The Panther

CHAPTER THIRTY


We came to an iron door where a guard was taking a khat-nap in a white plastic chair. Hakim kicked the man’s leg, and the guard stood quickly and opened the door.

Hakim entered first, followed by Sammy, Dr. Fahd, Brenner, and me.

The cell, probably an interrogation room, was about ten feet square, lit only by a high, barred window and a single hanging lightbulb. The walls were whitewashed brick with some interesting reddish stains around the perimeter, including a few red handprints.

A filthy mattress lay on the stone floor, and on the mattress was a young man with a wispy beard, wearing dirty white prison pajamas that were bloody around his left leg where his wound had bled through the bandages. I noticed, too, that his right eye was swollen shut. Also, his lower lip was split, and his hooked nose was crooked. I also saw that his arms and legs were shackled, and the leg chain was bolted to the floor.

Hakim explained to his American guests, “He is chained to prevent him harming himself.”

Right. He has lots of people to do that for him.

Hakim snapped at the prisoner, who sat up slowly and moved his back against the wall.

Hakim also explained, “As you can see, this man has been injured when he resisted capture by the security forces at the American oil company.”

I recalled the same bullshit in the Aden prison. Interesting that the Yemenis thought they had to lie to the Americans about beating prisoners. My jokes to the contrary, I’m not a big fan of torture. It’s messy, risky, not productive, and not right. What you want from a prisoner is in his head, so you have to beat up his brain, not his body. Takes longer, but you get better results.

Dr. Fahd moved a chair beside the prisoner to check out his vitals.

There were four other white plastic chairs in the room, and Colonel Hakim invited me, Brenner, and Sammy to sit facing the prisoner. Hakim moved a chair against a wall between us and the prisoner and sat.

As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I saw an empty plastic water bottle near the prisoner, and a full basin of what looked and smelled like urine. There were old cigarette butts on the floor, and what appeared to be well-masticated khat leaves. The whole room reeked of a hundred years of misery.

Dr. Fahd looked in the prisoner’s eyes with a light, took his temperature, listened to his heart and lungs, then took his blood pressure.

The good doctor stood and said, “The prisoner is well.”

Actually, the prisoner looked like he’d just gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson. But maybe his vitals were good.

Dr. Fahd sat in a corner and lit a cigarette. I guess it’s all right for doctors to smoke here.

Colonel Hakim spoke to the prisoner, obviously introducing his visitors, and I heard the word “Amrika.”

The prisoner closed his good eye and nodded.

Hakim said to us, “You may begin.”

I nodded to Brenner, who looked at Rahim ibn Hayyam and asked, “How are you feeling?”

Sammy translated, Rahim replied, and Sammy, who apparently forgot or wasn’t told that Brenner understood some Arabic, said to us, “He is feeling well.”

Brenner corrected, “Not well. And he says he needs food and water.”

Sammy glanced at Colonel Hakim, and Hakim said to Brenner, “If your Arabic is so good, I will send the translator away.”

Brenner replied, “My Arabic is good enough to know when I hear a false translation.”

Hakim ignored him and looked at me. “And you, Mr. Corey? How is your Arabic?”

“Better than your English.”

Hakim didn’t like that, but he said something to the guard, who left. Hakim said to Brenner, “Continue.”

So having established that we couldn’t be totally conned, Brenner, with the clock ticking, got right to the point and asked, “What is the name of your commander?”

Sammy asked, Rahim replied, and Sammy said to us, “As he has stated, he knows only given names.”

“Okay. What was the given name of his commander?”

Sammy asked and Rahim replied, “Sayid.” Rahim said something else, and Sammy told us, “This was one of the men who died in the attack.”

Well, I guess that’s a dead end.

Brenner asked, “What was Sayid’s nationality?”

The answer was Iraqi.

The guard returned with a bottle of water that he threw on the mattress, and Rahim opened it and finished it in one long gulp.

Brenner asked a few more questions about Rahim’s comrades in arms. Bottom line, this platoon-sized unit of fighters really didn’t know each other’s full names, which was good security in the event one of them, such as Rahim, was captured. They did, however, know nationalities and some hometowns, and Brenner established that about half of them were Saudis—our good allies—and some were from Kuwait, the country that we liberated from Iraq in the first Gulf War. There were also a few recruits from neighboring Oman, a few from Egypt, and only five Yemenis—probably recovering khat chewers. Interestingly, most of the spiritual guides were from Saudi Arabia, and most of the military trainers and commanders were Iraqis, former members of the now-defunct Iraqi Army, who were currently employed by the group called Al Qaeda in Mesopotamia. Hey, you got a kill skill, you gotta sell it somewhere.

Anyway, Brenner, ex-soldier, then asked Military Intelligence–type questions about command structure, equipment, morale, and so forth, and he got some interesting information to pass on to the embassy military attaché. But we weren’t any closer to The Panther.

In fact, this interrogation, as we both knew, had some problems. Not only was time short, but Colonel Hakim of the Political Security Organization was listening to every word, so he’d know what we were looking for, and he could figure out what we already knew or didn’t know.

If these people were real allies, it wouldn’t matter much. But they weren’t. In fact, for all I knew, Colonel Hakim, and maybe the interpreter and the doctor, had a brother-in-law in Al Qaeda. I remember having the same problems with interrogations in Aden.

Considering all that, Brenner and I had to do a balancing act. This was probably our only shot at the prisoner, and we had to maximize the opportunity without giving away too much to our allies. Or our enemies. On the other hand, we did want Al Qaeda to know one thing—John Corey was looking for The Panther from Perth Amboy.

Brenner now put on his cop hat and said to Sammy, “Tell Rahim that if he continues to answer truthfully, the Americans will assist in returning him to his home.”

Sammy glanced at Hakim, who nodded, and Sammy passed on Brenner’s kind bullshit. I mean, Rahim was an Al Qaeda jihadist who just attacked an American-owned oil facility, so he had a better chance of being repatriated by the Yemenis than by Americans—and if Rahim ever wound up on American soil, the place would be called Guantanamo. But the offer must have sounded sincere to the desperate Rahim, and he nodded vigorously.

Brenner then asked, “Did any of your companions or commanders ever live in America?”

Sammy asked the question, and Rahim seemed to hesitate, then replied. Sammy said to us, “He says one of his companions, Anwar, the Egyptian, lived for a time in America. He also says he had heard that a high commander once lived in America.”

Brenner was smart enough not to ask a quick follow-up question and changed the subject. He asked, “Did you receive any assistance or information from any of the tribes in the Marib area?”

Rahim listened to the translation, then said something that Sammy translated as, “He says a sheik of the Yafi tribe—a local chieftain of that tribe—took money from Al Qaeda for safe passage and for the use of this Bedouin camp.”

It was interesting that Al Qaeda was able to make a deal with the local chief. All differences aside, money talks. Or, as Buck said in New York, favors were exchanged.

Brenner followed up with, “What else did this sheik provide?”

Sammy asked Rahim, then said to us, “He says the sheik provided food, guides, and information concerning the security of the American oil installation. He also says he and his comrades were told by their commanders that with this information, their attack would be successful.”

Rahim volunteered something else, which is always a good sign, and Sammy told us, “He says the American oil company security forces appeared to be expecting them, and he now believes that someone betrayed them to the Americans or to the Yemeni security forces.”

Hey, welcome to Yemen, Rahim. Only here we don’t call it betrayal, we call it business as usual. And it was probably the local sheik who was playing both ends of that business.

Brenner asked, “What is the name of this sheik?”

Sammy asked, but Rahim said he didn’t know.

Brenner said to me, “The Yafi are a large tribe around Marib, but like all tribes, they’re broken into many clans that sometimes take their name from their ancestral sheiks. So if we had this sheik’s name, we could identify the local tribe and maybe get a fix on this Al Qaeda camp.” Brenner then said to Colonel Hakim, “You should look into this.”

Hakim replied curtly, “Do not tell me what I should do.”

Ally or a*shole?

Brenner thought a*shole and explained to me, “The PSO doesn’t like to leave the safety of the cities.”

I thought Hakim was going to blow a gasket, but he controlled himself and said to us, “Five minutes.” He added, for the record, “The prisoner is sick and must rest.”

I pointed out, “The doctor said he was doing great.”

“Five minutes.”

Brenner said to me, “Your turn.”

Okay. As I said, I like to soften up the prisoner with personal questions and sports talk, but we had a big cultural divide here, and I had about four minutes, so I went right for the big enchilada and asked a typical leading question. “When was the last time you saw Bulus ibn al-Darwish—al-Numair?”

Rahim’s puffy eyes opened wide even before the translation.

Sammy translated, and I could see that Rahim was struggling with his response. Finally, he replied.

Colonel Hakim sat stone-faced as he listened to Rahim, and Brenner was nodding as though he understood every word—or at least every third word.

Finally Sammy translated, “He says… al-Numair—The Panther—was present on the evening of the attack. Last night. Al-Numair spoke to the fighters and assured them they would be victorious. They prayed together… then al-Numair entered a vehicle and drove away.”

I exchanged glances with Brenner, then I asked a standard police question. “What kind of vehicle? What color?”

Sammy asked, then told us, “He says it appeared to be a Toyota Hilux. White.”

Brenner informed me, “A very common SUV in Yemen. And ninety percent of the vehicles in this country are white.”

“I noticed.” So The Panther was tooling around in a commonly used vehicle, which was no surprise. But what was surprising was that he seemed to have safe passage in this tribal area.

I asked, “How many vehicles were with him?”

The answer was five, and Sammy said they were all white SUVs, though Rahim couldn’t be certain of their makes or models.

I asked another standard police question. “What was al-Numair wearing?”

The answer was traditional North Yemen clothing—a white fouteh, and a shiwal on his head. No Jersey Shore T-shirt. The Panther, it seemed, was returning to his roots.

I tapped my dagger and asked, “Jambiyah?”

Sammy didn’t have to translate, and Rahim nodded and said, “Jambiyah.”

“Facial hair?”

Yes. A long black beard.

“What was his general appearance? Sick? Healthy? Heavy, thin?”

Sammy asked and said to me, “Rahim believes this man looked healthy. But very thin.”

I asked, “Does Rahim know that Bulus ibn al-Darwish is an American citizen?”

Sammy seemed surprised at that, though Rahim did not. Sammy said to me, “He has heard this. But did not know if it was true.”

In a normal interrogation, I’d now mention the big reward and ask, “Where is he hiding?” But I was sure that Rahim didn’t know. Not even for five million bucks. And if he did know, and if he told us, it wouldn’t be the Americans who got there first. In fact, it would probably be someone telling The Panther to beat feet. Or if the Yemeni Army gave it a try, they wouldn’t necessarily ask us to help, and left to their own proven incompetence, The Panther would get away.

So instead of “Where is he hiding?” I asked, “Where and when is the next attack?”

Sammy translated and Rahim replied. Sammy said to me, “There was talk in the camp of attacks on the oil pipeline between Marib and As-Salif, attacks on oil engineers, aid workers, and Western tourists.” He added, “And talk of an attack on the American Embassy.”

This was hardly hot news, and I doubted if a low-level jihadist had any specific times or places for these attacks. I thought of young Mr. Longo and his planned excursion to see the temples of Marib. Maybe he should just visit the website of the Yemeni Tourist Board, click onto Marib, and call it a day.

Remembering that The Panther got his big start in Yemen with the Cole attack in Aden Harbor, and knowing that criminals sometimes return to the scene of their crimes, I asked another leading question. “What is al-Numair’s target in Aden?”

Rahim seemed to understand the question before it was translated and replied in Arabic to Sammy.

I heard the word “Sheraton,” which was not the word I wanted to hear.

Sammy said to me, “The Sheraton Hotel. He says he was told there are many American soldiers and police in the hotel… infidels on sacred Islamic soil… He says his companions who did not participate in the attack on the American oil installation are now traveling to Aden. But he has no further knowledge of this.”

I said to Brenner, “That might be interesting information to anyone planning to stay at the Sheraton in Aden.”

Brenner did not respond.

Colonel Hakim said, “Your time is finished.”

I ignored him and said directly to Rahim, “Thank you for your cooperation. If you continue to cooperate with the Americans, we will do everything possible to help you return to your home.”

Sammy didn’t translate, and Hakim stood and said, “It is finished.”

As I suspected, Rahim, like most educated Saudis, actually understood a little English, and he probably enjoyed contraband American DVDs—maybe The Sopranos or Sex and the City, and he said to me, “Please, sir. Help me. I help you.”

I looked at Rahim sitting against the wall, his eyes on me. If he got sprung, I wondered if he’d go home and get his life together, or if he’d rejoin the fight. About twenty-five percent of the jihadists released from Guantanamo had turned up again on the battlefields of Afghanistan. And others had been rearrested for terrorist activities in Saudi Arabia, Iraq, and Europe. I wasn’t sure about Rahim, but from experience I know that all prisoners are sorry for what they’ve done. Once freed, however, they’re only sorry they got caught.

Maybe Rahim was different. But even if he was, he didn’t join Al Qaeda to promote world peace. And he didn’t go to the American oil installation looking for a job; he went there knowing he was going to kill people. And if his jihadists had overrun the facility, they’d have killed everyone in it—American and European civilians, security people, Yemeni workers, and anyone else who lived or worked there. It didn’t turn out that way, but it could have. And now Rahim was sorry.

“Please to help me. I help you.”

I turned and left.