The Panther

PART II


New York City





CHAPTER TWO


If the earth had an anus, it would be located in Yemen.

And speaking of a*sholes, my boss, FBI Special Agent in Charge Tom Walsh, wanted to see me, John Corey, at 5:15 P.M., and Detective Corey was now five minutes late. But not to worry—my wife, Kate Mayfield, who also works for Walsh, was on time for the meeting and had undoubtedly made excuses for me, like, “John is in a passive-aggressive mood today. He’ll be here when he feels he’s made his statement.”

Right. Another five minutes. I logged off my computer and looked around the empty cube farm. I work on the 26th floor of 26 Federal Plaza, which is located in Lower Manhattan in the shadows of the Twin Towers. Well… not anymore. The Towers, I mean. But I’m still here.

It was Friday—what we call Federal Friday—meaning that by 4:30, my colleagues in the war on terrorism, mostly FBI agents and NYPD detectives, had left to beat the bridge and tunnel traffic, or they’d gone off on special assignments to the surrounding bars and restaurants. With any luck, I’d be joining them shortly. But first I had to see Tom Walsh, who is in charge of the New York Anti-Terrorist Task Force. And what did Mr. Walsh want to see me about?

His e-mail had said: John, Kate, my office, 5:15. Private. Subject Yemen.

Yemen? Typo, maybe. Yemex? A new kind of explosive? Maybe he meant “Yes-men.” Too many yes-men in the organization.

Walsh doesn’t usually state the subject of a private meeting—he likes to surprise you. But when he does state a subject, he wants you to think about it—he wants it to eat at your guts.

If I thought this out, I could conclude that Tom Walsh wanted to assign Kate and me to the Yemen desk. Do we have a Yemen desk here? Maybe he just wanted us to help him find Yemen on the map.

Another possibility… no, he was not going to ask us to go to Yemen. No, no. I’d been there for a month to investigate the USS Cole bombing. That’s how I found out it was an anal cavity.

I stood, put on my jacket, straightened my tie, and brushed the chips off my shoulders—a well-balanced detective has a chip on both shoulders—then made my way toward Walsh’s office.

A brief history of this elite organization. The Anti-Terrorist Task Force was founded in 1980, when the word “terrorist” was not synonymous with Islamic terrorist. The ATTF in those days had its hands full with Irish Republican Army guys, Black Panthers, Puerto Rican separatist groups, and other bad actors who, to paraphrase William Shakespeare, thought that all New York was a stage, and every bad actor wanted to play Broadway.

So the first Federally funded Anti-Terrorist Task Force was formed here in New York, made up of ten FBI agents and ten NYPD detectives. Now we have a lot more people than that. Also, we’ve added a few CIA officers, plus people from other Federal and State law enforcement and intelligence agencies. The actual number is classified, and if someone asks me how many people work here, I say, “About half.”

The New York Task Force experiment worked well, and prior to September 11, 2001, there were about thirty-five other anti-terrorist task forces across the country. Now, post-9/11, there are over a hundred nationwide. A sign of the times.

The theory behind these task forces is that if you mix people from various law enforcement and intelligence agencies into a single organization, you will get different skills and mind-sets coming together to form synergy, and that will lead to better results. It sort of works. I mean, my wife is FBI and I’m NYPD and we get along and communicate pretty well. In fact, everyone here would get along better if they slept with one another.

The other reason for including the local police in the Federal Task Force is that most FBI agents—my wife included—are from non-urban areas, meaning the ’burbs or the boondocks. So in a big city like New York, it’s the local cops who know the territory. I’ve instructed new FBI agents on how to read a subway map and I’ve pinpointed for them the location of every Irish pub on Second and Third Avenues.

In any case, I’m actually a contract agent here, meaning I’m a civilian. Until five years ago I was NYPD, but I’m retired on medical disability as a result of being shot three times in the line of duty, all on the same day. I’m fine physically (mentally maybe not so fine), but there were other reasons to take the offer to retire. Now, like a lot of ex-cops, I’ve found a new career with the Feds, who have zillions of anti-terrorist dollars to spend. Do I like this job? I was about to find out.





CHAPTER THREE


My boss and my wife were sitting at a round table near a big window that faced south with a good view of Lower Manhattan and the Statue of Liberty in the harbor; a view now unobstructed by the Towers, though on the window was a black decal of the missing buildings with the words “Never Forget.”

No one, myself included, commented on my lateness, and I took a seat at the table.

I am not overly fond of Mr. Walsh, but I respect the job he does, and I appreciate the stress he’s under. I’d like to think I make his job easier, but… well, I don’t. I have, however, covered his butt on occasion and made him look good. He does the same for me now and then. It’s a trade-off for Tom. So why did he want to send me to Yemen?

Tom informed me, “Kate and I haven’t discussed the subject of my memo.”

“Good.” Bullshit.

Kate is career FBI, which is maybe why she likes the boss. Or maybe she just likes him, which is maybe why I don’t.

A quick word about Special Agent in Charge Tom Walsh. He’s young for the job—mid-forties—good-looking if you like store mannequins, never married, but in a long-term relationship with a woman who is as self-absorbed and narcissistic as he is. Did that come out right?

As for his management style, he’s somewhat aloof with his own FBI agents, and he’s borderline condescending to the NYPD detectives under his command. He demands total loyalty, but he’s forgotten that the essence of loyalty is reciprocity. Tom is loyal to his superiors in Washington; everyone else is expendable. I never forget that when I deal directly with him. Like now.

But human beings are very complex, and I’ve seen a better side of Tom Walsh. As a for-instance, in our last major case, involving the Libyan terrorist Asad Khalil, a.k.a. The Lion, Walsh exhibited a degree of physical bravery that matched anything I’ve seen in my twenty years with the NYPD and my four years with the Task Force. If it wasn’t for that one act of incredible courage, when he put his life on the line to save thousands of innocent lives, I’d now be thinking about another job when my contract expires next month.

Tom got right to the point and said, “Let me get right to the point.” He glanced at an e-mail in front of him and informed us, “Two overseas postings have come down from Washington.”

I inquired, “Paris and Rome?”

“No,” he replied, “two jobs in Sana’a.” He reminded me, “That’s the capital of Yemen.”

“Not happening,” I assured him.

“Hear me out.”

Kate said to Tom, “If my husband is not interested, then I’m not interested.”

Actually, she didn’t say that. She said to me, “Let’s hear this.”

Thanks, partner. Kate is always putting career and country ahead of her husband. Well, not always. But often. I have notes on this.

Also, my detective instincts told me that Tom and Kate had, in fact, started without me. FBI people stick together.

Walsh continued, “One posting is for a legat, and the other is for an ERT person.” He added, “Both in Sana’a, but with some duties in Aden.” He informed us, “The Sana’a embassy currently has no Legal Affairs Office, so this is a new position, beginning next month.”

He then went into an official job description, reading from a piece of paper. I tuned out.

A legat, FYI, is a legal attaché, attached to the U.S. Embassy in a foreign capital, or to a U.S. consulate office in a major city. In this case, it would be Sana’a and maybe Aden, the only two cities in Yemen as far as I knew.

Kate, like many FBI Special Agents, is a lawyer, so I, as a detective, concluded that the legal job was hers. The ERT is the Evidence Response Team—the Fed equivalent of forensic or crime scene investigator—so I concluded that that was to be my job.

The crime in question, I was certain, was the bombing of the USS Cole, a warship that had been refueling in Aden Harbor. This took place on October 12, 2000, which was why I had been in Yemen in August 2001. The investigation of this terrorist act is ongoing and will continue until everyone involved is brought to justice.

As for Sana’a, the capital of Yemen, the word in Arabic means A’nus. And by the way, the port city of Aden is no treat either. Trust me on this.

Mr. Walsh continued, “As John knows from his last visit, the Yemeni government will issue only forty-five-day visas to our ERT personnel who are investigating the Cole bombing. But with some pressure, we can usually get this extended for up to a year.”

A year? Are you kidding?

Walsh editorialized, “The Yemenis are being cooperative, but not fully cooperative.” He explained, “They’re walking a fine line between pressure from Washington and pressure from sources inside and outside of Yemen who want the Americans out of their country.” He further explained, “The government in Sana’a is currently going through an anti-American phase.”

I informed him, “I don’t think it’s a phase, Tom.” I suggested, “Maybe we should stay home and nuke them.”

Tom ignored my suggestion and continued, “Kate’s job with the embassy comes under diplomatic rules, so she can be there for any reasonable length of time.”

How about five minutes? Does that work?

Tom further briefed us, “Bottom line, you can both figure on a year.” He added, “Together.” He smiled and said, “That’s not so bad.”

“It’s wonderful,” I agreed. I reminded him, however, “We’re not going.”

“Let me finish.”

This is where the boss tells you what’s going to happen if you say no, and Tom said, “Kate’s time here in New York is approaching a natural conclusion in regard to her career trajectory. In fact, Task Force headquarters in Washington would like her to transfer there. It would be a good career move.”

Kate, who is from someplace called Minnesota, did not originally like New York, but she’s grown fond of being here with me. So why wasn’t she saying that?

Tom continued, “If Kate accepts this overseas hardship assignment, the Office of Preference will move her to the top of the OP list.” He explained, unnecessarily, “Meaning, after Yemen, she can return to New York—or any place she chooses.”

Kate nodded.

Tom said to me, “If you accept this assignment, your contract, which I understand is about to terminate, will obviously be renewed for the time you’re in Yemen, and we’ll add two years afterwards.”

I guess that was the carrot. I think I liked the stick better—don’t renew my contract.

Tom had obviously thought about that, too, and said to me, “Or, after your return from Yemen, you can have a Federally funded job with the NYPD Intelligence Unit.” He assured me, “We’ll take care of that.”

I glanced out the window. A crappy February day. It was sunny in Yemen. I looked at the nearby brick tower of One Police Plaza. It would be nice to be back on the force, even as a Federal employee, though I’d be working in intelligence rather than homicide. Still, I’d be out of 26 Federal Plaza, which would make me and Tom equally happy. Kate and I could fly paper airplanes to each other from our office windows.

Tom seemed to be done with the carrot and the stick, so I asked the obvious question. “Why us?”

He had a ready answer and replied, “You’re the best qualified.” He reminded me, “You’ve already been there, and the team in Yemen would appreciate someone with experience.”

I didn’t reply.

He went on, “You two work well as a team, and the thinking is that a husband and wife might fit in better.”

“I’m losing you, Tom.”

“Well… as you know, women are not fully accepted in some Islamic countries. And professional women and unmarried women run into many obstacles. But Kate, as a married woman traveling with her husband, can move about more freely.” He added, “And more safely.”

Neither Kate nor I responded to that, but I was getting the feeling that he wasn’t talking about Kate’s work as a legal attaché at the embassy.

In fact, Kate asked, “What’s this about, Tom?”

He didn’t reply directly, but said, “You both may be asked to go beyond your official job descriptions.”

I inquired, “Do we have to kill somebody?”

He didn’t laugh and say, “Of course not, you silly man.” In fact, he didn’t say anything, which said a lot.

Tom stood and went to the sideboard. He returned with three glasses and a bottle of medicinal brandy. He poured, we clinked, said “Cheers,” and drank.

He turned and stared out the window awhile, then said, as if to himself, “There were seventeen American sailors killed—murdered—when a boat pulled up beside the Cole in Aden Harbor and the suicide bombers on board detonated a large explosive device that blew a hole in the side of our warship. Thirty-nine sailors were injured, some very badly.” He added, “A multi-million-dollar warship was put out of service for nearly two years.”

Right. That was almost three and a half years ago, and the ongoing investigation has had mixed results.

The Evidence Response Team in Yemen, by the way, has long ago discovered any existing forensic evidence, and the crime scene—Aden Harbor—has been dredged, and the USS Cole is repaired and returned to duty. So this is an Evidence Response Team in name only—a designation that our reluctant Yemeni allies can live with. In fact, the ERT team in Yemen interrogates suspects, witnesses, and informants, and is actively involved in hunting down the perpetrators. That’s what I did when I was there. So maybe that’s what Tom meant about us going beyond our job descriptions. Or… he meant something else.

Walsh sat, then confided to us, “We have identified one of the masterminds of the attack, and we have good intelligence that this individual is now back in Yemen.” He added, “The focus of our team in Yemen is to find and apprehend this man.” He looked at Kate and me and said, “You would be part of that effort.”

Neither of us replied, so Walsh continued, “This assignment could take you out of Sana’a and out of Aden and into the tribal lands.”

I thought about that. The tribal lands, otherwise known to the Americans there as the Badlands, or Indian Territory, were basically lawless. Also known as dangerous.

Walsh said to us, “As John knows, this could be risky.”

Right. Now I knew the answer to “Why us?” Walsh wanted me dead. But he liked Kate. So… maybe I would be the only one riding a camel into the Badlands, looking for this guy.

I pointed out to Walsh, “You’re not making this job sound very attractive.”

He replied, “I’m not going to sugarcoat it.”

“Right. I appreciate that, Tom. But I just don’t see what’s in this for us.”

“Why is it always about you?”

Well, that made me feel bad. Tom knows how to do that. So I said, “Look, Tom, I’m a patriot, a soldier in the war on terrorism, and I’ve never backed away from my duty or from danger—”

“I know that. Both of you are brave, dedicated—”

“Right. But I sort of like my danger in an urban setting. Like here.” I reminded him, “I’ve been there. We slept with our boots on and our guns in our hands.” I assured him, “I’m not thinking of my own safety. I’m thinking of Kate.”

Kate, of course, said, “I can take care of myself, John.”

“Right.” You go.

Walsh told us, “You would need to report to the American Embassy in Sana’a no later than next weekend. So I’ll need your answer Monday at nine.” He added, “If you say yes, then I can give you the classified details of your assignment. Once you have those classified details, you are committed to the assignment.”

“In other words, we don’t know what we’re saying yes to until after we say yes.”

“Correct.” He assured us, “If you say no, there will be no record of this meeting and no adverse entry in your file.” He reminded us, “Your careers will take a normal course.”

Right. I’d be unemployed in New York, and Kate would be in Washington.

Walsh continued, “This assignment—if you choose to accept it—will ensure your futures—”

“Shorten our futures?”

He ignored me and continued, “Even if this mission is not successful. If successful, you and the other members of the team who are already in Yemen will be appropriately honored by a grateful government. That’s all I can say about that.”

Honored where? Arlington National Cemetery?

He had some good news. “Your assignment in Yemen would actually be over as soon as you apprehend this man.”

Good incentive to wrap it up in a week. The other side of that deal is that our assignment could be over if this guy found us first.

Tom looked at me and said, “This assignment will give you ample opportunity to demonstrate your sometimes unorthodox methods, which are not always appreciated here, but will be invaluable over there.”

How should I take that? Loose cannon makes good in Sandland?

Kate said, “We’ll think about it.” Then she asked Tom, “Can only one of us say yes?”

He nodded.

Well, I was seeing the old handwriting on the wall here. What did I do with my desert duds from my last trip to Sandy Arabia?

Tom stood and we also stood. He said, “I’ll see you both here in my office, Monday, nine A.M. Have a good weekend.”

We shook, and Kate and I left.

On the way back to our cube farm, I suggested, “Let’s get a drink.”

She didn’t reply immediately, then said to me, “John, we have to do this.”

“Absolutely, and we’ll have dinner, too. Where would you like to go?”

“We have to go to Yemen.”

“Why not Ecco’s?”

“I’m going.”

“Good. Should I call ahead for a table?”

“And I’d like you to go with me.”

“I wouldn’t let you drink alone.”

“Are you listening to me?”

“No.”

We grabbed our coats, rode down in the elevator, and exited the lobby of 26 Federal Plaza onto lower Broadway.

It was windy and cold on the street, but I like the cold. Good drinking weather. Yemen was hot and alcohol was illegal.

On the plus side, I could, as Tom said, and as I had discovered myself in Yemen, be free of the bureaucratic bullshit here, and free of the political correctness that permeated 26 Federal Plaza. I could be me. Nuts.

Also… I had the feeling that someone in Sandland needed to be whacked. That could be interesting. I mean, I never had or wanted a license to kill—but I could conceive of a situation where this might be necessary and right. Especially since 9/11.

This was a lot to think about, and I think better at the bar.

We got to Ecco’s on Chambers Street, and as we made our way to the crowded bar, Kate said to me, “We’re getting into a rut here. I’m ready for a change. An adventure.”

“Let’s go to a different bar.”

“We’ll appreciate our lives and jobs more when we come back.”

“Right.” But not everyone who went to Yemen came back.