The Panther

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN


There wasn’t much traffic at this hour—it was now 3:55 A.M.—and we clipped along at 120 KPH. The Yemeni driver yawned loudly. The khat must have worn off.

Brenner said to Kate and me, “This is Mohammed. We pay him a dollar an hour to drive for us. Two dollars to stay awake.”

Mohammed laughed, so he understood English, or he’d heard the joke so many times he knew he was supposed to laugh.

I asked, “Why the Yemeni driver?”

Brenner explained, “The Yemeni government now insists that we have at least one Yemeni driver in a convoy at night for our enhanced security.” He further explained, “Partly it’s so we have an Arabic speaker who can talk to the idiots at the checkpoints, or call for police or army backup if we get into a situation.”

I said, “That sounds almost plausible.”

“Right. But it’s bull.” Brenner let us know, “We actually don’t know who Mohammed works for, do we, Mohammed?”

He replied, “I am just a simple driver, sir.”

“Right. And I’m the cultural affairs attaché.”

“You are, sir.”

That out of the way, Brenner turned and said to us, “The only incident we’ve ever had happened at this hour.”

Kate said, “Thanks for sharing.”

I asked, “Guns?”

“Oh, right. You want guns.” He passed us a black canvas bag and said, “You’ll carry the M1911 Colt .45 automatic, A1 model.”

I opened the bag and saw the two military-issue automatics, a dozen magazines, two boxes of ammo, two hip holsters, and a cleaning kit.

Brenner asked, “You familiar with these?”

Kate replied, “I’m qualified on this.”

Right. Very qualified. In fact, she killed someone once with a Colt .45 automatic. I assured Mr. Brenner, “I’ve been shot at with this gun.”

“Good. Kate can give you a quick lesson on how to shoot back.”

Wise guy.

I made sure both guns had a loaded magazine in place, and checked that there was a round in each chamber and the safety was on. I left the guns in the bag, but kept it open between us.

I asked Brenner, “Do we get automatic rifles?”

“If you should need to leave Sana’a or Aden.”

“Right.” I asked, “How’s the civil war going here?”

“I don’t know.” He asked Mohammed, “How’s the civil war going?”

“Oh, I do not know, sir. I only know what I read in the newspaper.”

Brenner informed us, “The government is downplaying it, and it seems to be contained to the north of here, but for all I know we could wake up one morning and find rebel troops outside the embassy.”

“They could be there now,” I suggested.

“I think someone in the embassy would have called me.”

Mindful of Mohammed, we didn’t speak much on the drive into the city, but Brenner spent some time texting on his cell phone. He let us know, “I’m making a report.”

“Spell my name right.”

He looked at a text message and said to us, “We’ll stop at the embassy before going to your apartment.”

I didn’t ask him for any details. In fact, there wasn’t too much we could talk about with Mohammed listening, and anything Brenner said was probably disinformation for Mohammed’s consumption.

I’d noticed about five military checkpoints so far, though no one had stopped us, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they reported our position.

The lead vehicle and the trail vehicle were keeping fifty-foot intervals, and now and then Brenner would speak to the American drivers on his hand-held radio.

Mohammed said he had to make a cell phone call—“a security requirement,” he assured Brenner. I didn’t know how much Arabic Brenner understood, but apparently not enough to let Mohammed call his buds and say something like, “Hey, Abdul, where’s that ambush supposed to be? Did I miss it?”

Brenner said to Mohammed, “La,” which means no.

Mohammed shrugged.

The good road had ended and we were in an unpleasant slum now. There weren’t many vehicles or people on the dark and unmarked streets, some of which were dirt, making them excellent places to bury an explosive device.

Brenner, feeling an urge to be a good host and guide, said, “We’re close to the center of Sana’a, the old walled city, which is a World Heritage Site with buildings over a thousand years old and still standing.” He informed us, “The city, however, has spread out and the population has grown to nearly two million people, most of whom live in squalid shantytowns like this one, without indoor plumbing or sewers.”

In fact, I noticed an aroma strong enough to penetrate the bulletproof SUV, which I guess wasn’t gas-proof. The good news was that we could all fart freely and no one would notice.

Brenner said, “I’ll show you around old Sana’a tomorrow if we have time.”

Kate said, “That would be nice.”

I had missed seeing old Sana’a last time I was here, and I wouldn’t mind missing it again, so I didn’t second that. But I’m sure Mohammed made a mental note of it, which was maybe why Brenner said it. Bait has to advertise.

We made a few turns that I could tell were solely for the purpose of varying the route to the embassy. In fact, Brenner said, “We never go the same way twice.” Brenner also let us know, “If we get hit, my first shot goes through Mohammed’s head. Right, Mohammed?”

Mohammed did not reply.

I glanced at Kate and saw she was handling this well. So maybe this wasn’t the right time to say, “I told you so.” I’d know the right moment when it arrived.

We were now in the hilly eastern suburbs, a better part of the city, and Brenner said, “Five minutes to the embassy unless we run into an ambush. Then you have to add ten minutes.”

Mohammed thought that was funny. It occurred to me that everyone here was crazy. Maybe I was in the right place after all.

We approached the illuminated walls of the American Embassy compound, and I could see Yemeni soldiers sitting on the concrete barricades or lounging in white plastic chairs.

Brenner commented, “These guys are members of an elite unit called Sleepy Company, part of the Slacker Brigade.”

I inquired, “Is this their day off?”

“Every day.”

The lead vehicle stopped, and one of the soldiers stood and ambled over to the driver.

The embassy walls were about fifteen feet high, except around the gates where an ornate section rose about thirty feet. Embedded in the wall over the gates was the Great Seal of the United States. A welcome sight.

Brenner informed us, “If this place got hit, I’m confident these fine Yemeni soldiers would give their lives to protect the American Embassy.”

“They look half dead already.”

He laughed.

The electric gates slid open, and two United States Marines with M-16 rifles, wearing body armor and battle dress uniforms, stepped outside as the lead vehicle entered the embassy compound into what’s called a sally port—a walled-in pen with another steel gate that opened as the first gate closed.

It was our turn, and as we passed through the gates, two more Marines stood at attention and saluted. Kate, I thought, looked a little more relaxed. In fact, we both removed our flak jackets and threw them in the rear.

We passed through the second checkpoint, and I could see the main embassy building—the chancery—about fifty yards ahead at the end of a wide driveway.

The chancery building was of recent construction, and in the spirit of cultural sensitivity, it looked like a theme park sultan’s palace, with big arches, a white stone façade, and lots of fretwork.

The embassy compound, I recalled, was about five or six acres, surrounded by high walls. On the grounds were several ancillary buildings, including the ambassador’s residence, Marine guard quarters, housing for embassy staff who lived inside the walled compound, and other structures that housed everything you’d need if you were suddenly cut off from the world, including an electric generator and a water tank. For fun, there was a small movie theater, a swimming pool, and two tennis courts that doubled as a helipad. Also, alcohol was served.

The first time I saw this place, I recalled thinking, “Not bad if you had to live and work here.” I also recalled, however, that there had been a few terrorist plots to launch rockets into the embassy, which I recently learned were planned by The Panther himself. No Mideast assignment is perfect. In fact, none of them are. I remarked to Brenner, “I don’t see any shell casings.”

“The incoming rockets blow them into little pieces.”

Kate giggled. I think she found this guy funny. But if I had said that, she’d roll her eyes. What’s with wives?

We stopped at the big front doors of the palace-like chancery building, and Brenner opened his door and said, “You can leave your luggage in the car.”

I opened my door and said to Kate, “Take the guns, leave the cannolis.”

Kate got out with the gun bag, which she gave to me to carry, and we followed Brenner up the steps of an arched portico. The three SUVs pulled away, and I saw that our luggage had been deposited at the curb.

Brenner informed us, “You’re actually staying here tonight. Just in case Colonel Hakim is on the prowl. Later today, you go to the Sheraton Hotel.”

Kate asked, “Why not our apartment?”

Brenner informed us, “There is no apartment.” He let us know, “You may not be here long.”

Kate asked, “Why not?”

“We need to discuss a few things later.”

Right. Like, do we want to be Panther bait? Or do we want to go home?

Kate and I followed Brenner past a Marine guard who saluted. Former Chief Warrant Officer Brenner returned the salute.

The big atrium lobby looked as impressive as it did two and a half years ago, assuring me again that our tax money was well spent.

There was a huge American flag on the wall, and also some photos of the chain of command, starting with the president down to the current ambassador, Edmund James Hull, who had a big smile on his face like he just got the word he was leaving this hellhole. In fact, according to the embassy website, his posting had come to an end. Lucky Eddie. I should be so lucky.

As we passed through the empty lobby, Brenner said to us, “FYI, Mohammed probably works for Colonel Hakim’s Political Security Organization. Or maybe an outfit called the National Security Bureau, which was formed in 2002, after John was here, to patrol the main roads, protect tourists at historical sites, and protect oil fields and foreign oil workers in Yemen.” He added, “Sounds good, but they’re just a branch of the PSO.”

I speculated, “So maybe Mohammed wasn’t his real name.”

Mr. Brenner further informed us, “The PSO and the NSB have been infiltrated by Al Qaeda from other Arab countries. The Yemeni government knows this and doesn’t seem to care.” He concluded, “With allies like this, we don’t need enemies.”

Nuke ’em all.

Brenner stopped and said, “I know you’re tired, but before I show you to your room, I thought we’d have a nightcap and meet someone.”

“Nightcap is good,” I agreed. Meeting someone maybe not so good.

Brenner got on his cell phone and texted.

He explained to us, “I can use my regular cell phone in Sana’a, because we have a secure cell station and tower on the embassy roof. But away from here, we have to use satellite phones, which I’ll give you later.”

I replied, “Same as last time.”

“Right. I keep forgetting you were here.”

“I don’t.”

While we waited in the lobby to meet someone, Kate asked Brenner, “Is my office here in the chancery building?”

Brenner replied, “Yes. Most working offices are on the second and third floors. The legal attaché office in Yemen has just been authorized by a strategic framework agreement, but will not officially open for a week or two.”

I said to Kate, “You won’t be the first government employee with nothing to do.”

Brenner said to Kate, “Your boss will be a man named Howard Fensterman, who arrived a few days ago. He is the chief legal attaché, and you are his assistant.” He added, “Mr. Fensterman, like you, is FBI.”

Right. Everyone here has two hats, but they keep one in the closet.

Brenner went on, “As you may have heard or read, the ambassador, Edmund James Hull, has just left Yemen and will not be returning.”

“Right.” And the official reason for his departure was given as personal, which could mean anything from diarrhea to his wife packing up and leaving this shithole.

When you’re assigned to a small diplomatic mission in a small, backwater country, you actually get to meet the higher-ups, who are happy to speak to anyone from the States. Even me. So when I was here last time, I got to meet the former ambassador, Her Excellency Barbara Bodine, who had been in Yemen when the Cole was bombed. I’d spoken to her here in the embassy on two occasions, and once down in Aden when she’d visited the Cole investigators in the Sheraton Hotel and played volleyball with us on the beach—wearing knee-length shorts and a T-shirt. She was an attractive woman, and not a bad person, but I came to share the opinion of the FBI and others here that she had… let’s say, not handled the Cole crisis well. She, too, must have come to that conclusion, and she left in August 2001, about the same time I did. This place can make you or break you.

Brenner said, “I don’t know when we can expect the new ambassador, and to be honest, things run better—for us—when the ambassador is on home leave, or quits.” He confided, “We have different agendas.”

Right. The dips are here to make nice; we are not.

Also, I was getting the impression that Paul Brenner’s job went beyond meeting people at the airport. He may actually be DSS, but as I said, everyone here has a second job. Brenner’s second job, which I’m sure he volunteered for, was panther hunting. Hey, anything to get out of the embassy. The real issue was, could I work with this guy? Did I have a choice?

Brenner got a text and said to us, “This way.”

We followed him to a set of glass doors that I remembered led out to a small covered terrace overlooking a patch of greenery.

Brenner opened one of the doors and said, “We can sit out here. It’s a nice evening.”

It was actually about five in the morning, and there was nothing nice about it so far, but for a drink I’d sit anywhere.

There was wicker furniture on the terrace, and a man was sitting with his back to us. As we approached, he stood, turned, and said, “Welcome.”

It was dark, but I recognized that preppy voice. It was, in fact, Mr. Buckminster Harris.