The Panther

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT


As we headed toward Ghumdan Fortress, I pulled out my jambiyah and showed it to Zamo, who glanced at it and said politely, “Nice.” He advised me, “No one should ever get close enough that you have to use a knife.”

“Agreed.” I remembered my last meeting with The Lion and said, “But it happens.”

“Yeah. But it should only happen if you want it to happen.”

“Right.” I changed the subject and asked him, “So, how many kills you got?”

He replied matter-of-factly, “Eleven confirmed, two possible, one miss.” He added, “The a*shole bent over for some reason.” He laughed and said, “Maybe he saw a nickel on the ground.”

“His lucky day.” I again changed the subject and asked, “What do you do here for fun?”

“I’m doing it.”

Within five minutes, we were approaching the walls and watchtowers of Ghumdan Fortress, a forbidding-looking place of dark brick that dominated the landscape.

Brenner said to us, “The Turks built this place in the nineteenth century, on the site of the ancient Ghumdan Palace as I mentioned.” He added, “The Turkish occupation was brutal, and it was said that no Yemeni who entered Ghumdan Fortress ever came out.”

Right. Most old cities have a place like this, an iconic fortress-prison with a bad history whose very name strikes fear into the city’s inhabitants—especially the kids. Like, “Clean your room, Amir, or you’re going to Ghumdan.” Most of these places in the civilized world are now museums and tourist attractions, like the Tower of London. But here, it was still in the same old business, under new management.

As we pulled up to the gates of the fortress, I advised, “Veils for those who need them.”

Brenner lowered his window and said something in Arabic to the soldier, and I heard the names Corey and Brenner. That’s us. The soldier stared at Kate, then said, “Wait,” and went back into the guardhouse.

I asked Brenner, “Been here before?”

“Once.” He explained, “Some idiot from D.C. on an official visit to the embassy was speaking to a Yemeni woman on the street. She was upscale, unveiled, and smiling too much.” He added, “They both got busted.”

I pointed out, “It was all her fault. If she was wearing her veil, none of that would have happened—not the chatting up, and not the smiling.”

Brenner had no comment on that and said, “Anyway, I sprung him and got him on a plane home.”

Kate asked from behind her scarf, “What happened to her?”

Brenner replied, “Don’t know. Probably got slapped around and got a warning.”

Definitely hard to get laid here.

An officer came over to our vehicle, and he was quite pleasant, saying, “Please to park car near flagpole and await a person.” He added, “Lady not go from car.”

Brenner said something in Arabic, including “As-salaam alaikum,” and off we went.

The center of the fortress was a large, open field of dirt and gravel, probably once a parade ground and muster area, now used mostly for military equipment. A few soldiers sat around in white plastic chairs, chewing something. What could it be?

Brenner pointed out some old Soviet tanks and self-propelled howitzers, plus newer American Humvees and trucks. He said, “We’re supplying them with as much equipment as we can spare from Iraq and Afghanistan. But we don’t want to give them too much because this place could become Al Qaeda nation in a year or two.” He further explained, “Also, half this stuff sits here needing parts or repairs, and they don’t have trained mechanics or a parts inventory system, which they don’t really need anyway because most of the parts get stolen. And the equipment that works is used to fight the tribes instead of Al Qaeda.”

Who cares? Not me. I just need to whack one guy and get the hell out of here. Brenner has been here too long.

He also told us, “The Yemeni government doesn’t want American military advisors who could straighten out their logistical and training problems, but they want American money and equipment, neither of which they can handle responsibly.”

Same at 26 Fed.

“It’s like Vietnam,” said Brenner, who understandably saw a lot of the world through that prism. “Incompetent and weak-willed allies fighting an enemy who are motivated by something higher than saving their own worthless asses.” He added, “But we could turn it around with a few Special Forces units, maybe a Ranger battalion, and a Military Advisory Team.”

I pointed out, “I think that’s what the Pentagon said about Vietnam.”

“Right… but…” He said to Zamo, “Park here.”

Zamo pulled into a space near the flagpole between two American-made trucks.

Brenner said, “Okay, Kate and Zamo will stay in the vehicle, and John and I will get out and await a person.” He added, “If we’re not back by Wednesday, call the embassy.”

That got a chuckle, and Zamo added, “It’s easy to get in here, but not so easy to get out.”

Not so funny.

Brenner said to Zamo, “Call in a sit-rep.”

I asked Kate, “You okay with this?”

“I’m fine. I have Zamo and a Colt .45.”

Brenner advised her, “Keep the scarf on.”

In the spirit of cultural outreach, I kept my jambiyah on, and Brenner and I got out and walked away from the parked vehicles where we could be seen by the person, whoever he was. Actually, I was pretty sure I knew who was meeting us.

I looked at the surrounding stone and brick buildings. Some old forts are romantic; some are sinister and depressing. This place would get the Midnight Express award for Creepiest Turkish-Built Prison.

Brenner reminded me, “You are here as the interrogator for the FBI Evidence Response Team investigating the Cole attack. But if you don’t mind, I’d like to take a shot at the prisoner.”

“Sure. You go first. Then I’ll show you how it’s done.”

He took that well, but also reminded me, “I was a criminal investigator.”

“Right. But if this is like the Central Prison in Aden, don’t expect too much.”

A Humvee came across the dusty field and stopped a few feet from us. The rear door opened and out came Colonel Hakim of the Political Security Organization. He was dressed in a uniform this time, but that didn’t make him any more attractive than the last time I saw him.

He glanced at my jambiyah and smiled—or was that a sneer?—and motioned us to the vehicle. I got in the front with the driver, who had spent the day with livestock, and Brenner kept Colonel Hakim company in the rear.

Colonel Hakim said something to the driver and off we went.

Brenner, sticking to protocol, said to Hakim, “Thank you, Colonel, for meeting us.”

Colonel Hakim replied, “I am not for this arrangement, but I follow my orders.”

What a gracious man. Hey, shithead, you’re riding in a Humvee that I helped pay for.

Brenner reminded the colonel, “We have the same enemy, and the U.S. is here to offer assistance.”

No reply.

To confirm what Buck said about the CIA, I asked Mr. Happy, “Have any other Americans come to speak to the prisoner?”

He didn’t reply at first, then asked, “Do you not know?”

“I just got here.”

“Yes? So you ask your friends.”

A*shole.

We stopped at a particularly grim-looking four-story building, and even without the bars on the windows, I would have known this was the prison.

I’ve seen too many prisons in my life. And too many prisoners. And each visit to a prison took something out of me, and left something with me.

Colonel Hakim said, “You have half hour. No more.”

But I’m sure Colonel Hakim was hoping that the next time he brought us here, it would be for more than half an hour. Like maybe twenty years. Meanwhile, we were just visiting.