The Panther

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO


Kate and I came down to the atrium lobby with our luggage, dressed in our Sunday best—Kate in a tan pantsuit, and me in fresh khaki trousers, black blazer, and another Dior shirt. Onward Christian Dior.

For footwear, we both had black running shoes; the mark of the urban guerrilla. To accessorize, we carried our Colt .45s—Kate’s under her loose top, and mine discreetly strapped to my pants belt. Kate was also wearing her new scarf draped over her shoulders, and my outfit would be complete when I bought a jambiyah.

Paul Brenner, wearing his blue windbreaker, black pants, and a sports shirt, was waiting for us in the lobby, and he had another man with him—a guy in his early forties, sporting a mustache and wearing a dark suit, who I thought might be our CIA guy. But Brenner said, “This is Howard Fensterman, the new legal attaché.”

Kate and I shook hands with Mr. Fensterman, who said to Kate, “I’m looking forward to working with you.”

Kate replied, “I’m excited about opening the new office.”

So maybe Kate really was the assistant legat, and I was going down to Aden to join the Cole investigation. Great. Better than Panther bait.

But Mr. Fensterman cleared that up by saying, “I’ll be providing any legal assistance you might need for your mission in Yemen. Feel free to call me when you leave Sana’a if you have any questions or need any clarifications regarding procedures.”

“Thank you,” said Kate.

I mean, did George Patton have a lawyer on his staff? Hey, Counselor, can the Third Army cross the Rhine yet? Are we still waiting for a legal opinion?

Mr. Fensterman asked us to call him Howard and continued, “I’m working closely with State and Justice regarding extradition procedures, and I’m being kept up-to-date by Justice regarding the Federal lawsuit brought by the suspect’s parents.”

I said, “I hope you’re also working on covering our asses if by chance the suspect should meet an untimely end during his apprehension.”

Howard replied, “I’ll address that if and when it occurs.” He added, “It’s all a little complicated because, as you know, the suspect is an American citizen.” He reminded us, “He has Constitutional rights.”

“Of course.” And I had the answer to all those pesky rights on my hip.

Howard informed us, “I’m about to attend the church service in the parlor. Would you like to join me?”

“No,” I replied. “We’re carrying guns, and we’re pagans.”

“That’s all right,” Howard assured us. “I’m Jewish.”

Huh?

Howard told us, “Friday night I went to one of the mosques that allows non-believers to enter. Saturday, I went to services in the home of a Yemeni Jew. So today I’m going to the Christian service here in the embassy.”

I asked him, “Are you very spiritual?” Or confused? Or maybe covering all your bases?

He replied, “The three religions have much in common.” He also said, “I’m bored.”

Try khat.

Howard really wanted company, and he also wanted to show Kate her office after the service. Kate didn’t want to disappoint her new boss, and Brenner was in no hurry to get to the hotel, so Kate, I, and Brenner accompanied Howard to the parlor.

The big, sunlit room was filled with about fifty people—embassy staffers and spouses and about ten uniformed Marines. Everyone was sitting on the upholstered furniture or in folding chairs, and they were all dressed nicely. The American taxpayers, who were there in spirit, had provided vases of cut flowers.

The preacher, or whoever he was, was standing at a lectern wearing a celestial blue suit, and he greeted us and introduced himself as Ed Peters, adding, “It’s always good to see new faces, and I’m happy to see Mr. Brenner.”

As we searched for empty seats, I saw Buck sitting comfortably in an armchair, still wearing his white jacket. I found a folding chair in the rear on which was a photocopied program of only four pages. Thank God.

Mr. Peters began, “Welcome to all who slept late and missed the service in the British Embassy.”

A few chuckles.

It occurred to me that maybe half of these people never went to church back home, but when you’re in weird-land you get religion, or maybe you just want to accentuate the difference between you and the people on the other side of the embassy walls. How’s that for insightful analysis?

Mr. Peters asked us to rise to sing “Rock of Ages,” the words to which were in the program. There was a baby grand in the parlor, and a nice lady in a floral dress tickled the ivories.

I could see Kate standing near the window and she seemed angelic singing in the sunlight with a post-coital glow.

Buck was singing without looking at his program, and Howard was belting out the hymn like he was auditioning for the church choir. Brenner was two seats away from me and he was moving his lips like he was reading an eye chart. As for me, I hummed along.

Anyway, we got through that, sat, and Mr. Peters read from the Old Testament, the First Book of Kings: When the Queen of Sheba heard of the fame of Solomon… she came to test him with hard questions. And my favorite: King Solomon loved many strange women. And from the New Testament, Matthew: Ye shall hear of wars and rumors of wars.

We sang two more hymns and recited two prayers, then Mr. Peters gave a talk or homily about the sacrifices we were all making here in the service of the American people, and about the difficult times we lived in.

He also urged us to see this time as a growing and learning experience, and he predicted that when we looked back on our service in Yemen, we would all come to appreciate our days in this shithole. But he used another word.

Mr. Peters went on a bit about reaching out to the Yemeni people, about being guests here, and about tolerance of the host country even though it was f*cked up beyond all understanding. Or words to that effect.

According to my program there was no Holy Communion, so we were basically finished as soon as this guy wrapped it up. Is that a siren I hear?

But then Mr. Peters asked for a minute of silent prayer for our military and civilian personnel who were serving in Iraq, Afghanistan, and all over the world, including this hellhole. Amen to that.

After the minute of silence, Mr. Peters invited us all to join him in the lobby for refreshments and fellowship. He concluded, “Go in peace.”

That’s not why I was here, but I needed a cup of coffee, so Kate and I, along with Brenner and Howard Fensterman, went to the lobby and mingled.

There was an employee cafeteria off the lobby that provided what looked like good approximations of American cookies and cakes. They even had bagels, which made me homesick.

The congregants of the First and Only Church of Jesus Christ in Sana’a seemed like nice people. Among them were not only embassy staffers and a few spouses, but also expats and others who were seeking company, God, or a small piece of America. Probably all three.

I noticed there were no children—a sure sign that this was a dangerous place.

Life in the Foreign Service was unlike any other overseas experience, except maybe the military or being a missionary. How do people do this? But then I started thinking about Paul Brenner and the Diplomatic Security Service. Maybe that’s the job I should ask for if we got our man. A few years in Paris, London, or Rome. Kate would be a legat. Something to think about.

I chatted with a few of the Marines and they were all very professional and called me “sir,” and they seemed gung-ho and mission-oriented. They assured me that if the embassy were attacked, the twenty Marines and ten DSS guys could hold the fort until the Yemeni Army arrived. One guy explained, “Then we’d have new targets—the Yemeni Army.” Everyone laughed. Everyone here was nuts.

I moved over to Buck, who was in his element here, mingling with his Foreign Service brothers and sisters, most of whom I’m sure shared his background and some of whom also had funny first names, like Livingston, Kelvin, and Winthrop—a.k.a. Livie, Kel, and Winnie. You can’t make this up.

Buck said to me, sotto voce, “There was an Al Qaeda attack near Marib early this morning.”

I wasn’t sure where Marib was, but I hoped it wasn’t too close to the embassy lobby.

Buck continued, “The target was an oil installation partly owned by Hunt—an American company.” He let me know, “Security forces killed six of the attackers and took one wounded prisoner who said he was Al Qaeda.” He added, “The Company is questioning the prisoner about our man.”

The oil company? No, the CIA. I asked, “Where is Marib?”

“About two hundred kilometers east of here.” Buck speculated, “This could be a sign that Al Qaeda is beginning attacks against American and Western interests in Yemen.” He added, “Al Qaeda attacks are rarely isolated.”

“Right.”

He also informed me, “The al-Houthi rebels have ambushed a military convoy north of here.”

“Any good news this morning?”

“Yes. I flew in with a fresh shipment of Boodles and dry vermouth. Martinis tonight.”

Make mine a double, hold the vermouth.

Anyway, I finally got my coffee and a bagel with cream cheese, and as I was munching, Mr. Peters came up to me and said, “Welcome to Sana’a.”

“Thanks. Good service, Padre.” Short.

He informed me, “I’m a lay preacher. Non-denominational.”

“Me, too.”

He thought that was funny and continued, “My weekday job is chief of DSS here.”

“Yeah? How do I get a DSS job?”

“Apply. We’re short-staffed all over the Mideast. No one wants the job. Everyone wants Paris, London, and Rome.”

“Wimps.”

He informed me, “Paul is my second in command. He’s a good man.”

“Right.”

“Hate to lose him.”

“Where’s he going?”

“With you. Then home.”

I didn’t know how much Peters knew, so I didn’t respond.

Mr. Peters said he wanted me to meet someone, and he led me over to a big guy who looked like a weightlifter wearing his First Holy Communion suit.

Peters said to me, “This is John Zamoiski, DSS. You might remember him from the airport.”

“Right.” One of the guys in the lead car.

We shook and the guy gripped my hand like it was the last cold beer in hell.

John Zamoiski said, “Call me Zamo.”

“Okay. Call me John.” Later we’ll switch.

Mr. Peters said to me, “Zamo will be with you when you drive to Aden.”

“Good.”

“He’ll also be with you if you go into the Badlands.”

“The more the merrier.”

Mr. Peters continued, “Zamo was an Army sniper in Afghanistan.”

I looked at Zamo. He still had a military haircut—you don’t want hair blocking your crosshairs—and a face that didn’t move much. He wasn’t more than thirty, and I noticed that his dark eyes never blinked. He seemed to be a man of few words, but he had Mr. Peters to speak for him, and Peters said, “Zamo is also a martial arts expert.”

“You draw soldiers?” I asked.

His mouth turned up in a smile. He liked me. Good boy, Zamo. Sit!

Brenner joined us and suggested that we get moving. He said to Zamo, “You’ll accompany us to the Sheraton.”

Zamo finished eating his coffee cup and nodded.

I guess Zamo was the team sniper. It’s good to have a trained killer on the team. And a churchgoer at that.

Thinking back on our time since we landed, I had the same feeling that I’d had the last time I was here; I’d stepped through the looking glass and everyone on this side was crazy, and they’d been crazy for so long that they made sense to one another, but not to anyone who just arrived from Earth.

Anyway, Brenner and I found Kate, who was with a group that included Howard, and I said to her, “Time to go.”

Howard reminded us, “I wanted to show Kate her office.”

Brenner suggested, “Tomorrow would be good.”

I wasn’t sure of the pecking order here, but in places like this, security guys had some weight, so Howard said, “Fine. See you at nine.” He added, “I need to give you a copy of the arrest warrant for the suspect.”

I asked Howard, “Can I have a copy of the CIA kill order?”

Howard didn’t reply.

Anyway, Kate and I collected our luggage, and we met Brenner out front where a single Land Cruiser was waiting for us. It was a bright, sunny day, but already getting hot.

Kate said, “What a beautiful day.” She asked me, “Isn’t this better than New York in February?”

“No.”

Zamo loaded our luggage in the rear, then slid behind the wheel. Brenner got in the front and Kate and I sat in the back.

I asked, “Where’s Mohammed?”

Brenner replied, “Getting fitted for a suicide belt.”

Funny. I was really getting into this place.

So off we went, and I commented that there was no lead or trail vehicle. Brenner said, “It’s only about six hundred yards to the Sheraton and we don’t want to attract undue attention on the street or at the hotel.”

Right. So only one armored Land Cruiser, two armed security men, and two armed passengers. No one will notice.

We got to the outer gates, which slid open, and we were on the street. The Yemeni soldiers were still sitting around, at the top of their game.

Brenner and Zamo had their guns in their laps, so Kate and I did the same.

Across the way from the embassy I saw another walled and guarded compound that I remembered from last time, called Tourist City for some reason, though it was actually a complex of apartment houses and shops for resident and transient Westerners, some of whom were staff from the various embassies. Also living in Tourist City were aid workers and a few poor bastards who were transferred here for business, mostly the oil. This was probably where Kate and I would have lived if we were staying in Sana’a.

Yemenis, I recalled, were not allowed in Tourist City, except as trusted servants, though it was rumored that a few of these servants were Al Qaeda, which you’d expect. In my opinion, it was the least safe place in Sana’a; a terrorist attack waiting to happen.

The best thing about Tourist City was the Russia Club, owned and operated by two entrepreneurial gentlemen from Moscow whose personal mission it was to bring alcohol, drugs, and hookers to Yemen, thereby spreading the benefits of European civilization to this benighted nation. The Russia Club had a second location in Aden, as Buck mentioned in his class, and I’d been invited to both clubs on my last trip to Yemen, but I’d declined. Honest.

We turned right onto a narrow, tree-shaded road, and I asked, “If I roll down my window, will someone lob a grenade in?”

“Probably,” replied Brenner. “Just throw it back.”

We all got a laugh at that.

This was going to be a fun assignment.