The Panther

CHAPTER NINE


Kate and I decided to have lunch at Fraunces Tavern, the place where Washington gave his farewell address to his officers, and where I would now give my farewell address to Washington.

We exited 26 Federal Plaza onto Duane Street, which since 9/11 has been blocked to vehicles between Broadway and Lafayette on the theory that someone might want to detonate a car bomb under my window.

In fact, all of Lower Manhattan has become a security zone since that day, and though it’s not too intrusive, it’s annoying. More to the point, it’s a constant reminder that these bastards have made America the front lines. So maybe taking the war to them is good quid pro quo.

We got to Fraunces Tavern, in business since about 1762, which is a lot of grog.

A hostess showed us to a table in the crowded main dining room. The clientele was mostly out-of-towners who wanted to tell the folks back in Peoria that they had lunch at the very table where George Washington dug his wooden choppers into a mutton chop.

Mindful of Nurse Annie’s warning about mixing alcohol and vaccine, I ordered club soda with a shot of scotch on the side. Does that work? Kate had a Coke, and we looked at the menus. Mostly traditional American fare. I said, “I think I’ll have the Yankee noodles.”

“Dandy.”

We ordered—sliced steak for me, a sissy salad for Kate.

There’s another piece of history here that you won’t find in most tour guides, but you will find on the Automated Case System—back in January 1975, a group of Puerto Rican separatists exploded a bomb here during lunch hour, killing four people and injuring more than fifty. I’m not sure what kind of statement they were trying to make, but the attack shocked the city and the nation, which was not then used to terrorism on American soil.

It was this attack, along with some other Puerto Rican separatist activities and the activities of the Irish Republican Army and the Black Panthers, that led to the formation of the Anti-Terrorist Task Force in New York in 1980.

Now the focus has shifted, and The Panther I was looking for was an Arab. But he wasn’t here—he was in Yemen, by way of New Jersey and Columbia University. Hard to figure that out. I mean, I can figure out the foreign-born terrorists, but I can’t figure out the increasing number of American-born Muslims who have defected to Islamic countries that they’ve never even seen, and who have taken up arms against America. What was that all about?

Kate asked me, “What are you thinking about?”

“About when this place was bombed by the FALN. And I was also thinking about The Panther. Did you know he was born and educated in the U.S.?”

“I did. I went on the Internet after you did.”

“So why would a man who grew up in relative comfort, in a free society, and who went to one of the best universities in the country, choose to go to the backward and dangerous country that his parents had left, to engage in terrorist activities against the country of his birth?”

“When you find out, let me know.”

“But we need to find out why the melting pot is not working. There’s something wrong in our thinking—or their thinking.”

“Maybe both.” She added, “It’s about jihad, but that doesn’t fully explain it.” She observed, “Even scarier is that John Corey is thinking about all this. What happened to the guy who used to say, ‘Nuke ’em all’?”

“Well… I guess because we’re going to Yemen to find this American-born Islamic terrorist, I’d like to get into his head a little.” I added, “It might help us.”

“It would, if we could do that.”

I thought a moment and said, “When I worked Homicide, we did a lot of psychological profiling on murder cases, especially serial killers, and it was helpful. But this is different. The common criminal is usually stupid, though they’re smart enough not to want to be killed or captured. These people don’t care if they die. They blow themselves up. They fly airplanes into buildings. Then they go to Paradise. That’s where the wine and virgins are. For us, it’s the opposite. We get our wine and women here, then we go to hell and get more.”

“Theology may not be your strong point.”

Our food came as my cell phone rang, and it was Al, who said, “Our guy Nabeel is not working today, and the twenty Yemenis living at his address haven’t seen him since Saturday, and he’s not answering his cell phone. I’m checking out the local hookah bars, the storefront mosques, other delis, and so forth.”

“Check the jiggle joints.”

“Is that an order?” Al went on, “Nabeel worked in that deli for only a week and no one knows anything about him, or his family, or friends.” He speculated, “Maybe he just got here, he got spooked by his conversation with you, and he bolted.”

I replied, “He said he was a regular guest worker.”

“Well, maybe he worked someplace else. No one at George’s knows him.”

“Maybe people are lying to you, Al.”

“They don’t lie to me, John. They lie, they die.”

“Right.” We need more guys like Al Rasul. I’m too easy on the usually uncooperative Mideastern community. Well… maybe “easy” is not the right word.

Al said, “I’ve asked for a surveillance team on his apartment and his place of business, and a trace on his cell phone. Meanwhile, I’ll keep checking out the neighborhood.”

“Okay.”

“There’s something not right about this.”

“Could be,” I agreed.

“See you back at the fort.”

I hung up and Kate asked, “What’s happening?”

“My Yemeni disappeared.”

“Not to worry. I know where to find lots of them.”

After lunch, we took a taxi to the Yemeni consulate on East 51st near the U.N.

The offices of the Yemeni Mission to the United Nations wouldn’t win any design awards, though the walls of the consulate section were decorated with very nice tourist posters showing spectacular scenery and happy people, not a single one of whom was carrying an AK-47.

We seemed to be the only customers today, though I’m sure this place is usually mobbed with people who want to travel to Yemen.

The receptionist was a middle-aged man, reminding me that women in Yemen didn’t get out of the house much. I stated our business, and the man took our passports and disappeared for a few minutes—long enough to photostat them—then returned with another middle-aged man who introduced himself as Habib, who asked me, “When and by what means do you plan to arrive in Yemen?”

This was none of his business, and he knew he shouldn’t be asking that of Americans with diplomatic passports.

I replied, “We’re awaiting our travel orders.”

“Yes? But you requested your visas for not later than Wednesday.”

I informed him, “We’re here to pick up our visas—not answer questions.”

He didn’t like that, but he ignored it and flipped through our passports, checking our photos against our faces. He said to me, “I see you have been to Yemen.”

I didn’t reply.

He glanced at Kate, but did not speak to her. Then he asked me, “Do you plan to arrive in Sana’a or Aden?”

“I plan to leave here with our visas in two minutes.”

He didn’t respond, but said something to the receptionist, who put two completed visa forms on the desk. I looked them over. My visa was for forty-five days, and Kate’s was for an indefinite stay. Both listed us as American Embassy staff with diplomatic status. The purpose of our visit was government business. No mention of Panther hunting.

I did notice that, as per security procedures, the State Department had falsified our home address by giving it as 26 Federal Plaza. Also, our U.S. contact information was the State Department Foreign Office in Washington. Fine, except that falsifying the required info on the visa app could get your diplomatic immunity nullified, or at least compromised if you got into some trouble in the host country. Well, I’d worry about that if and when there was a problem in Yemen. Or I’d let our friends at the State Department worry about it. I was on a diplomatic mission. Right?

Everything else looked in order, and Kate and I signed the visas along with two copies. The receptionist stamped the forms, then stamped our passports, and Habib said to me, “There is no charge. A diplomatic courtesy.”

They should pay me to go to Yemen.

We left the consulate, hailed a cab, and went back to 26 Fed, my home away from home.


By five we’d posted updates on our computers for all our cases and sent e-mails to friends and colleagues announcing our imminent departure to Yemen.

Most return messages wished us luck; some suggested we were crazy.

Al returned and reported that he’d had no luck locating Nabeel al-Samad, and that Nabeel’s cell phone was not sending a signal according to CAU—the Communications Analysis Unit. Al said he’d make a report and see what the bosses wanted to do, and I said I’d do the same.

Bottom line here, Nabeel al-Samad was not high on anyone’s list of people to find. Informants, Mideast or otherwise, are notoriously fickle and usually liars. And sometimes these guys are playing a double game, so I had the interesting thought that Mr. al-Samad had another job outside the deli, and he just wanted to get a look at me. Maybe he took a picture.

As Annie predicted, Kate and I were not feeling well, so Typhoid Kate and Anthrax John went home.

Back in the apartment, Kate got into her pjs and went on the Internet. I channel surfed. The History Channel had a special on Adolf Hitler’s dog.

Kate informed me, “According to the website of the Yemen Tourism Promotion Board, Yemen is, quote, ‘Arabia’s undiscovered gem, and so little is known about the real Yemen, that when visitors travel across the country, it is almost always a beautiful voyage of discovery.’ ”

“Watch that ‘almost.’ ”

She continued reading: “ ‘Camel racing is one of the old favorite sports of Arabs and of course Yemen, as Yemen is the origin of Arabs.’ ”

“I thought they came from Brooklyn.”

“ ‘Paragliding,’ ” she went on, “ ‘like in the legend of Suleiman and his bird, who cross the Yemen to see the Queen of Sheba, have fun and discover our country by flying above mountains and seas.’ ”

“Like Predator drones.”

“I don’t see anything about that.”

“Al Qaeda ambushes?”

“That might be under trekking and hiking.”

“Right. What’s for dinner?”

“A malaria pill.”

We took our malaria pills and watched a rerun of I Love Lucy. Could the world have been that simple?