The Panther

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO


Cocktails were in the embassy’s atrium lobby, and this was for staff only, not an embassy reception, which would be held in the more formal parlor.

The unstated reason for this free alcohol was that the new ambassador had not yet arrived, and this was everyone’s last chance to get snockered before he showed up.

And if we needed another reason for the taxpayers to buy us a drink, this was a welcome party for the two new legal attachés, FBI Special Agent Howard Fensterman and FBI Special Agent Kate Mayfield, a.k.a. Mrs. Corey. And, I guess, it was a hello party for me, too, though I wasn’t on staff here, and I’d be saying good-bye shortly.

I suspected that there were not many social demands on the American Embassy staff in Sana’a, nor were there more interesting things for them to do in Yemen on a weekend, so I was sure most of them were here tonight.

The size of an embassy staff is classified, but I’ll say we had three bartenders, and six Yemeni men passing hors d’oeuvres. Hopefully, the Marines or the Diplomatic Security Service had checked them all out for suicide belts.

None of the Marines were in attendance, except for the two officers, a captain, and a young lieutenant who told me he’d served in Afghanistan. I asked him, “Would you rather be here or Afghanistan?”

He replied without hesitation, “Afghanistan,” explaining, “There you know you’re in a combat zone, and so does everyone around you. Here, everyone around you—the civilians—pretend there’s no war, and that’s dangerous.”

“Right.” Which was probably not much different than the mind-set in the presidential palace and the government ministries. Except now and then, reality intruded into the deep bunkers of denial.

I looked around at the embassy people, who were nicely dressed, sipping cocktails and chatting. This could have been anywhere in the civilized world, including New York. But outside the guarded walls was another world that had absolutely nothing in common with this world. Except, to be optimistic, a shared humanity, a love of children and family, a hope for peace, prosperity, health, and happiness, and a belief in a higher being who was loving and kind—except when he got pissed off and sent plagues and floods to get rid of everyone.

Kate was making the rounds, getting to know her new colleagues, who actually would never see her again. I chatted with people who came up to me and welcomed me to Yemen. Everyone seemed to know I was going to Aden with the FBI Evidence Response Team, and that my stay in Sana’a would be short. Interestingly, no one wanted to know anything about the Cole investigation. I think the dips put a distance between themselves and those men and women who used the cover of the embassy for other kinds of work.

Among those who did that kind of work was the military attaché, a.k.a. the Military Intelligence officer, who introduced himself to me as Colonel Drew Kent, U.S. Army, a tall, middle-aged man in mufti. His job here, he informed me, was challenging, but fulfilling. A few minutes later he modified that a bit and said, “The Yemeni Army is a friggin’ joke. The unwilling led by the incompetent. Ill-paid, ill-equipped, ill-trained, and unmotivated.”

“But are they good?”

He thought that was funny and advised me, “If you need to depend on them to provide security for your work—whatever it is—make sure you watch your back and sleep with your boots on and your gun handy. Better yet, stay awake.”

I asked him, “How about the National Security Bureau?”

“You mean the blue clowns? Half police force, half tourist protection service, and all corrupt. They don’t have a clear mission or a clear chain of command. They’re used and abused by the politicians to further their own agendas. If you need to rely on them for security, make sure you pay them well—half up front, half if you get back alive.”

I hoped Matt Longo knew all that. I inquired, “How much is well?”

“About two dollars per man, per day. Extra if they have to fire their rifles.”

“Sounds reasonable.”

He informed me, “The blue clowns did a disappearing act on a bunch of Belgian tourists last August. At the Marib ruins.”

“Really? What happened to the tourists?”

“They disappeared, too. Maybe kidnapped, but no one has heard from them.”

“I hope they’re all right.”

“Don’t bet on it. Their Yemeni guide and their bus driver were found with their throats slit.”

Ouch. I didn’t remember hearing about this, but bad news out of Yemen wasn’t big news in the States unless it had to do with Americans. I mean, I’d been surprised to discover there were over a hundred Westerners kidnapped in the last ten years, mostly Europeans. Now and then you’d hear about tourists being killed, sometimes in a crossfire between Yemeni security forces and tribal kidnappers. But what Colonel Kent was describing didn’t sound like a tribal kidnapping.

I asked him, “Could that have been an Al Qaeda attack?”

“That seems to be the consensus. But the Yemeni government plays down these incidents.” He let me know, “They like the tourism. In fact, tours still go to the Marib ruins.”

“How many come back?”

On the subject of Marib as an exciting place, Colonel Kent said, “There was an Al Qaeda attack last night on the Hunt Oil installation north of Marib.”

“I heard.”

“Did you?” He continued, “Hunt hires its own security force—mostly American and European mercenary types. Unfortunately, the NSB insists on being in on the arrangement—for money, of course. But as I said, you can’t trust them, so when the excrement starts to fly, you don’t know if the NSB has your back, or if they ran away, or if they joined the other team.” He concluded, “Tactically, it’s a damned nightmare.”

“Right. But the Al Qaeda guys were routed.”

“Luck. Or maybe the Hunt guys knew they were coming. Information is cheaper than a barrel of oil around here.” He added, “Maybe the Al Qaeda force was inept.”

I thought of Rahim and partly agreed. But I was also sure that the Al Qaeda guys were going to get better.

Colonel Kent said to me, “They got an Al Qaeda prisoner from the attack.”

I didn’t respond, so he asked me, “You know about that?”

“You know I do and that’s all I can say.”

He accepted that and advised me, “The Agency always knows more than they’re saying. If you’re FBI, which I guess you are, you’ll get more help from my office—Military Intelligence—than you’ll get from our Comrades In Arms.”

“Right.”

“And be aware that State Department Intelligence cozies up to the CIA more than they should.” He opined, “SDI should be working more with MI.”

Who’s on first? Anyway, Colonel Kent seemed to be a man of opinions, so I asked him, “What’s your opinion of the Political Security Organization?”

He replied, “Like any internal political security force, they can be nasty. In most countries in the Mideast, they’re called the Mukhabarat, which they were once called here. But that name has a lot of negatives attached to it—like the old KGB or the Gestapo—so they changed the name here. But it’s the same bunch of thugs. And as in every other dictatorship, people are frightened of them and people think they’re everywhere. Truth is, they’re not, but they promote fear and distrust.” He advised me, “Steer clear of them if you can. They answer to no one except the president and his inner circle.”

I wondered if they were hiring—or did I really want to be a warlord? Anyway, I asked Colonel Kent, “Do you know this PSO guy, Colonel Hakim?”

“Sure. Nasty thug. But not stupid.”

“Whose side is he on?”

“He’s on his side. He wants to keep his job and his high status no matter who wins. He’ll shoot an Al Qaeda captive one day, then let another one escape another day. He does the same with the tribal rebels. But someday he’s going to get a bullet in the head from one side or the other.”

I wouldn’t mind doing that myself. I asked him, “Who’s going to win here? The government, the al-Houthi rebels, the South Yemen separatists, or Al Qaeda?”

“Well… in the end, the tribes always win—if they can agree on a leader. This al-Houthi guy may be the one. There’s another one—a Bedouin sheik—in Marib who could unite the tribes. If not, I’d put my money on Al Qaeda.”

“Why?”

“Because they’re organized, disciplined, and they believe they are the future.”

“They’re the past.”

“That is the future.”

“Right.”

Then he said to me, sotto voce, “If you’re here to find The Panther, I wish you luck. But I’ll also tell you that it might be best in the long run if Al Qaeda won in Yemen.”

“Why?”

He explained, “This regime is broken. They’re the walking dead. If Al Qaeda wins, they control Sana’a, and the Saudis will find that intolerable, and the Saudis, with American military help, will unite the tribes and get rid of Al Qaeda in Yemen.” He informed me, “The Saudis have united the tribes before when they didn’t like the government in Sana’a, and also when the Communists took over in Aden. But first, Al Qaeda needs to be out in the open—in the presidential palace. In other words, the quickest way to win this war is to lose it. Follow?”

Maybe I needed another martini to follow this. But I think I got Colonel Machiavelli’s line of reasoning. I suggested, “So we get to fight a real land war with Al Qaeda as soon as they win here.”

“That’s it. Same as with the Taliban in Afghanistan.” He let me know, “Al Qaeda should be careful what they wish for.”

So should we.

Colonel Kent asked me, “What’s your clearance?”

“About six foot two inches.”

He smiled politely at the old joke and said, “I’ll tell you an open secret. Our goal here is to force the Yemeni government to sign a treaty giving us a ninety-nine-year lease on a big chunk of waterfront property near Aden. We need to do this before the government collapses. We need to build a land, sea, and air base for operations and refueling. An American Gibraltar. From there, we can control the Red Sea and the Gulf of Aden, and we’ll do it with a friendly government that we help install later, like the British did two hundred years ago when they grabbed Aden. We can mount operations against Al Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula and the Horn of Africa. And we can also wipe out the Somali pirates who are in league with Al Qaeda. Plus, we’d have a place other than Guantanamo and closer to the battlefields to warehouse and interrogate enemy combatants.” He got a dreamy look in his eyes and said, “Sweet.”

“Beautiful,” I agreed. Grand strategies and geo-politics always give me a little headache, but to be polite I said, “I like multi-purpose land use.” Maybe I could put my khat spa there.

Colonel Kent continued, “And while we’re at it, we can tell the Saudis to go f*ck themselves, and we can shut down our bases in Saudi Arabia before they tell us to get out.” He asked me, “Understand?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“And here’s the kicker. The biggest construction company in this part of the world is bin Laden Construction. Owned by that a*shole’s family. So we contract them to do some of the work.” He asked me, “See the irony?”

“I do. But watch the cost overruns.”

“Right.” He looked at me and said, “You didn’t hear any of that from me.”

“Correct.” I needed another drink, so I excused myself and headed for the bar.

On the way, I was intercepted by Brenner’s boss, the sometimes reverend Ed Peters, who asked me how my day went, and I told him I was disappointed about not seeing the donkey market.

He assured me it wasn’t that interesting, then asked me, “What did Colonel Kent have to say?”

Well, Colonel Kent reminded me a little of the general in Dr. Strangelove, but I didn’t want to share this thought with Ed Peters. I mean, I had no idea what the interpersonal relationships were here, or who thought who was a loon, or who was jockeying for position. As I said, everyone here seemed a little nuts to me, and my short-term goal was to get out of this embassy, find The Panther, whack him, and go home. In fact, Tom Walsh was looking very good to me right now.

I said to Ed Peters, “The colonel gave me a briefing about the Yemeni Army.”

“That’s always good for a laugh.”

“Right. We need more serious allies.”

“You won’t find any in this part of the world.” He shifted into diplomatic mode and said, “The irony is that the Yemenis are good people, and they could be good allies if they—or we—got rid of their government.”

“Let’s hope the people choose a better government in the next election.”

“This country is three thousand years old. There hasn’t been an election yet.” He changed the subject and said, “We’re using a five-vehicle convoy tomorrow. That should be all right.”

“I’m sure we can get away with three.”

“Five is better.”

How about twenty? I asked him, “Why don’t we fly?”

“We don’t trust Yemenia air. And we don’t have any of our own air assets here. I wish we did, but these idiots won’t let us bring in helicopters.”

“How about Spook Air?” Meaning the CIA air assets.

He replied, “I don’t know if anyone asked.”

“How about the C-17?”

“We like to have one sitting at Sana’a Airport in case we have to move the whole embassy out of here.”

“Good thinking.”

He explained, “When one C-17 comes in, the other leaves for the States, and the one that came in waits for another to arrive.”

“Got it.” I asked him, “Why don’t we charter an aircraft to take us to Aden?”

“We do that sometimes. But not this time.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know.”

Well, I did. We were driving to Aden because someone wanted to see if Al Qaeda snapped at the bait. Which reminded me, if I needed reminding, that Al Qaeda fighters were on the way to Aden, and I asked Peters, “How would you evacuate the American personnel at the Sheraton in Aden?”

“By ship.”

“Whose ship? And how do we get to it?”

“I’d try the backstroke.”

Why do I think he’s used this joke before? But it was funny, so I gave him a chuckle. But seriously.

He said, seriously, “My DSS counterpart in Aden, Doug Reynolds, will brief you.” He asked me, “What was your evacuation plan when you were in Aden last time?”

“I think it was the breaststroke.”

While I was wondering if I should mention that I’d just discovered that the Sheraton in Aden was in imminent danger of attack, Howard Fensterman came over to me, and Ed Peters excused himself. There seemed to be an unwritten rule here that conversations needed to be compartmentalized, so it was like a Shakespeare play where the actors entered, delivered their lines, then exited, making way for new actors who didn’t know what the last ones said, which usually led to some misunderstanding or troublemaking, which in turn led to someone getting whacked. That’s what happens when people don’t communicate. Right?

Anyway, Howard said to me, “You and Kate went into Sana’a today with Paul.”

“We did.”

“I would have joined you.”

“We thought you were attending the Catholic Mass at the Italian Embassy.”

He smiled, but he wasn’t amused. He said to me, “I have your satellite phone numbers and we’ll stay in touch when you’re on the road.”

“Why don’t you come to Aden with us?”

“I would, but I have a lot to do here to get this office up and running.” He informed me, “There was an attack last night on an American oil installation in a place called Marib.”

“I heard.”

“One suspect was captured. I’m trying to get permission from the Ministry of Justice to interview him.”

So do I tell him—been there, done that? He was the FBI legat, Kate’s supposed boss, but no one had told him that we’d been to Ghumdan. Who the hell was in charge here? And what was going on behind the scenes? For some reason I pictured Buck as the guy with all the strings in his hands, manipulating the whole puppet show.

I said to Howard, “You need to speak to Buck Harris about that.”

“I do? Why him?”

“Why not?”

Howard asked me, “What is his actual job here?”

“I don’t know. Protocol officer?”

Howard changed the subject and said to me, “I told Kate she needed to see me first thing tomorrow. I have the arrest warrant, a copy of the indictment, and instructions on how to effect a lawful arrest on a suspect in a foreign country who claims dual citizenship.” He also let me know, “You need to read him his Miranda rights, but you first need to establish that he understands English.”

“When can I kick him in the balls?”

He ignored me and said, “I also have all this in Arabic—the warrant, the indictment, and his Miranda warning for him to read and sign.”

“Howard, is this a joke?”

“No, it is not. This arrest will be made lawfully and properly, and it will stand up in an American court of law.”

Well, if I had any second thoughts about whacking The Panther, Howard just put them all to rest.

I said to him, “Brief Kate on all this.”

“I will. But I want you, as one of the likely arresting agents, to understand this.”

“Okay.”

He assured me, “I’m just trying to keep you from making a mistake that could jeopardize a Federal prosecution, and get you or us in trouble.”

“Thank you.”

“That’s what I’m here for.”

“Right.” I actually liked Howard, and I could see that he was bright enough to learn how the world really worked. After a few months in this place, he’d lose his idealism and his fine legal scruples and he’d be helping the PSO torture suspects in Ghumdan Prison. Well, maybe not. But like all of us who’ve been on the front lines too long, and all of us who lived through 9/11, Howard Fensterman would become a little more like the people we were fighting. Of that, I was sure.

Buck came over to us, and instead of Howard asking him about the captured terrorist—sorry, the suspect—Howard asked him, “What time are you leaving tomorrow?”

Buck replied, “Before eight A.M.” He explained to Howard and to me, “It’s about four hundred kilometers to Aden, and it can take anywhere from four to six hours. So we want to get there in time for the convoy to turn around and get back to Sana’a not too long after dark.” He further explained to us, “We’d rather the DSS agents not stay overnight in Aden, because we need those resources here.”

I thought we might need them more at the Sheraton.

I again suggested to Howard, “Come along for the ride. If we get ambushed, you can tell us when we can legally return fire.”

Even Howard laughed at that.

Buck said to Howard, “We have room, and we can always use another gun. We gather in the chancery parking lot at seven.”

Howard acknowledged that and exited stage left.

Buck asked me, “Were you giving him a hard time?”

“Not me.”

“He’s doing his job,” Buck assured me. “Unfortunately his job makes our job more difficult.”

“Not for me.”

Buck changed the subject and said, “Paul told me you learned a few things at Ghumdan.”

“We did. Our allies are a*sholes.”

“Did you learn anything you didn’t already know?”

“Maybe.” I informed Buck, “Howard didn’t know we were at Ghumdan.”

“Is that so? Did you tell him?”

“No. I told him to see you.”

“I’ll speak to him.” He added, “We’re not sure how the legat fits into this.”

“Let me know when you know.”

“I will.” He asked me, “What did you speak to Colonel Kent about?”

“The Yemeni Army.”

He let that go and asked, “What did you learn at Ghumdan?”

I never liked it when an NYPD boss wanted to debrief me without my partner present. There could be a misunderstanding. So I replied, “I think Paul wanted the four of us to discuss that.”

“Of course.” He asked me, “So how did you like Ghumdan?”

“It has a way to go to become a model penal institution.”

“I thought so, too.”

I asked him, “Were you there this morning?”

“No, but I’ve been there many times in the past.”

“When will we see the CIA report on their interrogation of the prisoner?”

“After it’s been seen by the station chief.”

I had not yet been introduced to the CIA station chief in Yemen, so I asked, “And who is that?”

“You don’t need to know.” Buck added, “And he doesn’t need to know you.”

I asked, “How many games are in town?”

“Several. But ours is the main game at the moment.” He added, “You ask good questions.”

That’s not what he meant, but I said, “Thank you.”

“Paul said Colonel Hakim was his charming self.”

“He was obstructing American justice.”

“That’s his job.”

I told him, “The fact is, if we had two or three hours alone with the prisoner, with an embassy interpreter, we’d know a lot more about Al Qaeda in Yemen than we do now.”

Buck replied, “If the situation were reversed—if it was your prisoner in New York, Detective Corey—would you allow a foreign policeman or intelligence officer to question him alone?”

Spoken like a true diplomat. But not a rhetorical question, so I replied, “You’re assuming some sort of equality, and there is none. We’re here to save the ass of a weak and corrupt government. The least they can do is get out of our way.”

Buck nodded, then informed me, “Sometimes they do. But as we say in the world of diplomacy, it’s about quid pro quo. We give them something, then they give us something.” He informed me, “I think it’s our turn to give them something. Aside from money.”

“Like what?”

“Well, as I told you in New York, they want our help to… neutralize some particularly aggressive and dangerous tribal leaders.”

“And?”

“And we’re reluctant to do that.”

“Why?”

“We want to keep the goodwill of the tribes.”

“I didn’t know we had their goodwill.”

“We do, but not directly. As I also explained to you, the tribes are culturally and historically closer to the monarchy in Saudi Arabia than they are to the republican government in Sana’a. And the Saudis are our allies, and our link to the tribes.”

“So we don’t want to vaporize tribal chieftains with our Hellfire missiles and piss off the Saudis.”

“Correct. But we might… neutralize a few sheiks and chieftains in exchange for the Sana’a government giving us more help in locating and eliminating Al Qaeda leaders.”

“Right. But they should do that anyway. It’s good for them, too.”

“That’s what we’re trying to explain to them, and believe me they know it, but they’re using our fixation with Al Qaeda to force us to use our Predator drones and Hellfire missiles against these tribal chieftains as well as the South Yemen separatists.”

“Got it. And round and round it goes.”

“Indeed it does.” He further explained to me, “It’s a delicate balancing act, and it all comes back to quid pro quo.”

“Got it.”

He returned to my complaint and said, “Regarding our interrogation of their prisoners, the PSO really doesn’t want us getting free information. They want to sell it to us. So if they give us some good information on The Panther, for instance, then they want us to give them a bucket of guts that used to be an annoying tribal sheik.”

The graphic imagery sort of surprised me, but it made me remember that Buck Harris was only ten percent diplomat, and ninety percent intelligence officer. In fact, in the good old Cold War days, Buck and his pals would have a cocktail and talk about the nuclear obliteration of hundreds of millions of people. Now the potential body count could be measured in terms of a bucket of guts. That’s progress.

On a more immediate subject, I said to him, “I assume Paul told you that the prisoner told us there are about forty jihadists on their way to Aden to attack the Sheraton.”

“Yes, Paul did mention that, and we’ve alerted our people there.”

“Good. Especially since we are going to be some of those people.” I suggested, “Maybe the Yemeni Army can intercept them.”

He informed me, “The Yemeni Army seems to have little luck in intercepting Al Qaeda fighters when they come out of the mountains.” He added, “We believe that Al Qaeda travels in small groups or individually, in civilian clothing, and they may even take public transportation. Buses, planes, hired vehicles.” He reminded me, “Men in Yemen with AK-47 rifles aren’t stopped and questioned because of the rifles. That would be like stopping men with umbrellas in London.”

Buck was getting three-martini clever, and I smiled.

He glanced at his watch and said to me, “We’re actually meeting Paul at eight upstairs. It’s that time.”

“I’ll get Kate.”

“I think she’s already there.”

“All right.” So we ditched our drinks, went to the elevator, rode up to the third floor, and made our way to the secure communications room.

Interesting cocktail party.