The Panther

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT


We spent a few minutes exploring our accommodations, discovering a crate of bottled water and a sack of flatbread.

Chet excused himself to go up to the mafraj to make a sat-phone call, probably to his station chief in Sana’a, or maybe mission control in Washington. Also, he’d want to speak to the Predator ground control station, which could be anywhere in the world. And while he was doing all that, he might as well have a little chew.

Zamo was in his sniper mode, going from window to window, sighting his rifle and nightscope at the surrounding terrain. He let us know, “Great perch. But too many rocks down there for cover and concealment. But no concealment between the rocks.”

Zamo saw life through a telescopic sight. Someone else would see a nice view. Position determines perspective.

Kate and I looked out a window into the courtyard below. The six Bedouin who’d driven us here were apparently staying with the two Bedouin who’d been here watching the van, and I could see them all in the fading moonlight sitting in a circle on a carpet that they’d rolled out. They seemed to be brewing tea on a camp stove and chatting away.

Chet returned and informed us, “Predators report no unusual or suspicious activity in the area.”

I guess Chet told them that the eight Bedouin they saw in the courtyard were on our side. The problem with aerial reconnaissance, no matter how sophisticated, was that it couldn’t read minds or hearts and couldn’t predict intentions. That’s where human intelligence—HUMINT—came in. The problem with human intelligence, however, was that not all Homo sapiens were sapient.

Brenner, who was our security guy, said, “It’s only a few hours to first light. So I suggest we stay awake, and at first light we’ll post two lookouts, and sleep in shifts.”

Everyone, I was sure, was sleep-deprived, but you gotta do what you gotta do to avoid the Big Sleep.

There was a carpet laid out near our sleeping area, which I guess was the living room, and Buck suggested we sit.

Kate and Brenner brought over some bottled water and the sack of bread.

So we sat cross-legged, drank water, and passed around the flatbread, which Buck said was called tawwa, which must mean “fresh last week.”

Chet didn’t seem particularly hungry or tired and I guessed he had a chew in the mafraj. Maybe there was something to this stuff. Chet asked if we minded if he smoked, reminding us half-jokingly, “We could all be dead tomorrow anyway.” Well, if you put it like that, Chet…

Zamo chose to pull guard duty and he extinguished all the lanterns except one near the carpet, then he began walking from window to window with his nightscope, while also keeping an eye on the stairwell.

When Zamo was on the far side of the room, I said to Brenner, “I think his arm is hurting.”

Brenner replied, “He’s taking Cipro.”

It’s times like this when you realize you need a good-looking female doctor.

We chatted a minute about Sheik Musa and the Bedouin tribesmen, and Buck, the old Arabist, told us, “The Yemeni Bedouin are the most romanticized of any people in the Mideast, and they are also the most feared and the least understood.”

Now you tell us.

Buck continued, “In semi-desert regions like Marib province, the distinction between the traditional nomadic Bedouin, who herd goats and ride camels, and the Bedouin who are settled farmers is becoming blurred.” He explained, “Decades of drought and centuries of war and climate change have caused the settled Bedouin to return to a nomadic way of life.” He further informed us, “Marib is the cradle of Yemeni civilization, and in ancient times it was more green and more populated. Now that the desert has arrived, the population is regressing to a pre-agricultural nomadic survival mode.”

Chet, not a big fan of Arabs in general, said, “On all levels of society, these people are clinging more to their Korans, their guns, and to Sharia law.”

Buck agreed, and said, “South Yemen in the seventies was becoming an open and enlightened society. The British and the Russians had left their mark on the educated Yemenis, but that’s all gone.”

Along with the brewery.

“There is oil here,” Buck also informed us, “but the Bedouin see virtually no money from this oil, and they resent that. Tourism could bring in revenue, but some tribes are hostile to foreigners, and the security situation has been made worse by Al Qaeda.” He added, “Marib is economically depressed, politically unstable, socially unraveling, and it’s becoming an ecological disaster as the desert encroaches.”

I suggested, “This would be a good time for you to buy this fort cheap.”

Buck smiled, then admitted, “Those of us who dream of a better Yemen—and a better Mideast—are fooling ourselves.”

Chet said, “The only thing keeping the Mideast alive is oil. When that runs out, it’s back to the Middle Ages here. Forever.”

Buck advised, “Be careful what you wish for. When the oil runs out here, it runs out at your local gas station. But in any case, you see what the situation is here in Marib, and we are trying to… let’s say manage this instability to further American interests.” He confessed, “It’s about the oil—and Al Qaeda is not good for oil exploration, oil recovery, and oil pipelines. The tribes would be more helpful with eliminating Al Qaeda if the Sana’a government was fair to them, but this idiot Ali Abdullah Saleh is stealing the oil from the tribal lands and keeping the money. Al Qaeda promises to share the wealth, which is why they’re tolerated by the tribes. So we need to do a delicate balancing act between the government, the tribes, and the Saudis, who are in conflict with the Yemeni government over the oil and most other matters.”

Chet said, “But first we have to wipe out Al Qaeda, who is a new player. And a new problem.”

Buck agreed, then informed us, “Sheik Musa is a particular enemy of President Saleh and the government.”

“And why is that?” I asked.

“Because,” Buck replied, “Musa is strongly allied with the Saudi royal family, Musa has blown up a few pipelines to the coast, Musa demands millions in oil revenue, and Musa has defied the central government on every issue and at all levels. Also, Musa is a rallying figure for the other sheiks who are looking for a strong leader to unite them against the central government.”

In other words, Sheik Musa was on President Saleh’s hit list. And one of those thoughts in the back of my mind now became clear—Bulus ibn al-Darwish might not be the only chief who was going to die in that Hellfire attack. This was what Buck was talking about in New York.

Everyone else seemed to be thinking this too, but no one had any comment.

Chet, who also had to know about this—he had operational control of the Predator drones—said, “Some things that we do may not seem right, but we do what is best for our country.” He added, “There is a bigger picture.”

There always is in this game.

Buck expanded on that and said, “We need the cooperation of the Yemeni government in our war against Al Qaeda, and President Saleh needs a favor.”

Got it. This was a two-fer. We get rid of Musa for the Yemeni government, and the Yemeni government lets the Americans mount an operation in Marib using Hellfire missiles to get rid of The Panther. The Panther deserved whatever he got from us, but Sheik Musa, even if he was a double-dealer, did not necessarily deserve to die in an American Hellfire attack.

I suggested, “This might not be a nice way to repay Sheik Musa for his assistance and his hospitality.”

Buck shrugged, then said, “Accidents happen—which we will explain to the Saudis.” He assured us, “If we kill The Panther, the sheik’s family and tribesmen will get the five million dollars.”

“The late sheik would have been happy to know that.”

Kate, who was processing all this, said to Buck and Chet, “You owed us this information before we got here.”

Buck replied, “You had the information in New York. You should have come to the conclusion.”

Brenner, the former soldier who’d probably killed more bad guys than all of us put together—except for Zamo—said, “I’ve killed soldiers in ambushes who were just walking along and were not an immediate threat to me, but I’ve never killed anyone who was helping me.”

Chet replied, a bit sharply, “You are not killing anyone.” He added, however, “This was not part of my plan, but it is now part of my orders.” Chet further reminded us, “I don’t need your cooperation or your approval. I just need your silence.”

Buck said nicely, “We’ve given you this information as a courtesy. You, John, Kate, and Paul, are professionals and you’re intelligent enough to see that we are playing the long game. The goal here is to wipe out Al Qaeda in Yemen, and to avenge the Cole, and also to avenge 9/11 and all the other Al Qaeda attacks on Americans and American interests—and other Western interests—and to keep Yemen from becoming a staging area for Al Qaeda attacks against our country.”

Don’t forget the oil.

Buck continued, “We may not like President Saleh, but he’s all we’ve got between us and Al Qaeda in Yemen.”

Right. So what’s one dead Bedouin sheik? I don’t even know the guy. Still, it sucked.

Also, this new information explained why Chet was not concerned about a possible run-in with Colonel Hakim and his PSO. The fix was in, and the government in Sana’a was giving us a free hand to deal with The Panther if we would also deal with Sheik Musa while we were at it.

So every time I got a new piece of information, something that didn’t make sense made sense. It was like peeling layers off an onion; you keep seeing more onion, and the onion gets smaller. And at the center is something you probably don’t want to see. But I don’t think I’ve gotten there yet.

I said to Chet, and to Buck, “I’m assuming the sheik is not going to get vaporized at the same time as The Panther. Correct?”

Chet replied, “Correct. But soon after we’re safely out of here.”

Right. We can’t be here in the van watching Sheik Musa getting blown up by a Hellfire while the sheik’s Bedouin tribesmen are here watching us, and maybe speaking on their cell phones to their Bedouin buddies, who are with Musa at the scene of the attack. Like, “Hello, Abdul, an American Hellfire just landed on our sheik.”

Also, the Bedouin at the scene of the attack needed to finish off the Al Qaeda guys. And we needed to drive from here to the scene of the carnage and collect bits and pieces of The Panther and his lieutenants before we jumped on the Otter.

I asked, “How do you explain this terrible accident to the Saudis?”

Chet gave me a straightforward CIA answer. “You have no need to know that.”

Buck assured us, “I’m personally unhappy about having to… sacrifice Sheik Musa, but Chet and I wanted you to understand why there will be no interference from the Yemeni security forces.”

Chet said, “We’re also telling you about this because you may be asked about this someday. John, you, Kate, and Paul don’t know anything about what happened after you left Marib.”

I didn’t reply. But it occurred to me that Chet, by telling us not to say anything after we got out of here, was also saying that if we didn’t promise to keep our mouths shut, we might not get out of here. Or was I getting paranoid again?

Something didn’t smell right here, and I needed to talk this over with Kate and Brenner as we’d agreed back in Aden. Meanwhile, I said to Chet, “Okay. I understand.” I looked at Kate and she understood, too, and said, “I’m all right with this.”

Brenner got the drift and said, “Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.”

Chet nodded, then stood and went to his duffel bag and retrieved a bottle of Hennessy cognac. Good move, Chet.

He passed the bottle around and we all took a swig, then passed it again.

The sky outside the east-facing windows was starting to get light, and I could hear birds singing. A black crow perched on a windowsill, then flew in and walked cautiously toward us.

Chet broke off a piece of bread and threw it toward the bird, who went right for it. Don’t shoot the bird, Chet.

More crows arrived and more bread was tossed, and the cognac kept making the rounds.

The dawn came, which was one of the few things you could rely on in Yemen, along with death.

Kate and I volunteered for the first guard shift and we relieved Zamo, who literally hit the hay and was quickly asleep with his boots on and his rifle across his chest.

Buck, Chet, and Brenner also lay down with their guns and boots on, and Buck said to everyone, “We leave here for the Bilqis Hotel about one P.M. Then we go to the ruins.” He assured us, “You’ll enjoy the ruins.”

I’m sure the Belgians enjoyed them, too, except for that problem.

I went to an east-facing window and watched the flat, distant horizon growing lighter.

Somewhere out there was Bulus ibn al-Darwish. It was hard to believe that this weirdo loser from Perth Amboy had come all the way here to metamorphose into The Panther.

And harder to believe I’d come all the way here to find and kill him.

In a day or two we’d see whose life journey had come to an end.