The Panther

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN


Kate wanted to go down to the pool, so, good husband that I am, I said I’d keep her company. Also, Clare was in the pool, but that had nothing to do with my decision.

Our rooms here are considered secure, so we were able to leave our rifles in the room, but we locked our papers in the safe, as per regulations. We did need to take our sat-phones, radios, and handguns, which we stuffed in the pockets of our bathrobes, and we took the elevator to the lobby and went out to the pool.

Buck and Brenner were also there, as was Howard, and they got out of the pool, along with Clare.

I should mention here that pool attire for gentlemen was long bathing trunks or shorts, and a T-shirt. For women it was long shorts and a long, loose T-shirt. And that’s about as risqué as it got at any of the hotels or beaches in Yemen. So if I was looking forward to seeing Clare in a bikini—and why would I be?—I would be disappointed.

Clare, however, still looked good in a wet T-shirt. In fact…

“John.”

“Yes, dear?”

“We’re sitting over there.”

“Right.”

We all sat around a table under an umbrella and ordered a pitcher of iced tea. There was no sea breeze from the gulf, and it was hot.

A few Western tourists swam in the pool or lay on chaises, but there weren’t any Mideastern guests at the pool, and there never would be. Not that I was dying to see Abdul or Afiya in shorts and T-shirts, but it might do them some good to get a little sun on their skin—vitamin D—and learn how to swim. Or am I being culturally insensitive again?

Anyway, we all chatted awhile and drank iced tea, which is as bad a drink as anyone ever invented.

Buck, holding court, said, “Local legend says that the graves of Cain and Abel are located here in the Ma’alla quarter of the city.”

I had an old homicide sergeant who claimed he worked that case.

Buck further informed us, “The Yemenis also believe that this is where Noah’s Ark sailed from.”

Lucky for life on earth that suicide bombers didn’t blow a hole in its side.

Buck concluded, “The Yemenis like to appropriate history from the Old and New Testaments and move it here.” He added, “The American Mormons have also speculated that some of their history began here.”

Yeah? Why here? Maybe because the great truth about Yemen was that it was the land of lies and half-truths. As I was discovering.

“I never thought I’d say this,” Buck confided to us, “but this place was better under the Yemeni Communists.” He explained, “They were secular, and they kept the fundamentalist Muslims in line—with Russian help.” He added, “Now that South Yemen is dominated by the north, it is slipping back into fundamentalism.”

On a more important topic, Clare had put on her bathrobe. Which has nothing to do with anything. Why did I even mention that?

Buck informed us, “I was here in January 1986, when the thirty-day civil war devastated Aden. Thousands were killed, and I was almost one of them.”

He got a faraway look in his eyes, then continued, “The war of 1994 was particularly devastating. This city was under siege for two months and the water pumping facilities were destroyed and people were dying of thirst.”

Kate asked him, “Did you stay in the city?”

“I did, and I sent radio reports to the State Department…” He let us know, however, “I had several months’ supply of Seera beer put away for such a situation.” He informed us, “The Seera brewery was built by the British, and it supplied the whole country with beer. But when the North Yemenis took the city, they blew up the brewery.” He added, “Bastards.”

That got a chuckle. But it was also a hint of what went on here not too long ago. And also a hint of what Buck Harris had experienced here over the years. I had no doubt that this man was a dedicated professional. What troubled me, though, was his profession. I have a thing about intelligence officers, no matter what alphabet agency they work for. I mean, they do a necessary job, and I respect what they do, but if you’re not one of them, you can wind up on their expendable list, as Buck himself had confessed in vino veritas.

On that subject, I was still waiting for our CIA guy to show himself, and my instincts said it would be soon.

We were all baking in the heat, so we unrobed and dove into the pool, which was warm as bathwater.

Everyone, I assumed, had a gun and extra magazines in their bathrobes, and the staff knew that and stayed away from our table. Also, as per my last visit here, there was a Marine sniper on the roof keeping an eye on the pool and beach. Every resort hotel should have a sniper on the roof. Helps you relax.

Anyway, after about a half hour of pool frolics, I suggested a beach volleyball game, admitting, “I got very good at this when I was here.”

We carried our bathrobes down to the beach and hung them on the net pole, then chose up sides: Buck, Clare, and me against Brenner, Kate, and Howard.

We played best out of five, and I seemed to be the only one who knew how to play the game. My team swept the first three, with me as the high scorer, of course. Hey, I played this stupid game for forty days. That’s why I suggested it.

Brenner, I noticed, was a competitive player, and not a very good loser. Neither am I, which is why I play games I can win.

Buck suggested a walk on the beach, so we asked one of the Marines to watch our backs and watch our robes and guns, and we all went down to the water. As I said, naked on the beach in Yemen means you don’t have your gun.

Howard announced, “I want to take a swim. Who’s coming in with me?”

How could I resist saying, “Do you know why sharks don’t eat lawyers? Professional courtesy.”

Okay, old joke, but it got a laugh because of the immediate proximity of the lawyer and the sharks.

Brenner, of course, took the challenge, and I did, too, but Kate said, “John, I don’t want you—any of you—to go in.”

Buck informed us, “It’s very dangerous.”

Well, that settled it. Howard, Brenner, and I ran into the surf and dove in. The gulf was calm, the salt water was buoyant, and the tide was running out, so it was an easy swim, even with the weight of our heavy shorts and T-shirts.

We got about a hundred yards out when I spotted two gray dorsal fins about twenty feet away. Holy shit.

Howard said hopefully, “Could be dolphins.”

I suggested, “Tell them the lawyer joke and when they laugh we can see if they have sharp teeth.”

Anyway, we headed for shore and made it back to the shallow water, where Buck, Kate, and Clare stood waist-deep in the surf watching us set a swim speed record.

Buck asked, “Sharks?”

I replied, “I didn’t ask.”

We all waded ashore, and Kate said to me sharply, “We didn’t come all the way here and survive an ambush so you could get eaten by a shark.”

“Yes, dear.”

Brenner was probably rethinking his infatuation with Kate Mayfield. My rule is, if you’re thinking of having an affair with a married woman, first see how she treats her husband.

Anyway, we all decided that the pool was safer, but before we began our walk up the beach, I saw Buck looking at a guy who was standing about thirty feet away at the water’s edge, smoking a cigarette and staring out at the sea.

I had the impression that Buck knew this guy and knew he would be there.

Buck said to Clare and Howard, “You go ahead. We’ll join you later.”

So we were about to meet our last teammate.