The Panther

CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE


We headed south from Old Marib and crossed a narrow bridge over a flowing stream, the first running water I’d seen in Yemen that didn’t come out of a tap.

In fact, Kate said, “Nice to see a river.”

Buck informed her, “There are no rivers in Yemen. That is a seasonal wadi, usually dry at this time of year, but the gates of the new Marib dam must be open upstream.”

Right. Gotta water that spring khat.

Buck also informed us, “The old Marib dam was built about two thousand years ago, which made the Sabaean civilization possible. The dam collapsed in 570 A.D., the year Mohammed was born, which Muslims take as an omen.” He explained, “The end of paganism, and the beginning of a new world.”

That’s how I felt after the collapse of my first marriage.

Buck also told us, “The new dam was built in the 1980s—fourteen hundred years after the old dam collapsed.”

“Union problems?”

Buck also let us know, “A bridge limits your ability to go off-road.”

Right. That’s where I’d set up a kidnapping.

Anyway, within ten minutes we were approaching the archaeological site of Bar’an. I saw a white minibus parked on the dirt road, and a blue military truck, probably belonging to the National Security police.

Buck parked behind the truck, and Brenner and Zamo parked behind us.

We all got out and looked around. There were patches of scrawny trees here and there and date palms and also a few irrigated fields, but mostly it was brown dirt and dust.

Buck, too, was looking at the arid landscape and said, “The desert, when it decides to come, is relentless. The dam and the irrigation pumps are fighting a losing battle.”

So are we. And ironically, so are the jihadists. There will be no winners here. Except the desert.

We weren’t out of the vehicles two minutes before we were attacked by kids yelling for baksheesh, then souvenir vendors, then two young men who said they were guides for hire. And finally, an NSB officer butted in and offered protection for twenty dollars. He must be related to Captain Dammaj.

I hope there’s an ATM machine around here.

But Buck was our ATM machine, and he gave the NSB officer some rials, then paid off the kids to beat it. He also gave the two guides a nice tip for doing nothing, and he spoke pleasantly to all of them in Arabic. Buck is a good American diplomat; he gives money to anyone and everyone.

The police officer was looking at us as though his instincts told him we weren’t the clueless tourists we appeared to be. I wondered if he could tell we were wearing Kevlar, and if so, did he conclude we were carrying? Or did he think we were stupid enough to be here unarmed?

He said something to Buck, who translated for us. “He says the police are leaving, and we should not stay here too long.”

As though these clowns could be of any help. But thanks for the tip. I said to everyone, “I wonder if these are the same NSB guys who took a hike on the Belgians.”

No one replied.

Anyway, the Keystone cop left, but the souvenir guys, six of them, hadn’t been paid off yet, and they were waving their wares at us—cheap jambiyahs, probably made in China; shiwals, one size fits all; sandals, ditto; and postcards.

Buck gave the souvenir vendors a few hundred rials, took a few postcards, and we were now free to approach the entrance to the ruin.

Zamo stayed behind to provide security, as per the plan, and the four of us walked to a stone arch that looked new, where four Bedouin sat, chewing, and they hit us up for an admission fee of about three bucks each. At the end of the day, it is the Bedouin who control all movement and all access here.

The ruin was elevated above the surrounding land, and we climbed up some stone steps and looked out across a few acres of excavations and broken walls surrounding a paved courtyard. Across the courtyard, at the top of a flight of steps, were tall square columns where a group of tourists stood listening to their guide. Nice ruins. Better than Marib, which was creepy. Time to go.

But Buck, our unpaid guide, said to us, “This is the Bar’an Temple, also known as the Temple of the Moon, and also known as Arsh Bilqis, which means the throne of Bilqis, which is the Sabaean name for Sheba.” Buck continued, “Not far from here is the Temple of the Sun.”

Makes sense.

“This temple was dedicated to the Sabaean god called Almaqah.”

Please, someone kidnap me.

Buck went on awhile, as he does, and Kate, of course, asked questions. She’s always trying to improve her mind, and as long as she doesn’t try to improve mine, I’m okay with that.

Meanwhile, the real tourists were assembling in the courtyard with their guide, and I counted fifteen of them. I looked for my Sana’a pal, Matt Longo, but these were mostly middle-aged people, probably Europeans by their pale winter skin and atrocious footwear.

The guide led his clients toward the exit, and as they approached, Buck said something to the guide in Arabic, and they chatted a minute, then the tour guide moved on toward the minibus.

Buck said to us, “Half the tour group are German, the other half are Danes.”

Totaling one bunch of adventurous idiots. Clueless in Bilqis.

Buck told us, “They’re returning to Sana’a.” He added, “No one stays here overnight anymore.”

I inquired, “Why does anyone even come here?”

Buck replied with impatience, “To learn, Mr. Corey. To see history. To experience another culture.”

Okay. I guess the Belgians experienced another culture.

Buck reminded me, “If you stay home, the terrorists win.”

That’s what everyone in New York said after 9/11, so we all went out and filled the bars and restaurants. F*ck Al Qaeda. Make that a double, bartender. God bless America!

But this was different. This was the belly of the beast. And for all I knew, the tour guide, the NSB officer, and everyone else here was on their cell phone right now telling someone there were American turkeys here to pluck.

Buck glanced at his watch and said to us, “This area will be deserted within half an hour. We’ll wait until then, then we’ll head back to the Bilqis Hotel.”

Kidnapped at the oasis. Waylaid at the wadi.

Buck, with time on his hands, informed us, “The Western archaeologists won’t return here, and the local authorities won’t remove the drifting sand.” He concluded, “In ten, maybe fifteen years, all this will be covered again, except for those columns.”

Kate said, “That’s sad.”

Maybe they can put an oil well here.

Buck turned, looked toward the west, and said, “Those hills on the horizon are the ones we flew over, and where the Crow Fortress is.” He told us, “The Yemenis believe that Noah’s Ark came to rest in those hills after the Flood.” He also told us, “About forty kilometers farther west of the Crow Fortress is where the Al Qaeda training camp is. Also somewhere in those hills is where we believe The Panther’s personal hideout is located.”

Maybe he’s hiding out in Noah’s Ark. I suggested, “The Predators should look for the Ark while they’re looking for The Panther’s hideout.”

Buck reminded me, “The Panther is coming to us.”

“Right.” We had as much chance of finding The Panther as we had of finding the Ark. The Panther, however, would find us.

The sun was starting to sink in the western sky and I shielded my eyes as I stared at the distant hills. So the Crow Fortress was not too far from the Al Qaeda training camp, which would soon be pulverized by American fighter-bombers if all went well. And also up there in those desolate hills was Bulus ibn al-Darwish, a long way from New Jersey. And maybe Noah’s Ark was sitting up there, too. A profound thought was taking shape in my mind, a unifying thread, perhaps, that would link all this together, and I said, “This place sucks.”

Buck turned impatiently and led us down into the sunken courtyard. I noticed we were hidden from the road, and there wasn’t a soul in sight. I drew my .45 and slipped it in the pocket of my bush vest. Brenner did the same.

Buck, addressing Kate and Brenner but not me, said, “This is the temple that some Mormon scholars believe is the place where their prophet Lehi came after he fled from Jerusalem in the sixth century B.C.” He added, “It was here where Lehi is said to have buried the prophet Ishmael.”

I hope Ishmael was dead.

I was really looking forward to my kidnapping.

Buck also told us, “The Mormons also believe that it was here that Lehi built a ship for himself and his family and sailed to America.”

Hold on. Did that ship have wheels?

But Buck clarified, “There is strong evidence that there was a river here at that time which flowed to the sea.”

Got it.

Buck led us across the courtyard and up fourteen—count ’em—wide and steep stone steps. At the top were five square columns, rising about sixty feet high. There was a sixth column that was broken, and Buck related a story about the symbolism of the broken column—something to do with the five undisputed pillars of Islam, and the one disputed pillar of the faith. I think he makes this stuff up. In fact, he makes up a lot of things.

Buck finished the story, then stayed uncharacteristically silent for a few seconds before saying, “This is where the Belgians were presumably killed.”

No one responded to that. But in fact that thought had crossed my mind. And Buck wanted to save this moment for now.

Buck looked down at the paving stones at the base of the columns and said, “The Yemeni Army personnel who were first called to the scene said these stones were covered with blood.”

In fact, they were still stained, but if you didn’t know what happened here, you wouldn’t know it was blood.

Buck continued, “There were two older couples, retirees from Brussels, and a young unmarried couple from Bruges who were touring the Middle East, as well as a married couple, also from Brussels, with their daughter, age sixteen.”

Again, no one responded.

Buck continued, “They were all staying at the Sheraton in Sana’a as part of a larger tour group. Those nine people decided to sign up for this day excursion to Marib.”

Bad idea. Very bad idea.

Buck again stayed silent and I noticed that the ruins were completely deserted now, and the bus and police truck had left. There was no sound from the road or from the ruins around us. We were alone.

Buck said softly, “These people weren’t here to hurt anyone, and the only thing they did wrong in Yemen was to be Westerners. Europeans. Christians. And for that, they paid with their lives.”

Indeed.

Buck continued, “The bodies of the Belgians were never found, but their tour guide and the bus driver, young men from Sana’a, were found in a drainage ditch a kilometer from here with their throats cut… so they were able to receive a proper Muslim funeral.” He added, “Their crime was associating with infidels, and the penalty was death.”

Kate said quietly, “How awful… senseless.”

Brenner said, “This is not war.”

Buck agreed, “It was a merciless, cold-blooded act of butchery.”

I asked, “And we think The Panther was here when it happened?”

Buck nodded and replied, “That is the information we received from the Al Qaeda prisoner in Brussels.”

Well, if anyone had any qualms about killing those bastards with Hellfire missiles, those thoughts were now gone. In fact, high-explosive oblivion was too good for Bulus ibn al-Darwish.

Buck’s sat-phone rang and he answered. He listened, then said, “All right,” and hung up. He said to us, “That was Chet.” He informed us, “It’s time to leave here and return to the Bilqis Hotel.”

Which was another way of saying, “It’s kidnap time.”