The Panther

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE


Brenner passed us a nylon bag, saying, “Two satellite phones with chargers, and two hand-held radios. The sat-phones are programmed with the speed dial numbers you’ll need. The radios have a selection dial for twenty frequencies, but we are using only two—zone one and zone two. There’s also a list of radio call signs in the bag.” He informed us, “The radios have a short distance—basically point to point—because we don’t have antennas or repeaters here.”

I asked him, “Is our absent team member programmed?”

“Not yet.” He instructed us, “If death or capture seems imminent, destroy the phones and radios.” He suggested, “A bullet will do it.”

If I have a bullet left, I’m not shooting my phone.

Brenner also informed us, “Our radio call sign is Clean Sweep.” He added, “This has some significance regarding the USS Cole.” He explained, “Warships returning to port after an engagement often tied a broom to their mast which signaled ‘Clean Sweep.’ In other words, ‘We got the bastards.’ ” Brenner further informed us, “The name of this operation is also Clean Sweep.”

Every operation needs a code name, something that doesn’t give the enemy any info. Clean Sweep was good. Avenge the Cole.

Paul Brenner, man of many bags, passed us another bag, a big blue one, and said, “Two Kevlar vests. Size should be okay.”

I asked, “Is that it for the bags?”

“I was going to give you a bag of cookies, but now I’m not.”

Kate laughed.

As we continued on, Brenner informed us, “This neighborhood is where the U.S. and U.K. embassy people live who don’t live in the embassy compound, or in Tourist City.”

Kate inquired, “Is this where you live?”

“No, I live near the khat souk. Not too far from here.”

Kate processed that for a second and said, “Khat souk…?”

“Biggest open-air drug market in the world.” He assured us, “They sell other things—chickens, cows, firewood, and guns.”

“So,” I speculated, “you can get high, buy a cow, shoot it, and cook it, all right there.”

“That’s what I do most Saturday nights.”

We pulled into a circular drive and headed toward the portico of the Sheraton, which had a mock Mideastern façade, sort of like the embassy.

I’d spent two nights in this Sheraton on my last visit to Sana’a, which I had thought was my last visit to Sana’a.

Zamo stayed with the vehicle, and Brenner, Kate, and I got out and moved toward the front doors where two men in blue camouflage fatigues and blue berets stood with AK-47s. Brenner said, “They’re NSB guys—National Security Bureau.” He added, “Tonight they could be Al Qaeda.”

“Should we tip them?”

We entered the air-conditioned lobby, and Kate and I went to the front desk, while Brenner stood near the doors. The check-in clerk said, “Welcome, sir and lady.”

“Thank you, man.”

We gave him our passports, and he looked us up on the computer, then assured us, “You have beautiful mountain view room. See sunrise.”

“Great.” And at night we can see the mortar flashes before the incoming rounds hit the building.

He also said, “You stay with us four nights.”

News to me.

The hotel charges were pre-paid, though the clerk didn’t know by whom. And neither did I. There’s an old saying in this business—“It’s not important to know who fired the bullet; it’s important to know who paid for it.”

If I had to guess, I’d say it was the Agency, a.k.a. the Company, not the embassy or the FBI who was paying for all this. Which brought me to the Golden Rule—whoever has the gold makes the rules.

As the clerk photocopied our passports and visas, he told us about the hotel’s amenities—fitness center, safe deposit boxes for our guns, medical services if we got wounded, pool, tennis courts, cocktail lounge, and so forth.

“Can I chew khat by the pool?”

“Yes. But please not to spit.”

Sounded reasonable.

Brenner came over to us and said, “You can stay here, or as I mentioned last night, we can take a walk in the Old City.”

“Thanks, but—”

Kate piped in, “I’d love to see the Old City.”

“Good. I’ll meet you here in the lobby. How about half an hour?”

How about never? Does that work for you?

Kate said, “See you then.”

Brenner suggested, “Guns and Kevlar.” He also said to Kate, “And your scarf, and a camera if you have one.”

We followed the bellhop to the elevators, where an NSB guy with an AK-47 sat in a white plastic chair contemplating his navel. We rode up to the fifth floor of the six-story building, which put a floor between us and incoming.

Our room was nice, and it did indeed have a mountain view and a minibar, and even a bathroom. Three stars. Four if the window was bulletproof.

I tipped the bellhop two bucks, and as Kate and I unpacked, I said to her, “We could get into a contact situation with Al Qaeda, but not with The Panther.” I added, “This is not like The Lion, who personally wanted to kill us.”

She said, “I’m assuming, as Buck and Paul mentioned, that the CIA knows something we don’t know.”

“They always do,” I agreed.

Well, now that I was here, I was looking forward to the job. But something was bothering me, something I’d thought about back in New York, and it had to do with the CIA. They were devious, not team players, and they had their own agenda. And those were their good points.

More importantly, they had long memories, and they were into payback. Their official company motto was, “And ye shall know the truth and the truth shall set you free.” And their unofficial mission statement, also biblical, was, “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.” I’m all for that, except if it’s my eye or tooth that they want.

And why, you ask, would the CIA want to get even with me or with Kate? Well, once upon a time, Kate and I had inadvertently screwed up a major CIA plan—Operation Wild Fire—that, if it had been successful, would have turned Sana’a and other Islamic cities into nuclear ash. The plan was clever, diabolical, illegal, and very dangerous to human life on earth. Other than that, it was a good plan. Actually, it wasn’t.

But it didn’t matter what I thought—as I said, Kate and I got caught in the middle of it, and without going into details, Kate and I found ourselves looking down the barrel of a Glock held by the previously mentioned Mr. Ted Nash, CIA officer, and I think Kate’s one-time lover, which may or may not be relevant to what happened next. Bottom line, Kate was a half second quicker than Ted, and Ted was dead. Self-defense. Except for the next seven shots. But the police and FBI cleared her of excessive target practice. The CIA, however, did not, and they were not happy.

I didn’t worry too much about Kate or me being on a CIA kill list—I mean, I thought about it, but it had been a year and a half since the incident, and officially it was over, and the CIA had been advised that they should forget it. But there’s only one way to get off a CIA kill list.

Back in the States, it would be unlikely that Kate or I would meet with an unfortunate accident. But overseas, especially in a place like this where the CIA is its own law, it was quite possible that John Corey and Kate Mayfield could have that unfortunate accident. That is, if The Panther didn’t get us first. A win-win for the Agency would be dead Panther, dead John, and dead Kate—and all these deaths obscured by the fog of war.

Crazy, I know. I shouldn’t even be thinking like this. I mean, yeah, this was a CIA operation, and yes, the Agency wanted me and Kate in Yemen—but not to settle an old score. No, they wanted us in Yemen to lure The Panther into a trap; not us into a trap. Right?

Anyway, I didn’t think I should share these thoughts with Kate at this time. Maybe I’d wait until we met our CIA guy and see if I picked up on anything that didn’t smell right.

Kate asked me, “What are you thinking about?”

“The CIA wants to kill us.” No, I didn’t say that. I said, “The CIA has been taken to task for failing to predict, suspect, or warn of the attack on the USS Cole. It was a total intelligence failure.”

Kate replied, “There’s enough blame to go around. Naval Intelligence, Defense Intelligence, and the Navy itself for not instituting better security procedures when entering a hostile port.”

“Right. But the CIA always catches the flak. So I think they’re motivated and anxious to even the score.” I added, “They never forget a failure, especially if their failure leads to American deaths.” How’s that for planting a thought in her head?

Kate didn’t reply for a second, then said, “The FBI is no different.” She asked me, “What point are you trying to make?”

“I’m not sure. Just thinking.”

We put on our vests, put a few things in the room safe, then spent the next fifteen minutes getting familiar with our satellite phones and hand-held radios.

The problem with satellite phones was that you needed a clear view of the sky, and the antenna needed to be clear of obstructions, so the sat-phone didn’t work well in the woods or work at all indoors. That, plus the line-of-sight limitations on the hand-held radios could make for some interesting situations if the feces hit the fan.

As Brenner said, the satellite phones had about a dozen speed dial numbers, all identified by initials in case the phones fell into the wrong hands. I scrolled through the directory: B.H.—Buck Harris; J.C.—Jesus Christ or John Corey; K.C.—Kate Corey; P.B.—Paul Brenner; and M.D., which could be the closest McDonald’s or a doctor. Last time I was here, we usually had a medical doctor with us when we traveled. Not a bad idea.

The embassy number was also on speed dial, plus about six other initials, including H.F., who was probably Howard Fensterman. It’s always good to have your lawyer on speed dial when you’re out and about trying to whack someone.

I pretended to call and said, “Hello, Howard? Look, these guys are firing submachine guns at us. Can we return fire? What? You’ll call Washington and get back to us? Okay. I’ll hold.”

Kate laughed, then said, “Be nice to Howard.”

Anyway, I didn’t recognize the other initials, but I guessed they were our DSS drivers and shotgun riders. None of them, according to Brenner, were our CIA guy, who wished to remain anonymous until he revealed himself. The Agency loves secrecy and drama.

I next looked at our list of radio call signs. On Frequency One were most of the same people as on our satellite phone speed dial. Buck was Clean Sweep One, Brenner Clean Sweep Two, I was Three, Kate was Four, and so forth.

The second radio frequency was to be used by and for Command and Control—the U.S. Embassy in Sana’a, and the Sheraton Hotel in Aden, i.e., the bosses. But as Brenner said, the transmitting and receiving distances were short, so as soon as we were out of Sana’a, we were out of radio contact with the embassy, and same for the Sheraton in Aden. This could be good in regards to upper-echelon meddling. But it could be bad if we needed help.

Next, Kate showed me how to field-strip the Colt .45, then gave me a few tips on aiming and firing.

I’m sure this gun brought back bad memories of when she capped Ted. In fact, as we rode down the elevator, she said to me, “We haven’t worked with the CIA since that last time.”

“Right. How did that work out?”

She didn’t reply, then said, “I just had a troubling thought.”

“Keep that thought.”

She nodded.