The Panther

CHAPTER SIXTY


At 1:15 P.M., the A-team, minus Chet Morgan, piled into our two Toyota Hiluxes, compliments of Sheik Musa. We left most of our personal items in the Crow Fortress because we’d be coming back later today as kidnapped Americans, also compliments of Sheik Musa. But we did take our overnight bags with us for when we checked into the Bilqis Hotel for a few days of sightseeing fun, cut short, unfortunately, by the above-mentioned kidnapping.

The purpose here, according to Chet’s complex plan, was to make it appear that we were tourists driving in from Sana’a. And at the same time, we were obviously not tourists, so therefore we were Americans on a mission. Hopefully our arrival would come to the attention of The Panther, who would conclude, correctly, that his former compatriots were here to kill or capture him. The Panther, in turn, would make plans of his own to kill or capture us. But before he could do that, a third player—Sheik Musa—would upset The Panther’s plan by doing what the Bedouin do best: kidnapping foreigners for ransom. And the first person who was offered the chance to buy the Americans would be The Panther. The Panther, theoretically, would not smell a setup or a trap because it would appear that Sheik Musa just happened to get wind of the American presence and was taking advantage of an opportunity.

And that’s the way the CIA thinks. It’s not the way I think—I’m a bit more direct and a lot less into the smoke and mirrors that the CIA loves. But, hey, it’s their show and Yemen is the stage, so maybe they’ve got this one right. We will see.

Anyway, in my overnight bag, if you’re interested, I’d packed some bottled water, a can of tuna, and yesterday’s boxer shorts. Also, Chet had provided each of us with a toilet kit to complete the appearance of overnight visitors from Sana’a.

We were carrying our concealed sidearms, we wore our Kevlar, and our M4s were across our laps. Kate also wore her black scarf so she could cover her hair and face when appropriate, like when she was kidnapped by Muslim gentlemen who would be offended to see her face.

The three Bedouin Land Cruisers that had taken us to the Crow Fortress would now provide a discreet escort for us to the town of Marib, to prevent a real kidnapping—or assassination—by someone else. Two of the Land Cruisers had gone ahead to check out the road, and the third would trail behind. And if anyone noticed the Bedouin’s SUVs, they would or should appear to be stalking us, not protecting us.

The two Bedouin who’d been here watching the Predator fish van when we’d arrived were staying here to hold down the fort, literally, and to provide security for Chet. I hoped they didn’t cut his throat. We needed Chet to talk to the Predator pilots.

As for CCC—Command, Control, and Communication—the Bedouin had provided Chet, Buck, and Brenner with local cell phones so the convoy could stay in touch if a security situation arose. Also, we had our hand-held radios for point-to-point contact with one another, and our sat-phones, though they’d work only if we had clear sky, meaning not in the vehicles, unless we had our heads out the window.

The order of march was: Hilux One, Buck driving and Zamo riding shotgun; Hilux Two, Brenner driving, me riding shotgun, and Kate in the rear.

We gave the two lead Bedouin Land Cruisers a five-minute head start, then Chet wished us a safe drive to Marib, a nice day at the ruins, and a pleasant kidnapping. Chet thought that was funny. He waved good-bye, then stepped into the van, where he could watch us getting abducted as he ate a can of tuna.

Buck and Zamo pulled out of the courtyard, and Brenner, Kate, and I followed.

Buck didn’t head back to the steep ravine we’d come up, but headed north and west across the plateau, following the tire tracks of the two Land Cruisers ahead of us, whose raised dust we could see in the distance. Follow that Bedouin.

The gray, rocky plateau looked like the video images from the first moon walk. This place could use another forty days and forty nights of rain.

Brenner said to Kate and me, “I’ve been thinking about this thing with Sheik Musa.”

I asked, “You mean about us killing Sheik Musa?”

“Yes.” He admitted, “I see the reason for it. But I don’t like it.”

“Neither will Sheik Musa,” I assured him. But the sheik would know the reason for it.

“Aside from the ethical issues, there are practical issues,” said Mr. Brenner.

“You mean like, how do we explain to the Saudis that we whacked their Bedouin ally?”

“Yes, not to mention that the Bedouin here in Marib and elsewhere may not want to do business with us in Yemen ever again.” He let us know, “They have long memories and they hold grudges for about a thousand years.”

I said, “Maybe Washington has figured out a way to make Sheik Musa’s death look like an accident or that someone else did it.”

Brenner replied, “Assuming we use a Hellfire missile on Musa, that reduces the possible murder suspects to one. Us.”

“Right. But it’s not murder. It’s termination with extreme prejudice, in CIA lingo.” I added, “Sounds better.”

Kate, who’s been hanging around me too long, said wisely, “When you see a double cross, look for a triple cross.”

Brenner agreed with Ms. Mayfield and added, “As we said in Aden, let’s keep an eye on this and talk to each other.”

Paul Brenner was a good guy, a former cop, and a straight shooter. True, he seemed to have Restless Dick Syndrome, but, hey, we all have a little of that. I wondered what Clare was doing now. Probably floating in the pool with Howard. How did I get from Paul Brenner to Clare Nolan? Could I have RDS?

Anyway, it was interesting that the three of us didn’t completely trust the two intelligence officers. Comes with the territory, I guess, though we were all on the same team. Whatever lies we were told and whatever information Chet and Buck withheld was based on the strong principle of need-to-know. If we needed to know, we’d be told when the time came, and if we never needed to know, we’d never know. And what we didn’t know couldn’t be gotten out of us if we were captured—or worse, interrogated by a congressional committee. And what we don’t know can’t hurt us. Wait. Let’s back up on that one.

Anyway, Kate, Brenner, and I were now on the same page, and we had our antennae up, to mix metaphors.

Brenner’s Bedouin-issued cell phone rang and he answered and listened. Are you allowed to drive while talking on your phone in Yemen? I guess if you’re allowed to fire assault rifles out your window, you can talk on your phone.

Brenner hung up and said, “That was Buck seeing if these cell phones actually worked.”

“Good thinking,” I agreed. Not that we didn’t trust Sheik Musa; it was the Yemen Telephone Company that could be the problem. Especially here. Lots of dead zones. Also, I wondered how the Bedouin paid their phone bills.

Brenner informed us, “Buck said he got a cell phone call from Chet saying Predators report no suspicious activity ahead.”

Didn’t they say that on the road to Aden?

The north side of the plateau, as I saw on the Predator monitor, was a gradual slope, and Buck followed the rutted track as it descended into the flatlands. I could see a road in the distance, a few vehicles, houses, and cultivated areas.

Halfway down the slope, I spotted a white SUV parked behind a big rock formation, and as we got closer I saw four men with AK-47s sitting on the rocks. Obviously they were Sheik Musa’s men, guarding this approach to the fortress as promised. Our two lead escort vehicles had apparently sailed right past these guys, so everyone was in the same tribe. Right? On the other hand, this was Yemen and nothing was as it appeared.

Buck slowed down, and so did we. It’s times like this when you fully appreciate fully armored vehicles. Beats the hell out of a Kevlar vest.

I took my M4 off safety and told Kate to do the same. Brenner drew his Colt .45.

Buck stopped about fifty meters from the men and they waved their arms to continue on. Like, “Come on, people. Haven’t you ever seen four guys in robes with assault rifles?”

The cell phone wasn’t ringing, so I guess Chet and the Predator pilot were okay with these guys—or the pilot was about to put a Hellfire on them.

Our trail vehicle caught up to us, then our hand-held radios all crackled and Buck’s voice said, “They’re Musa’s tribesmen.”

Buck continued on and we followed. I reminded Kate, “Scarf. Don’t make eye contact unless you’re firing at them.”

Brenner thought that was funny.

As Buck drew abreast of the Bedouin, he lowered his window and did his peace greeting—As-salaam alaikum—which they returned. So I lowered my window and called out, “Shalom! Aleichem!”

Kate said, “That’s Hebrew, John.”

“Sounds the same.”

We continued on, and our trail escort dropped back.

We came down into the flatlands and followed the rutted track north through a sparsely populated area of small irrigated fields and brown pastureland where skinny goats wandered around looking for something they might have missed. Life here is tough. And short.

Brenner, Kate, and I made small talk, because to keep talking about the mission sounds like you’re a little jumpy. And that was not cool.

Brenner informed us, “I once flew to the Marib airstrip from Sana’a—about a year ago, before things started to go downhill here.” He explained, “Some VIPs from Capitol Hill wanted to see the ruins, and I led an advance team from the embassy to check out the security situation.”

“And?”

“And I strongly suggested they not come here.” He added, “It was okay for tourists… until the Belgians disappeared last summer. But I couldn’t guarantee the safety of congressmen and their staffs.”

I said to him sternly, “Are you telling me that you missed an opportunity to get rid of some congressmen?”

That got a laugh. I’m way funnier than Paul Brenner.

Anyway, we intersected a paved road, and Brenner followed Buck, who turned right—east toward Marib.

Brenner said, “This is probably the Sana’a-Marib road. The one we saw the sign for in Sana’a.”

Right. And I thought Sana’a wasn’t safe. Sana’a was looking like Geneva about now.

Bottom line about third-world travel is this—there’s always someplace more dangerous and f*cked up than where you are. In this case, however, we had reached the very pinnacle of Places You Don’t Want to Visit.

We continued east, toward Marib. I was looking forward to a cold beer and a hot shower in the hotel before I got kidnapped.





CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE


As we approached Marib, Brenner suggested to Kate that she rewrap, and I assured her that the black scarf made her look more mysterious—and thinner.

We entered Marib, which was a ramshackle but bustling town—the provincial capital, according to Brenner, and the only market town for many miles.

The main street was a collection of open-front shops and stalls, government offices, and a few gas stations, but not a single saloon. But to make the town lively, nearly every male was carrying an automatic rifle. I also noticed there was nothing ancient about the place, and Brenner explained, “This is New Marib. Old Marib is a few kilometers from here and it’s mostly abandoned.”

“Why?”

“The Egyptian Air Force bombed it in 1967.”

“Why?”

“Marib was royalist during the civil wars, and the Egyptians were allied with the republican government in Sana’a.”

These people went to war the way kids choose up sides for a football game. And we’re getting involved in Yemen, why? They don’t need us to help them kill each other.

The town smelled of diesel exhaust and dung, but I also caught the aroma of the outdoor grills in front of the food shops and my stomach growled. Maybe I should eat that tuna.

I asked Brenner, “Where exactly is the Hunt Oil installation?”

He replied, “About sixty miles north and east of here. At the edge of Ar Rub al Khali—the Empty Quarter.” He told us, “It’s a hundred twenty degrees Fahrenheit in the summer.”

“How come oil is always located in shitty places?”

“I don’t know. But I do know that geologists think the oil fields are huge and extend into Saudi Arabia. We thought we could control this oil because Yemen is weak. But then Al Qaeda showed up.” He also told us, “This installation is heavily fortified, but the oil wells can’t be expanded until the threat from Al Qaeda is eliminated.”

“Right.” I asked, “Who the hell would want to work there?”

“There are only about a dozen Americans there. The rest are foreign workers and Yemenis. And mercenaries for security.”

“How much do the mercenaries get?”

“I hear about two thousand a week.”

I said to Kate, “Honey, I just found us a better job.”

“Send me a postcard,” said Mrs. Corey through her scarf.

Anyway, we continued to move slowly along the dusty, vehicle-choked main drag, and I asked Brenner, “Where is this hotel?”

“The Bilqis is just outside of town.”

“Did you stay there?”

“No. I was just here for the day. But I checked it out for the VIPs. It’s not bad.”

“Is there a bar?”

“No. Strictly forbidden in Marib province.”

The cold beer in my head evaporated like a mirage. I hate this place.

Buck made a right turn and we followed.

Brenner informed us, “The other guests at the Bilqis are foreign aid workers, oil company visitors, the occasional American intelligence officer, and other shady characters.” He thought that was funny, and added, “The passports of arriving guests are faxed to the National Security Bureau and the Political Security Organization, and photocopies are also sold to Al Qaeda. Or maybe they get them for free.”

“Probably free.”

The town thinned out after a few hundred yards, and up ahead on the right I could see a long white wall with two open gates, which Brenner said was the Bilqis Hotel.

Buck pulled over before we got to the gates and so did Brenner.

We had to get our rifles out of sight, which was why we had Chet’s duffel bag.

I noticed that the two Bedouin Land Cruisers in front of us had continued on, and the trail SUV now passed us and kept going.

Buck and Zamo were out of the Hilux and we got out, leaving our M4s in the vehicle.

Zamo was carrying the duffel bag, which was long enough to hold his rifle and big enough to hold our four compact M4s.

Zamo threw the duffel in the backseat, then got in the Hilux and gathered up our weapons and magazines, putting them in the bag and wrapping them in what looked like Chet’s underwear.

Buck asked us, “Did you enjoy the ride?”

Why does he always say things like that?

No one replied, which was his answer. Buck briefed us, “We check in, go to our rooms, and meet in the lobby in, say, thirty minutes.” He assured us, “That’s enough time to enjoy a quick shower.”

Buck had new passports for us—same names, same photos, but different passport numbers, and these passports had standard blue covers, i.e., not diplomatic. Now we were tourists.

I asked Buck, “Where did our escort go?”

“I don’t know, but I know we’ll see them again later.”

“Will they be kidnapping us?”

“Correct.”

“Good.” I wouldn’t want to be kidnapped by strangers.

Zamo had finished wrapping our hardware in Chet’s underwear, and we all got back in our vehicles.

Buck drove up to the big double gates and we turned in.

At the end of a long drive was an unexpectedly large hotel of white stucco, consisting of two three-story wings that flanked a single-story entrance structure. The hotel grounds were landscaped and irrigated and it was almost jarring to see green.

Buck stopped in front of the lobby doors and we pulled up behind him.

We all got out and a bellboy appeared who put our overnight bags on a cart, then took the duffel, which was, of course, heavy. Buck, pretending he had only a few words of Arabic, said something to the bellboy, then to us he said, “I told him to be careful. We have expensive cameras and photographic equipment in there.”

Right. I guess telescopic sights could be photographic equipment.

Anyway, we moved into the large, oval-shaped lobby, which was nearly empty.

Buck informed us, “This hotel was constructed in the late seventies for tourism and archaeologists, and this entrance lobby is supposed to be built in the oval shape of the Mahram Bilqis Temple.”

Who gives a shit?

He further informed us, “There was a lot of hope for Yemen after the civil wars and revolutions of the sixties and seventies.” He let us know, in case we didn’t, “It hasn’t worked out.”

The desk clerk was all smiley, like we were the first guests he’d seen this year. We produced our new but worn passports, which he handed to another guy to photostat for the PSO, the National Security Bureau, and the hotel, with a fourth copy for Al Qaeda. Another guy looked up our reservations on the computer. On the check-in card, we gave our Yemen address as the Sana’a Sheraton, where I assumed we were all registered. The CIA has good tradecraft and lots of money to make it work.

Because no one had been shot or kidnapped in Marib since last August, the rooms were fifty bucks a night. I noticed we were booked for four nights.

The desk clerk, Mr. Karim, asked in English, “How was your drive from Sana’a?”

Well, we first drove to Aden and got ambushed by Al Qaeda, then we flew in on a spy plane and landed on a dirt road at night, and some Bedouin gave us a lift to Dracula’s Castle, and here we are. I replied, “We took the scenic route.”

He nodded, but advised us, “It is good if you stay on the main roads.”

“Are there main roads here?”

Buck, in the role of tourist, asked Mr. Karim, “Are any of the ruins closed to visitors?”

The clerk replied sadly, “Unfortunately the Mahram Bilqis remains closed.” But he brightened and said, “I think, however, I can arrange a private visit for you.”

Of course you can.

Buck asked a few more tourist questions while Brenner and Zamo kept an eye on our bags, and Kate stayed modestly quiet, admiring the floor.

So did we look like American tourists, or did we look like Americans who were trying to look like tourists? One of the guys behind the desk was definitely checking us out, especially Zamo. I mean, innocent faces aside, we were all wearing Kevlar and sidearms, which though covered by our bush vests could still be spotted by someone who knew what they were looking for. I had the impression that one of these guys behind the desk would be on his cell phone in two minutes talking to someone about us. PSO? Al Qaeda? Probably both. The good news was that the PSO was giving us a free hand—or said they were. The other good news was that Al Qaeda would soon know we were in town. Does it get much better than that?

Mr. Karim returned our passports and gave us four key cards.

He then asked if we’d like a dinner reservation, as though there could be a problem getting seated. Buck asked the clerk to book us for 8 P.M. Buck told us quietly, “This is where the Belgians had lunch before they went on to the ruins.”

Thanks for that.

We followed the bellboy to the south wing, third floor, where our adjoining rooms awaited us. The bellboy showed Kate and me to our room, which was sparsely furnished, but not bad. Nice green lizard on the wall.

I went out to the big balcony and Kate followed. Below was a swimming pool in the shape of two attached ovals, so I guess ovals were the theme here. There was absolutely no one out on the terrace or in the pool.

Kate said, “This place is empty.”

Maybe it had something to do with tourists getting kidnapped and murdered. I mean, even Europeans on a budget might find that unacceptable.

Kate said, “This all seems unreal.”

“It’s real.”

“Do you hate me for getting you into this?”

“Ask me later.”

She stayed quiet as we stared out at the empty pool, then asked me, “Is this going to be okay?”

“Why shouldn’t it?”

She didn’t reply.

So with Buck’s time clock ticking, we went back in the room, undressed, and showered and shaved together to save time and water.

We got dressed and left our overnight bags and toilet articles in the room. What happens to the luggage of kidnapped tourists? We took the stairs down to the lobby. Never trust the elevator in a third-world country.

Buck and Brenner were looking at some tourist brochures, and Zamo had the duffel with our photographic equipment.

The desk clerk, Mr. Karim, came over to us and said, “It is not advisable for you to visit the ruins without an escort.” He assured us, “I can obtain the services of three or four Bedouin within fifteen minutes.”

Buck replied, “We’re meeting some Bedouin at the ruins.”

Who are going to kidnap us.

The clerk shrugged and further advised us, “Be careful.”

Better yet, we’re armed.

Our Hiluxes arrived and I said to Mr. Karim, “If we’re late, hold our table.”

We walked outside, and Buck said, “We’ll go first to Old Marib, then to the Bar’an Temple—the throne of the Queen of Sheba.”

“Will she be home?”

Buck smiled. “She was kidnapped.” He said to Brenner, “I know the way. Stay close.”

Goes without saying, Buck.

We got into the Hiluxes and off we went.

I said to Kate and to Brenner, “Just to remind everyone, the difference between a staged kidnapping and a real kidnapping is not always so clear.”

Brenner replied, “That’s what I’ve been saying.”

I hear you.