The Panther

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN


Bucky!” Kate and I did a group hug with Buck and we all spoke excitedly.

Actually I said, “What the hell are you doing here?”

He walked over to us, and I could see him smiling as he said, “I thought I’d continue my class here.”

I replied, “I thought we were done.”

“You’re never done learning, Mr. Corey.”

He took Kate’s hand and said, “Welcome. I hope you had a pleasant journey.”

Kate replied, “We did until we met Colonel Hakim.”

“Ah, yes,” said Buck. “Colonel Hakim is like goat droppings—he’s everywhere.”

Kind of funny. Anyway, Buck was wearing one of those white linen jackets that you see in 1930s British colonial movies, and for some reason I had an urge for Kentucky Fried Chicken. I asked him, “Did you take the C-17 direct to Sana’a?”

“I did. Awful flight. Uncomfortable, and the meals come out of a box. And no alcohol.” He asked, rhetorically, “Have we become Muslims?” He assured us, “You did better taking the slow route.”

“Well,” I said, “we’re taking the fast route out of here when the time comes.”

“You will.”

And then I had a mental image of a human remains box in the back of a C-17. Be careful what you wish for.

Buck returned to the subject of Colonel Hakim and said to Kate and me, “Paul texted me about your delay at the airport, and it’s nothing to worry about.” He added, “We will file a formal complaint.”

“Good,” I replied, not giving a damn. I said, “Thank you, a scotch and soda would be fine.” I thought you’d never ask.

Buck invited us to sit, and he played host and moved to a rolling bar, asking, “And what would Mrs. Corey like?”

“Just water, please.”

Brenner, too, wanted water. Wimp.

Buck seemed to be drinking what looked like a gin and tonic with lime, but no little paper umbrella.

So we sat around a cocktail table, lit with a few bug candles, and Buck raised his glass and said, “To a successful mission.” We all clinked.

Buck informed us, “I’ll be joining you on this assignment, as will Paul.”

Mr. Buckminster Harris didn’t look like the killer type, but I’ve been surprised before. And as I suspected, Mr. Brenner was on the team.

Buck reminded us, “I speak fluent Arabic and you’ll need that.” He informed us, “Paul speaks a little, but it’s not conversational. It’s giving orders, such as, ‘Get out of my way, you son of a goat.’ ”

Brenner and Harris both got a chuckle out of that, as though they’d shared this joke before. So obviously they knew each other, and obviously Buck worked here, or maybe he shuttled back and forth to D.C. and/or New York. He had me fooled back at 26 Fed, and I was sure it wasn’t the last time I’d be fooled here, but it was the last time I’d take it so well.

Buck continued, “There is a fifth person on our team, but he’s not here tonight.”

Kate asked, “Where is he, who is he, and when can we expect him?”

Buck looked at her and replied, “I can’t answer that now.”

I said to Buck, “Maybe you can tell us now who the boss is.”

“I am,” said Buck.

“And may I ask who you work for?”

“The United States government, Mr. Corey, the same as you do.”

There’s always a CIA guy when it’s an overseas whack or snatch job, but as I’d concluded in New York, Buck didn’t look or act like any CIA guy I ever had the pleasure of knowing or working with, including the late Mr. Ted Nash. More on Mr. Nash later. Nevertheless, for the record, I asked Buck, “Company man?”

“No.”

I looked at Brenner, who shook his head. Well, I wasn’t CIA, and I didn’t think Kate was, so if everyone was telling the truth then the fifth person was the guy.

I like to know who I’m trusting my life with, so I asked Buck, “SDI?”

He nodded. State Department Intelligence was sort of a gentlemen’s game, so that fit.

I looked at Brenner, who said, “DSS, as I said.” He added, “But this job sounded interesting, so I volunteered.”

Buck leaned forward and said in a soft voice, “I’m enjoying the cool morning, but we’ll need to go inside to speak more freely.”

Right. The embassy walls could have electronic ears, though that was unlikely here in Yemen. I mean, this wasn’t the Cold War, the Arabs weren’t the Russians, and the PSO weren’t the KGB. Still, you had to follow security procedures, and not make the common mistake of underestimating these people.

Buck said to us, but really for anyone listening, “We have a number of very good leads on the location of six of the Cole plotters.” He winked and continued, “We have good sources inside the Political Security Organization.” Then for fun he said, “This Colonel Hakim that you met at the airport is actually on our payroll.”

We all got a smile out of that. And if the PSO was listening, then poor Colonel Hakim would have electrodes clipped to his nuts in about an hour. Payback’s a bitch, Colonel.

Buck, on a roll now, continued, “We’ve also been able to plant listening devices inside PSO Headquarters.”

Okay, Buck, don’t push your credibility.

Clearly he was enjoying this game, and you’d never expect Buck Harris to be so delightfully devious, or such a con artist. I had the thought, based on Buck’s age and my instincts, that Mr. Ivy League of State Department Intelligence had been an old Cold Warrior, and maybe this new war on terrorism was just a way to occupy his time and his mind at the end of his career. Or, like me, Brenner, and thousands of other men and women since 9/11, he was retired and called back as a contract employee to fill the ranks in the new war.

He asked me, “What are you thinking about, Mr. Corey?”

“You.” I inquired, “Do you also speak Russian?”

He replied in Russian.

I didn’t know what he said, but I told him, “I’m impressed.”

“And well you should be.” He informed me, “When the Russians were the foreign power in South Yemen, I spent many years there keeping an eye on them.”

“Then you must have spent a lot of time drinking vodka in that Russian brothel.”

“Nightclub,” he corrected. He smiled at me and said, “You’re not as simpleminded or unsophisticated as you pretend to be. In fact, you’re very bright and perceptive.”

“That’s very perceptive of you.”

“But stupid people think you’re like them, and they lower their guard and say things they shouldn’t say.”

I replied, “There are probably a hundred people still in jail who made that mistake.” I added for Mr. Brenner’s benefit, “And a few dead people.”

“I’m sure.” Buck let me know, “When the idea of asking you to go to Yemen came up, there was some thought that you might not be right for the job. My job, then, was to make an evaluation of your fitness for this assignment, and thus our time together in New York had a dual purpose.”

I admitted, “I didn’t know I was on a job interview.”

Buck smiled again and continued, “I assured the people in Washington who are running this mission that you were not only qualified for this assignment, but that I was certain you would be an invaluable addition to the team, and that I looked forward to working with you.”

“Thank you, sir. I will be forever grateful for this opportunity.”

I think Buck was tired of smiling at my wit, and he said, “Prove me right.” He added, “Our lives now depend on each other.”

“Indeed they do.” And by the way, when are you going to tell me why I’m really here? That my strongest qualification for this job is that The Panther would like to eat my ass?

He turned to Kate and said to her, “You are career FBI and you would be here if ordered, but it’s my understanding that you wanted this assignment, and there’s no substitute for enthusiasm and spirit.”

That’s true if you’re a cheerleader, but this was a little more complex and dangerous than yelling, “Go, team!”

Buck, understanding that, continued, “Your record speaks for itself, including your excellent work on the embassy bombing in Dar es Salaam, and I also know that you’ve exhibited a high degree of courage and composure under fire and against great odds.”

Kate, to her credit, said nothing, not even mentioning the guy she whacked with the Colt .45. But I was certain Buck already knew about that.

Buck turned his attention back to me and said, “You’re a very lucky man.”

Then why am I here?

He got his smile on again and said to me, “By the way, you had me thinking about some possible medicinal uses for khat.” He added conspiratorially, “Perhaps when we’re done with this business, we can explore that further.”

Brenner laughed, so I guessed that Buck had shared some of my classroom wit with him.

Buck said to me, “You enlivened my class, Mr. Corey.”

I replied, “Your class, Buck, was like waterboarding without the water.”

Everyone got a good laugh out of that.

Buck looked at Kate and said, “You’ve chosen your clothing well, but you need a head scarf.” And he had one for her. He presented Kate with a paper-wrapped package that she opened, revealing a long black scarf.

Kate said, “Oh, this is beautiful. Thank you.”

Buck said, “It’s called a hijab. It’s made from a very fine mohair, and it comes from a shop here in Sana’a called Hope in Their Hands.” He explained, “It’s a non-profit co-op that sells handcrafts made by women throughout the country, and all the proceeds go directly to these women to help them improve their lives and the lives of their children.”

“That’s very nice,” Kate said.

Buck further informed us, “Most of the embassies, expats, and tourists shop there as often as possible.” He added, “Good quality, good prices, and a good deed.”

Indeed. I asked him, “What did you get for me?”

“Nothing. But I’ll give you the name of the best jambiyah shop in Sana’a.”

“Thanks. I left mine home.”

Kate draped the scarf over her head, and Buck leaned toward her and showed her how to wrap it with a long tail, saying, “Use your left hand to hold it over your face.”

“Is that custom?” she asked.

“No, it frees your right hand to draw your gun.”

Joke? No.

He assured us, “Sana’a is actually quite safe compared to most of the country. There is very little crime in the city and very few political or religious attacks directed against Westerners. However, it does happen, and there have been a number of plots against the American and British embassies, so you need to be vigilant while you’re here.”

I asked, “How long will we be in Sana’a?”

“I’m not sure.”

Brenner said, “I know you’re exhausted, but we’d like to finish this conversation inside.”

It was still my turn to carry the gun bag, and we went back into the lobby and up the elevator to where I knew that the SCIF—the Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility—was located.

It was in that room, I was sure, where Buck would mention the small and apparently forgotten fact that Kate and I were here not to find The Panther, but for The Panther to find us.