The Panther

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE


We came down onto the plateau and into a drab neighborhood of modern concrete buildings that sat between the hills and the east wall of the Old City.

Brenner pointed across the road and said, “That’s where I live,” indicating a three-story concrete slab structure that looked like it had seen better days. He informed us, “Built in the late sixties when the city first started spreading outside the walls. It has hot water and a manageable vermin population.” He added, “Ten bucks a month for Yemenis, forty for me.”

I asked, “Does that include parking?”

“It does. I keep my motorcycle in the foyer.”

So Mr. Cool has a motorcycle. Figures.

He informed us, “That’s the best way to get around this city, and I can go where assassins in cars can’t go.” He added, “I can be in the embassy in five minutes if I push it.”

I had the thought that Mr. Brenner was showing off a little for Mrs. Corey. Guys are a*sholes.

Anyway, Zamo pulled over beside a concrete wall, and Brenner said, “We’ll walk through the khat souk, then into the Old City.” He told Zamo, “I’ll call you every half hour, or call me.”

So we left Zamo in the nice air-conditioned armored Land Cruiser and walked toward a gate in the concrete wall where a guy sat cradling his AK-47.

Brenner said, “This is a fairly new souk, built I think in the seventies outside the Old City wall, but the mentality was still walls, so this souk is walled, as you can see.”

Right. Walls are good. Moats, too. Keeps the riffraff out. Especially riffraff with guns.

Brenner suggested to Kate, “You might want to wrap that scarf over your face.”

Kate did that and I asked her, “Would you like a cigarette?”

She mumbled something through the scarf that sounded like, “Fook-yo.” Arabic?

Anyway, we passed through a gate into the khat souk, which was sort of like a farmers market, filled with jerry-built stalls in the open plaza and surrounded by permanent buildings along the perimeter walls.

The place was bustling and crowded with white-robed men wearing jambiyahs, who shared the space with donkeys, cows, and camels. Some of the cows had been disassembled and their parts were hanging from crossbeams, covered with flies. And did I mention that the ground was covered with shit?

Brenner said, “It’s relatively safe here, but let’s stick close.”

We were the only Western people I saw, except for some young guys in jeans and T-shirts who were snapping pictures of piles of green leaves that I assumed were not spinach. I mean, this was junkie heaven. I had a sudden urge to make a bust.

I didn’t see any women in the souk, except for Kate, and oddly no one seemed to be paying much attention to us. But now and then, when I looked back over my shoulder, I caught people watching us.

Brenner stopped at a khat stall and said something in Arabic to the proprietor, who looked very happy with his career choice. Brenner said to us, “There are dozens of varieties of khat. This gentleman claims he has the best khat in all of Yemen, grown in Wadi Dhahri, and picked fresh daily.” He also informed us, “This man claims he is the purveyor to the president.”

“George Bush chews khat?”

That got a laugh.

Anyway, we did a walk around the souk, avoiding the cow pies and donkey bombs. Brenner took Kate’s camera to shoot pictures for her, and he paid a kid about ten cents to take a great shot of the three of us standing in front of a shoulder-high pile of wacky weed. I couldn’t wait to send the picture to Kate’s parents with a nickel bag of khat and a note: Chewing khat with Kate. Love, John.

After admiring the cow pens and the piles of firewood, we stopped in the sporting goods department, where there were tables of fully automatic assault rifles sitting along a wall.

Brenner said, “Most of these AK-47s are cheap knockoffs, some are better-made Chicoms—Chinese Communist—but a few are the real deal, made in Mother Russia. Those go for about five hundred bucks—a year’s pay for a working man.”

But a good investment for the future.

Brenner informed us, “I have one in my apartment.” He added, “It’s a good gun.” He picked up an AK-47 and stared at it a long time, then said, as if to himself, “A very good gun.”

Right. And obviously it brought back some memories for Paul Brenner of another hellhole.

He put the gun back on the table, and the proprietor said in English, “Five hundred for you. And I give a hundred rounds for free.”

I said to him, “Throw in a cow and you got a deal.”

We left sporting goods and headed through a gate that led toward the high wall of the Old City.

Brenner speed-dialed his satellite phone and said, “Leaving the khat souk, entering the Old City.” He listened, then said, “Okay. Four-thirty at the al-Mahdi Mosque.” He hung up and said to us, “Our appointment at Ghumdan prison is for five P.M. We’ll meet Zamo at the mosque on the other side of the Old City, then drive to Ghumdan.” He also informed us, “Kate has to stay in the vehicle.”

Girls miss all the fun around here.

We passed through an opening in the city wall, and it was literally like stepping back in time. Huge tower houses with ornate façades blocked the sun from the narrow, alley-like streets, and the sound level went from loud internal combustion engines to the hushed murmur of people and animal-drawn carts.

Brenner said to us, “This is the largest and most pristine walled city in the Mideast, covering an area of over one square kilometer. The old Jewish and Turkish quarters on the west side of the city cover another square kilometer.” He further informed us, “The east and west halves of the city are divided by Wadi as Sa’ila. When the wadi is dry, as it is now, it’s used for vehicle traffic.”

“And when it’s wet, how do they paint the white line?”

He smiled politely, then continued, “The Mahdi Mosque is near the wadi. If we get separated, our rendezvous point is there.”

“Okay. Mahdi at the wadi.” My appetite had recovered from the shit souk, and I asked, “Where is lunch?”

“Up ahead in a tower house converted into a guest house.”

So we continued on through a maze of alleys and narrow, twisting streets, some of which led into souks that were crowded with people, animals, and motor scooters.

We noticed the buildings that had been damaged or destroyed by the 1968 storming of the Old City by the tribes, and Brenner said, “The tribes could come again. Or maybe Al Qaeda this time. And that could be soon.”

Right. But first, lunch.

Anyway, I was sure we didn’t have a tail, and the place seemed safe enough, but I was happy to be packing heat and wearing a vest.

Brenner motioned to the tower houses and said, “The first few floors as you can see are made of stone, and the upper floors are mud brick. The ground floor is used for animals and to collect human excrement from the upper floors.”

“Sounds like 26 Federal Plaza.”

Brenner continued, “Each tower house has a shaft for excrement, and another shaft that’s used to haul up well water.” He informed us, “This presents a sanitation problem.”

“You think?” I asked Brenner, “Is this restaurant on the ground floor with the animals and excrement?”

“No. Two floors up.” He explained, “That’s called the diwan, where guests are received.”

And no one would know if you farted.

He continued, “Above the diwan are the floors where the extended family lives, sharing a single kitchen.” He concluded, “The top floor is called the mafraj, literally, a room with a view—sort of the penthouse, and this is where honored male guests gather to chew khat and watch the sunset.”

I need a room like that. Hey, guys, let’s go up to the mafraj and stare into the sun and get wasted. Then we can bungee jump down the excrement shaft.

Anyway, Kate seemed overwhelmed by the experience, and she took lots of photos and asked Brenner lots of questions, and he was happy to share his knowledge with her, or make up answers. If he was a peacock, his tail feathers would be fully fanned out by now.

We continued our walk without seeing much evidence of the twenty-first century. There were a few other Westerners wandering around on some of the streets, so we didn’t stop traffic. But these annoying kids kept following us asking for “baksheesh, baksheesh,” which I remembered from Aden meant either alms or get-the-f*ck-out-of-here money. Brenner said to ignore them, but Kate wanted to engage them in playful conversation, or take their pictures, which cost five cents.

Brenner also said, “If the kids suddenly disappear, we may be having a problem.”

Gotcha. “Hey, Abdul, you want a piggyback ride?”

Anyway, as a detective, I noticed what was missing. Women. I’d seen fewer women on the streets than I’d seen dead rats.

I asked Brenner about that and he replied, “The women do their errands in the morning, usually with male escorts, then they stay indoors to cook, clean, and take care of the kids.”

“Sounds grim,” said FBI Special Agent Kate Mayfield.

Brenner had a joke and said, “But Thursday is wet burqua night at the wadi.” He added, “Bring your laundry.”

Funny. But Kate didn’t laugh, so I didn’t either. You gotta be careful, even here.

Sunday wasn’t the Sabbath around here so everyone who had a job was at work. But what I noticed, as I’d noticed last time in Aden, were hundreds, really thousands, of young men on the streets and in the souks, obviously unemployed and killing time. Their futures would probably take one of three paths: petty crime, emigration, or Al Qaeda. Or maybe someday they’d just revolt against the government, hoping that anything that came after would be better than this. Indeed, they were a demographic time bomb waiting to explode.

Brenner said, “Here’s the restaurant.”

Kate said, “That was fascinating.”

Brenner offered, “If we don’t go to Aden tomorrow, I can show you the rest of the city.”

I thought we’d already pushed our luck. But this was the guy who did a second tour in Vietnam. But hey, you gotta die somewhere.