The Panther

CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE


The A-team of Operation Clean Sweep, including Chet, gathered in the mafraj, whose high, open arches gave us an unobstructed view of the terrain for miles around. These watchtowers were the Predators of the last millennium. Hey, Abdul, there’s a bad guy—drop a rock on him.

We all had our M4s and Kevlar, and Zamo did his march around the perimeter of the mafraj. The rest of us stood on the carpet of bird crap.

Buck began, “Yasir had little to offer regarding whether or not the Al Qaeda delegation seemed suspicious about this kidnapping. Yasir did say, however, that he didn’t like these men, and especially didn’t like Nabeel, al-Amriki.”

Well, if Nabeel al-Samad was an American, then I’m a Bedouin. But from the Bedouin’s perspective, Nabeel could have come from Mars.

Buck also told us, “Yasir says he thinks that only Nabeel was a Yemeni. The rest, he believes, are from someplace else.” Buck added, “The Bedouin do not trust these people.”

And the feeling is mutual. Recalling Chet’s newfound concerns regarding Sheik Musa, I asked, “So do you think we can still trust Musa and his men?”

Buck replied, “The Bedouin practice a primitive democracy. Which means that even if their sheik wants to switch sides and make common cause with Al Qaeda, the tribesmen won’t necessarily go along with it.”

We could use some primitive democracy in the ATTF.

Anyway, it occurred to me that the Bedouin tribesmen might not actually know that The Panther and his retinue were going to be vaporized by Hellfire missiles, so I asked Buck and Chet about that.

Buck replied, “Musa and his men who will be with him obviously know what’s going to happen at this meeting. And if one Bedouin knows something, they all know it. Also, the Bedouin know this was a sham kidnapping, so they all understand that the Americans aren’t really being offered to Al Qaeda.”

Brenner said, as he did back in Aden, “That is a massive security breach. All it would take is one Bedouin to tip off Al Qaeda.”

Chet replied, “We’re trusting that whatever the Bedouin know stays with the Bedouin.” He reminded us, “They are very clannish.”

Let’s hope so. Otherwise we have a problem.

Buck also told us, “From what I can gather from my conversations with them, the Bedouin think that one of the purposes of this meeting is to discuss important matters which need to be resolved between the tribes and Al Qaeda.” He added, “Sheik Musa is wise to take that approach, and it’s a compelling reason for The Panther to show up in person. The two warlords need to talk. And even if they can’t agree about the Americans, they have other pressing issues to discuss, man to man, chief to chief.”

Right. Like the rent on the Al Qaeda camp. Musa is smart. Five million bucks makes you think.

On another subject, Buck said, “As we also know, neither the Sheraton Hotel in Aden nor the embassy in Sana’a have been attacked, and I believe, as do my colleagues in the embassy, and Chet’s colleagues as well, that The Panther has put those attacks on hold until he makes his decision.”

Good news for everyone in Aden and Sana’a, except people like Captain Mac who were looking for a fight.

Chet added, “Those attacks could end in disaster for Al Qaeda, and they are signs of The Panther’s desperation or recklessness. The Panther, however, now sees an easier way to score a win.”

Buck continued, “And The Panther knows he can still order those attacks after the deal is done with Musa.” He reminded us, “But of course he’ll be dead if he shows up at the meeting, and those attacks, we believe, will probably not be ordered by his successor.”

Well, not right away. But someday.

I thought the mafraj meeting was over, but then Buck, who saves the best for last as he did at the Bilqis ruins, said, “Yasir gave me a sealed envelope that was given to him by Nabeel.” He pulled a long white envelope from his pocket, and I saw that the logo on it was from the Bilqis Hotel. Our bill?

Buck told us, “Nabeel told Yasir it was for Detective Corey, but I took the liberty of opening it.” He explained, “In case it contained anthrax, or a letter bomb.”

Do I thank him for risking his life to open my mail?

Buck slid a stack of photographs from the envelope and handed them to Chet, saying, “I warn you, some of these are not easy to look at.”

Chet looked at the first photo, then passed it to me. It was a group shot, taken in front of the columns at the Bilqis ruins. It showed what I assumed were the Belgian tourists—two older couples, two younger couples, and a pretty young woman, maybe sixteen or seventeen years old, all smiling into the camera. In the center of the group was a tall, bearded Bedouin in robes wearing a shiwal, and also wearing a jambiyah. He, too, was smiling. And what was making this murderer smile?

I passed the photo to Kate as Chet passed a second photo to me. This one was of the young woman standing close to the Bedouin—Bulus ibn al-Darwish, The Panther—and they were both smiling, though neither had their arm around the other. I passed the photo to Kate, who said, “That bastard.”

The next few photos showed other posed shots with the couples and the man they thought was a Bedouin.

I knew what was coming, of course, but even so, the next photograph was difficult to process immediately, but then I recognized a close-up of one of the older women lying on the brown paving stone, her throat cut from ear to ear, and a pool of red blood around her head and face.

I stared at it. The woman’s eyes were open, and there was a look of terror on her face. She could have been alive.

Kate, who was looking at me, asked, “What is it?”

I passed the photo to her, and she stared at it, then said softly, “Oh my God… oh…”

Brenner took the photo from her, looked at it and said, “Sick.”

Buck asked, “Do you want to see the rest of them?”

Chet took the photos from Buck’s hand, flipped through them quickly, then handed them to me.

I, too, went through them quickly, noting that some of the long shots showed all nine Belgians dead with their wrists bound behind their backs, and around them were men dressed as Bedouin who were actually Al Qaeda jihadists.

In one photograph I could see a man at the bottom of the steps who had been pushed or had tried to run. One close-up photograph was of a young man who looked Arabic—the guide, I assumed—who had probably taken the group photo of the Belgians with the tall Bedouin who turned out not to be a Bedouin.

The last photograph was a close-up of the young woman. Her eyes were wide open, and her parted lips looked very dark against her white, bloodless skin.

I passed the photos to Kate who passed them to Brenner without looking at them.

Zamo had come over to see what was going on, and Brenner gave him the stack of photographs.

Zamo slung his rifle, shuffled through the photos, and handed them back to Brenner without comment, then he walked to one of the arches and stared out into space.

Buck said, “Obviously, we can identify the man in the posed shots dressed as a Bedouin.” He added, “There was no note with these photographs, but there was this…”

He handed me a business card, and I saw it was my card, the one I’d given to Nabeel in Ben’s Kosher Deli a million years ago. On the back I saw where I’d written, Nabeel al-Samad to see Det. Corey. And someone, obviously Mr. al-Samad, had drawn a smiley face. Good cultural awareness, Nabeel. A*shole.

I gave the card to Kate, who looked at it, then she asked of no one in particular, “Why did they give us these photographs?”

It was Buck who replied, in Latin, no less, “Res ipsa loquitur.” He translated, “The thing speaks for itself.”

Indeed it does. And I got the message.

I said, “I think this answers our question about what The Panther is going to do. He is not showing us what he’s capable of doing, or what he’s done—he’s showing us what he is going to do. To us.” I concluded, “He’s made his decision. He will meet with Sheik Musa.”

Everyone agreed, but I still wondered if The Panther would want to avoid that meeting and try the direct approach by storming this fortress.

Either way, Bulus ibn al-Darwish had a lot of murders to answer for. And he would not answer for them in an American court of law. He would answer for them here, in Yemen, in an appropriate act of violence. He may not have been born here, but he was going to die here.