The Panther

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX


The restaurant was called, appropriately, “Old Sana’a,” and so was the tower guest house in which it was located.

I assumed Brenner had been here and he hadn’t died of E. coli or a gunshot wound, so we followed him through an open arch into a large, high-ceilinged space, lit only by sunlight coming through narrow windows in the stone walls. I was relieved to see that the space had been cleared of livestock and excrement, though a hint of all that remained in the air.

We climbed a spiral staircase to the diwan level, where a white-robed man sat behind a table, on which was a stack of assault rifles. I guess you had to check your guns here. The man smiled, decided we were probably English speakers, and said, “Welcome. For lunch or room?”

Brenner replied, “Restaurant, please.”

The desk clerk/maître d’armaments stood, grabbed three menus, and we followed him through one of those Casablanca-type archways with hanging beads into a large, sunlit dining room that took up the whole floor of the tower house. He escorted us to a low round table with beanbag chairs near an open window and said, “Good looking.”

I wasn’t sure if he meant the view, or if he meant me or Brenner. Kate was scarfed, so he didn’t mean her. I replied politely, “Thank you. This is a Christian Dior shirt.”

“Yes?”

So we sat cross-legged on these horrid stuffed cushions, and I looked around. It was a pleasant enough place, with ceiling fans, oil lamps on the tables, and carpets on the floor—sort of a cross between Rick’s Place and the den of Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves.

I asked Brenner, “Come here often?”

“Now and then.” He explained, “It’s not a good idea for a Westerner to be a regular anywhere in Sana’a.”

“Right.” Except maybe the Russia Club.

I looked out the window into the backyards of several tower houses. The yards were crowded with vegetable gardens, goats, and chickens. There were no play swings or slides, but a few barefoot kids were having fun chasing the poultry. A woman in a full black balto and veil was scrubbing clothes in a copper tub. In some weird way, this scene reminded me of the tenement I grew up in—sans goats. It was such an ordinary, peaceful scene that it was hard to believe the rest of the country was descending into violence and chaos.

Brenner said, “That’s our emergency exit if we need one.”

“Right.” About a twenty-foot drop into a pile of manure. How would I phrase that in my incident report?

There was a weird, smoky smell in the air, which I commented on, and Brenner informed me, “That’s frankincense.”

“Where’s he sitting?”

“It’s an Arabic gum resin. Used in perfume or incense.”

“Yeah? How about frankin-khat chewing gum? Yes?”

Kate interjected, “Stop.”

Brenner further informed us, “The Yemenis believe it was a Yemeni wise man who brought the gift of frankincense to the baby Jesus.”

Better than fruitcake. Right?

Anyway, the place was about half full on this Sunday afternoon, mostly young Westerners, male and female, but also some weird-looking dudes wearing daggers and white robes, with dark beards and black eyes, who were glancing at us. There were no Yemeni ladies lunching.

Kate still had her scarf over her face, which limited her choices on the menu, but Brenner said to her, “You can uncover your face here, but I’d advise you to keep your hair covered.”

Kate did that, and I said to her, “I forgot how beautiful you were.”

Brenner also said to Kate, “It might be best if John or I gave your order to the waiter.” He explained, unnecessarily, “Men don’t take orders from women.”

“Incredible,” Kate said.

Brenner was right—this place could grow on you. But to show my sensitivity to women’s issues, I said, “Unbelievable.”

Brenner agreed and said, “The male guest workers who return from Europe and America have seen the twenty-first century, and they’ve been subtly influenced by what they’ve seen in the West.”

I thought about Nabeel, and also The Panther, and I wondered if this was true. Or, if they had been influenced by the West, it wasn’t in a positive way. Bottom line, the winds of change that were sweeping Islam were blowing backwards. They were happily miserable and rigid, and we should leave them alone—except for knocking off a few of them who f*cked with us. Like Osama bin Laden. And The Panther.

A waiter dressed in theme costume came over, and Brenner suggested the local fruit drink or the shai, a spiced tea. Kate said to Brenner, “Shai,” and Brenner repeated it to the guy and ordered one for himself. The menu was written in Arabic and bad English, and I saw that they had non-alcoholic beer, which possibly had fermented in the bottle, so I said to Kate, “Tell Paul to tell the waiter I want a beer.” Did I get that right?

Anyway, we made small talk, and Kate asked Brenner, “Where are you from?”

“South Boston.”

“Do you miss it?”

“I don’t get there much. I live in Virginia now. Falls Church.” He added, “That’s where CID Headquarters is, and it was my last duty station before I left the Army.”

Kate seemed to want to know more about Paul Brenner, and with some prodding, he gave her his history—drafted into the Army at eighteen, infantryman in Vietnam, decided to make the Army a career, went to military police school, second tour in Vietnam as an MP, then transferred to the U.S. Army Criminal Investigation Division, and served in various Army posts around the world. He had apparently been in a special CID unit that handled high-profile and/or sensitive cases, and his last case involved the murder of a female U.S. Army captain who was also the daughter of an Army general who had been highly decorated in the first Gulf War.

I thought I remembered this case, because it had made the news at the time, a year or so after the Gulf War, and I had the impression that this case had somehow led to the early retirement of Chief Warrant Officer Paul Brenner.

Brenner didn’t mention his clandestine mission to post-war Vietnam, either out of modesty or because he still wasn’t allowed to talk about it. This mission, though, must have redeemed his reputation or something, and maybe the Army’s equivalent of Tom Walsh asked him to name a job, and Brenner picked the Diplomatic Security Service. Fun and travel. In fact, Brenner told us that he’d served with the DSS in London, then Athens. I wonder what he did wrong to get sent here.

Brenner concluded his edited history, and I noticed it was all professional, lacking any personal details, with no mention of marriage or divorce, kids, or the current lady back in the States.

Kate didn’t prod him on that subject, and I certainly didn’t. All I wanted to know about Mr. Paul Brenner was if I could trust him, and whether or not he had a set of balls. He seemed okay in both categories. He also seemed bright, which was good, but I couldn’t determine if he had good or bad professional judgment, which was crucial. I myself display impressively bad judgment on occasion, but I always temper that with acts of irrational risk taking. Ask my wife. Brenner, I suspected, was a little like me in those respects, which is the sign of the alpha male. Most of us are dead by now, of course, or incarcerated, or permanently disabled, but some of us are lucky. I’m lucky. And smart.

Anyway, I thought I could work with this guy, and I didn’t think he was going to get me killed—I could do that on my own, thank you.

Kate, too, seemed impressed with Paul Brenner, though I doubt she’d analyzed why. Women’s intuition.

Our cocktails arrived, and the waiter asked if we had made a choice for lunch. We hadn’t, but a quick scan of the menu showed me that my choices were limited to animals that I could see from the window.

Kate said to Brenner, “Why don’t you order for us?”

Brenner had to order for Kate anyway, so I agreed but warned him, “No organs.”

Brenner ordered in Arabic, then asked us, “Do you want utensils? Or do you want to use your fingers?”

We didn’t know one another that well, so we agreed on utensils, and when the waiter left I took the opportunity to speak to Brenner without Buck present. I asked, “Why do we need a CIA guy on the team?”

“It’s their show. Also, they have all the information we need.”

“Let’s get the information and leave the CIA guy in Aden.”

Brenner asked me, “Why wouldn’t you want a CIA officer on the team?”

Because the CIA wants to kill me and my wife. But that would sound silly if I said it out loud, so I replied, “They tend to complicate things. And they’re not team players.”

“Neither are you from what I hear.”

“If I’m on the team, I play with the team.”

Kate said, “That’s true.” She remembered to add, “But John sometimes makes up his own rules.”

You see why I love my wife.

Brenner stayed quiet a moment, then said, “To further answer your question, it’s my understanding that Predator drones with video surveillance cameras are an important part of this operation. And as you may know, in Yemen only the CIA has operational control of the Predators. So that’s why we need a CIA officer with us when we go into the Badlands—to control the Predator drones on aerial reconnaissance missions.” He explained, “We can have real-time video surveillance transmitted directly to a video monitor on the ground.”

“And then the Predator launches a Hellfire missile against the target.”

He didn’t reply for a second, then said, “I suppose that’s an option.” He added, “That has been very effective here and in Afghanistan. We’ve killed dozens of important Al Qaeda leaders that way.”

“Right.” They leave their cave or mud hut to go take a leak, and next thing they know, they’re holding their dick in Paradise.

I asked Brenner, “What about taking this suspect alive?”

Brenner shrugged and replied, “I don’t know. I’m not sure what the actual goal is.”

“That makes three of us.”

He continued, “The way I see it, Washington would like to take this guy alive, but it’s easier to kill him. So maybe if the opportunity to capture him presents itself, then that’s what we’ll try to do. But if that seems impossible—or too dangerous—then we fix his location and call in the drones and Hellfires.”

I nodded, and added, “Then we Ziploc some pieces for ID.”

“Right. We have the suspect’s prints on file—and also DNA from his family.”

Kate commented, “Maybe I don’t need my arrest warrant.”

Brenner assured her, “We need you and your arrest warrant in case we have the opportunity to apprehend the suspect.”

Kate nodded tentatively. Actually, Kate and her arrest warrant were cover for what was most likely the assassination of an American citizen. I had no problem with that, and I was happy to have the cover in case this thing came back to bite us in the ass vis-à-vis Mr. and Mrs. al-Darwish’s lawsuit, or some other silly legality. F*cked-up war.

Kate also asked, “If we do apprehend the suspect, do we turn him over to the Yemeni authorities, then ask for extradition, or do we attempt to get the suspect out of the country?” She added, “In other words, extradition or rendition?”

Brenner shrugged again and replied, “This is all beyond my pay grade.”

“Why,” I asked, “is State Department Intelligence involved?”

Brenner replied, “First, keep in mind that Buck Harris is officially a diplomat, attached to the economic assistance mission, which is why he travels around the country. Forget SDI. Second, we want a diplomatic component to our operation.” He stressed, “We want to involve the State Department.”

“Right.” Meaning that if things went wrong—or even if things went right—the State Department could do what they do best: apologize to the host government for violating their sovereignty and offer them a few million bucks to forget it. That’s what diplomats are for.

Brenner reminded me, “Buck is an invaluable asset. He knows the country, the people, and the language.”

“Right. We love Buck. But he knows more than he’s sharing.”

Brenner said, “Let’s take it a step at a time and see how it plays out.” He also suggested, “We’ll get some clarification from our Agency guy.”

Paul Brenner had apparently not worked with the CIA before.

Our food came and it was served family style in big bowls, and everyone around us was eating directly out of the bowls with their fingers. We, however, had plates, serving spoons, and utensils. The food actually tasted good, whatever it was. Did I take my Cipro this morning?

I said to Brenner, “Tell me about this wounded Al Qaeda guy that we’re seeing in the slammer.”

Brenner told us, “We got this appointment because we told the PSO that we think this attack could have been planned by one of the Cole plotters. Therefore, Mr. John Corey of the FBI Evidence Response Team would like to speak to the prisoner.” He added, “We have an understanding with the Yemeni government, based on cash and other good and valuable considerations, that they will cooperate in anything having to do with the Cole.” He concluded, “I have no idea if this prisoner knows anything about the Cole or The Panther, but we’ll certainly ask.”

“Can we torture him?”

“I’m sure that’s been done.” He added, “But the PSO was probably focusing more on the oil installation attack than on The Panther.”

“Right. But when we ask this guy about The Panther, the PSO guys who are present will know what our focus is.”

Brenner replied, “That’s okay.” He explained, “Assuming someone in the prison is reporting to Al Qaeda, then this is one way of getting the message to The Panther that John Corey is in town looking for him.” He reminded me, “That’s the point.”

“Right. Why do I keep forgetting I’m bait?”

“Not bait,” Brenner corrected. “That’s such a negative word. I like to think of you as a lure.”

Funny? Maybe not.

Kate asked, “Will Colonel Hakim be at the prison?”

Brenner replied, “Probably.” He explained, “He seems to be the PSO guy who is assigned to keep an eye on the American Embassy.”

I asked, “Whose side is he on?”

Brenner replied, “The CIA thinks he’s loyal to the Yemeni government—but what does that mean? It doesn’t mean he’s pro-American, or anti–Al Qaeda. Like most people here, his first loyalty is to himself, then to his faith—or vice versa. His next loyalty is to his ancestral tribe, his clan, and his family, followed by a loose loyalty to the concept of being a Yemeni. His last loyalty, if it exists at all, is to the government.”

I could see why this country wasn’t working. I said to Brenner, “The question is, Does Colonel Hakim have ties to Al Qaeda?”

Brenner replied, “He may have contacts. Most high-ranking people do. But in this country, that doesn’t make him a traitor. It makes him smart.” He added, “People with money or power are covering all their bets until they see who looks like the winner here.” He further explained, “The Americans are putting their money on a bad government, but it’s the only play we have.”

I suggested, “Let’s whack who we have to whack to avenge the Cole, and get the hell out of here before we get in deeper.”

Brenner thought a minute and said, “It sort of reminds me of Vietnam… a corrupt, double-dealing government, backed by the U.S. out of necessity, fighting a tough, single-minded enemy who terrorized a population that didn’t care who won as long as they could live in peace… Even the hill tribes here remind me of the hill tribes in Vietnam who hated and fought both the government and the Viet Cong. And we were right in the middle of it. The quagmire. And we keep doing the same thing, expecting different results.”

No argument there.

Kate said, “It’s the same situation in Iraq and Afghanistan.”

Brenner seemed to have returned from the jungles of Southeast Asia to the sands of the Middle East, and he said to me, “I understand you’ve had some experience with interrogating Cole suspects in Aden.”

“Right. But not too successfully.” I explained, “Everyone had fun lying to the Americans—the police, the PSO guys, the prisoners, and even the translators. And after we left the prison, they probably all had a khat chew together and yucked it up.” I added, “A*sholes.”

Brenner assured me, “The Yemeni government is a little more worried now, and they’ve been more cooperative.”

“You mean like Colonel Hakim at the airport?”

Brenner didn’t reply, and asked me, “When you were interrogating the Cole suspects in Aden, did the name Bulus ibn al-Darwish or al-Numair—The Panther—ever come up?”

“No. I don’t think the FBI or CIA knew about him at that time.” I thought a moment, then added, “But I remember now there was some suspicion, or a rumor, that an American-born Muslim may have been involved.”

Brenner nodded, then said, “It was apparently The Panther’s idea to attack an American warship that was on a regularly scheduled refueling stop in Aden Harbor.” He informed us, “This was different from most Al Qaeda attacks in Europe or the Mideast, which are directed against soft targets. This was a rare attack against the American military.” He added, “Very bold, with a high risk of failure. And yet they succeeded in crippling a high-tech American warship and killing seventeen American sailors.”

Right. But in a way, The Panther miscalculated. This attack got the Americans into Yemen, and now Al Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula was under pressure. I said, “As with 9/11, Al Qaeda got more than they bargained for.”

“Agreed. And that’s what we have to show them. There is a price to pay.”

Kate said, “They know that. But it hasn’t stopped them from escalating the attacks. In fact, they’re stronger in Yemen than they were at the time of the Cole attack.”

Brenner replied, “That’s partly due to a dysfunctional government.”

I asked, “Ours or theirs?”

Anyway, we called for the check, which was written on a scrap of paper—eight million rials or something, which came to about three bucks, drinks included, and Brenner treated. I could live like a sultan in Yemen.

I would have asked for a doggie bag, but the waiter might misunderstand and I’d wind up eating Fido later.

I asked, “Does anyone have to use the excrement shaft?”

On the way out, I said to the guy at the front desk, “Everything was terrific. We’ll be back tomorrow for lunch. One P.M. John Corey.” Tell The Panther.

“Good. Tomorrow.”

“Is one of these guns mine?”

“No, you don’t bring gun.”

“Okay. I think I left it on my donkey—”

“John.”

“Ciao.”

Kate wrapped her scarf over her face, and Brenner checked in with Zamo, then we went down to the street into the bright sunlight where it had gotten hotter.

Without any discussion, we checked out the crowded street, then crossed to the other side and watched the door to the restaurant.

You always need to go through the drill, even when things look and feel safe. In fact, that’s when you most need to keep your head out of your ass. And you needed to keep reminding yourself that the hunter is also the hunted.