many men as you need and kill them at the first opportunity.”

“I will see to it, sir.”

The Panther was about to dismiss Nabeel, but then Nabeel said, “I have actually met this man.”

“Yes? Where? How?”

“In New York, sir. Just last week.” Nabeel had been waiting for this moment to impress his chief with his knowledge of the enemy, and to show his usefulness in America. Nabeel enjoyed his visits to New York, and he wanted those visits to continue. He explained, “After I received this man’s name and office address from our consulate in New York, I telephoned the number on his visa application and asked to speak to John Corey with the claim that I had important information for him about terrorist activity.”

The Panther smiled and said, “Well, that is a true claim.”

Nabeel and the two Iraqis, seeing that The Panther was smiling, laughed.

Nabeel continued, “Corey came to the telephone and I explained that I had gotten his name from a man who did not wish to be identified. We spoke briefly and arranged to meet.”

The Panther asked, “At the government office?”

“No, sir. That is not the procedure for the first meeting.” Nabeel thought this could be amusing, so he had rehearsed his English and replied in that language, “The agent Corey and I arranged to meet at a Jewish delicatessen.”

The Panther smiled again, but the Iraqis spoke no English and they did not understand.

Nabeel, emboldened by his chief’s smile, continued in English, “Ben’s Jewish deli—on West three-eight.” He asked, “Do you know it, sir?”

The Panther said in English, “West Thirty-eighth Street.” He seemed no longer amused and said abruptly, in Arabic, “Tell me of this man.”

Nabeel did not want to say that the meeting was brief, or that his poor English inhibited the talk, but he did say, “The man was arrogant.”

“They are all arrogant.”

“This man more so.” Nabeel thought back to his brief meeting with the American agent and said, “He was abrupt, and his manner was that of a man who had little respect for me or those of our faith who live in America.” Nabeel wasn’t certain if that was completely true or accurate, but this is what his chief wanted to hear.

The Panther nodded and said, “Arrogant.”

Nabeel continued, “He seemed anxious to leave—it was Saturday last, and the agents do not want to work on Saturday or Sunday. So I arranged with him for me to come to this government building for a new meeting—on Monday, in the morning.” Nabeel did not mention the need for an Arabic translator.

The Panther asked, “And did you go to this meeting?”

“No, sir. That would be dangerous.”

The Panther smiled and joked, “So perhaps it is you, Nabeel, who this man is looking for in Yemen, and you who he wishes to kill.”

“No, sir, it is you. But I will kill him first.”

“You will. And his wife.” He asked, “Is that all?”

Nabeel replied, “That is all, sir. But I wish you to have this—” He reached into his fouteh, and the Iraqi officers became alert.

Nabeel produced a small white card and handed it respectfully to The Panther, saying, “This is the business card of the agent, John Corey. He gave it to me to present at the government building when I called on him.”

The Panther took the card and held it near the flame of the candle. He read:


John Corey, Detective

N.Y.P.D./FBI

Anti-Terrorist Task Force

26 Federal Plaza

New York, N.Y. 10278



There was the office telephone number for contact, but not the man’s cell phone.

Also on the card were two seals—one of the Federal Bureau of Investigation and one of the New York Police Department.

Bulus ibn al-Darwish stared at the card for longer than it took to read it, then he turned it over and read, Nabeel al-Samad to see Det. Corey.

Nabeel was aware that some men who worked for and with Al Qaeda in America at times exaggerated their deeds and accomplishments, so this card was good proof to have of his work—and his truthfulness.

The Panther handed the card back to Nabeel, who said, “It is yours, sir. I have no use for it.”

“Neither do I. And neither will Corey after you kill him, so keep it, Nabeel, to remind yourself of your task.”

Nabeel took the card and said, “Yes, sir.”

Nabeel made to leave, but The Panther said, “Wait.” He thought a moment, then said, “There will be a good reward for you, Nabeel, if you are able to capture this man instead of killing him. Capture him and bring him to me. And also his wife.”

“Yes, sir.”

“But do not allow this reward to blind you to the task of killing them if that is the only way.”

Nabeel vowed, “This man and his wife will be captured and brought to you, or they will be killed.” He further vowed, “They will not return to America.”

“And neither will you if they escape.”

“Yes, sir.”

Nabeel again made to leave, but The Panther again said, “Wait.” He said to Captain Zuhair and Lieutenant al-Rashid, “Begin the preparations for the march.”

Both officers saluted and left the hut quickly.

Bulus ibn al-Darwish, alone now with Nabeel al-Samad, recently arrived from America, inquired of his aide, “So they looked well to you?”

Nabeel knew who “they” were and replied, “As I said, sir, they looked well, and they send you their greetings and their blessings.” He added, because his chief wanted more, “Your father is prospering in his business and your mother has become closer to her faith.”

The Panther nodded and asked, “And Hana?”

“She, too, has become more devout, and as I have said, she is very content in her work at the office of your father.”

None of this was true, of course—at least about the sister and the mother. The father was prospering, but he had aged badly in the three years since Nabeel had begun visiting them after the Cole attack. The mother, too, looked drawn and sad. Hana, however, was more angry than sad, and she had told Nabeel, “I have no brother,” but Nabeel would never tell that to his chief.

The parents of al-Darwish had given Nabeel photographs and letters for their son, but he could never allow these things to remain on his person, and he had burned everything at the first opportunity after he left these meetings, which were always arranged for a public place in Manhattan or Brooklyn—a park or a museum, or sometimes a department store. The authorities, he was certain, did not know of him, though of course they knew of the al-Darwish family. The authorities sometimes watched their house, and their mosque, and the father’s place of business. But the family was not under constant surveillance, and they traveled often to the city for shopping and entertainment. Also, Nabeel knew, they had a sense, after all these years, of knowing if they were being watched.

Still, it was a danger to meet them, and Nabeel was glad that he had to do this only once or twice in a year. But it was also a good thing for him to do this, because it raised his status with his chief.

Bulus ibn al-Darwish said, “You did not say if my sister was still betrothed.”

“She is, sir.”

“And is there a date set for the wedding?”

“Not yet, sir.” He added, “But soon.” Or perhaps not. In truth, Nabeel had not asked the family about any of this, and Hana had said nothing to him on this subject.

Nabeel always found himself in a difficult situation on these occasions—in New York, and in Yemen. He needed to be careful. A lie was not good, but sometimes necessary. And the truth was not always good.

The Panther stayed silent with his thoughts. He did not want to ask a question that Nabeel had answered three days before, and he did not want to seem overly concerned about any of this. So he said nothing.

He knew that one day he would again see his mother, his father, and his sister, and it would be here in Yemen. And that day would be soon after his total victory. He would see them in Sana’a—in the palace of the president. On the day he became Supreme Leader of Yemen. On that day, his family would be with him to share in his triumph. And they would never again return to America.

The Panther looked at Nabeel and said, “That will be all.”

Nabeel bowed and left the hut.

The Panther remained standing in the light of the flickering candle, then blew it out and went into the night.

Zuhair and al-Rashid were preparing the soldiers for their movement, and The Panther motioned them to him.

He said to his two commanders, “Well, you have heard Nabeel. The Americans are sending more agents here, and soon they will be sending soldiers unless we kill the small numbers who are already here.” He added, “More reason to attack the embassy and the Sheraton Hotel in Aden.”

Captain Zuhair thought that the opposite might be true; every attack on the Americans in Yemen increased the number of Americans in Yemen. The jihadists, he thought, should be attacking the Yemeni Army and security forces, but Bulus ibn al-Darwish, the Amriki, had a hard hate in his heart for his former countrymen. Nevertheless, Captain Zuhair said, “Yes, sir.”

The Panther said to his two officers, “Let us go now and begin the march.”

The three men moved closer to the soldiers, and Captain Zuhair called out to them, “It is time!”

The men cheered.

The Panther, too, called out a last time to his jihadists, “We will meet again, amid the inferno of the oil camp, and among the corpses of the Americans—or we will meet in Paradise!”

The men let out a long, loud shout: “Victory!”

Captain Zuhair and Lieutenant al-Rashid paid their final respects to their leader, who blessed them and blessed the jihadists. Then the officers took charge of their men and began the march toward the American oil compound.

The Panther watched them disappear into the dark, then he turned and walked toward five waiting vehicles, filled with his personal bodyguard. He would remove himself from this place and await the outcome of the attack in a nearby Bedouin camp. It was necessary, he knew, to keep moving, to not stay in one place too long, and to take shelter under a roof or in a cave away from the probing eyes of the American Predator drones. And it was for this reason that he wore the robes and long beard of a Bedouin.

He glanced up at the desert sky. It looked the same as it did since the beginning of time—but there was something new up there, something that had already killed too many of his fellow jihadists. And they were looking for him. And now, perhaps, the Americans had sent a man—and maybe a woman—to look for him also. Well, he thought, the Predators would not find him, and the man Corey would not find him. He could not kill the Predators, but he could kill the man. And kill the man’s wife. And kill any American who came to the sacred soil of Yemen to find him.

The Americans may rule the air, but he, Bulus ibn al-Darwish, The Panther, ruled the land.