“In other words,” I said, “they don’t like pussies.”
“Correct. Look a man in the eye and say, ‘As-salaam alaikum!’ Peace be upon you. He will reply, ‘Wa alaikum as-salaam’—and upon you be peace.”
“Okay. How do you say, ‘Make my day, punk’?”
Buck continued, “Women may appear fearful without inviting contempt. Also, women should never look a man in the eye and say anything. Women lower their heads and pass by a man quickly.”
I asked Kate, “Got that?”
She had no reply. Clearly, Ms. Mayfield was having a little trouble processing this. But she’d be fine when she got there. She adapts easily.
“Hospitality,” said Buck, “is very important to the Yemenis, and it must be accepted when offered. Even if you knock on a man’s door to ask directions, he must offer you something to drink or eat, and you are obligated to accept it. Be aware not to give offense to a man who offers you something.”
Right. Especially if he’s carrying an AK-47 and offers to blow your head off.
Buck informed us, “Women are mostly exempt from the rules of hospitality.” He advised us, “Read the handouts on these subjects.”
Buck continued, “The Yemenis tend to be creative with the truth, which is a diplomat’s way of saying they lie.”
Right. I remembered having to deal with the authorities in the central jail where the Cole suspects were imprisoned. I didn’t mind the prisoners lying to me, but when the cops, jailers, and translators all lied to me, I had to wonder if the whole country wasn’t pathological liars. I recalled, too, getting into screaming matches with the above assholes, and a few times I thought we were headed for a shoot-out.
Buck said, “They lie to each other, so don’t feel you’re being singled out because you’re a Westerner.” He added, “The truth is hard to come by for someone trying to do a job there, and basically you should trust no one. Having said that, you will get the truth if the truth will serve the person you’re speaking to. As an example, if someone wants to betray someone else, he’ll tell you where you can find that person. The problem is, you have no way of knowing if you’re being given good information, or if you’re being set up for a kidnapping—or worse.”
This was true, and didn’t even need to be said, but it’s good to be reminded. Also, Buck apparently knew we had other duties in Yemen beyond evidence recovery and legal attaché.
Buck continued, “Yemen is a land of distrust, which in a way removes any ambiguity. Trust no one and you won’t be betrayed or misled. If a government official is assigned to assist you, he is not there to assist you. All informants lie, even the ones you pay. If an ordinary man begs you to get him a work visa to the States in exchange for information, he is working for the government or for Al Qaeda, and he just wants to get close to you and obtain your trust. Why? You’ll find out the hard way. Any questions?”
I thought of Nabeel and said to Buck, “Same with the Mideastern guys I talk to here.”
“Then you understand.” Buck continued, “The tribes. They make up the majority of the population, and they live mostly in the highlands in the north, though there are also tribes in the south. Some tribes are nomadic Bedouin, but most live in small settlements. Some tribesmen have emigrated to the towns and cities, but the individual retains his loyalty to his tribe.”
Sounds like Kate’s family.
Buck continued, “The tribes are led by sheiks or chieftains who are usually elected, but sometimes inherit the title.” He added, “We sometimes call these sheiks or chieftains warlords, though they may consider that a derogatory term.” He advised us, “If you should happen to meet one, address him as sheik.”
I had the feeling that Buck was giving us a mission briefing and that a sheik was in my future.
Buck went on, “The tribes distrust the central government, and they distrust one another, though they will form alliances of convenience, even with the government, but these are shifting alliances and it’s hard to keep score on who is allied with whom on any given day.”
Sounds like 26 Federal Plaza.
“The tribes have a primitive, pre-Islamic code of honor, and in many ways they are chivalrous. If you are their guest, whether by invitation, chance, or kidnapping, they will show you extreme hospitality. They have no particular animosity toward the West, but they’re not presently happy with the American officials in Yemen, who they see as propping up their government, which they hate.” He reminded us, “The friend of my enemy is my enemy. That said, if you should somehow wind up as guests of a tribe, you aren’t automatically dead. But don’t try to pass as innocent tourists. Be up-front about who you are. But be sure to criticize the government in Sana’a.”
“That’s easy.”
“And it may save your life.”
“That’s good.” I reminded him, however, “We’ll be working in Sana’a and Aden. No tribal lands on the agenda.”
He didn’t reply to that and said, “You’ll be briefed more fully on these subjects when you arrive.”
Kate asked, “What is the tribal attitude toward Al Qaeda?”
“Mostly negative,” replied Buck. “Al Qaeda doesn’t fit into the social or political matrix of tribal society. Neither did Marxism, obviously. The tribes are distrustful of all foreign ideologies, urban dwellers, intellectuals, politicians, and even Muslims who are not Yemeni. They like things the way they were two thousand years ago.”
“But they were all Jews then,” I reminded him.
He smiled and replied, “Don’t remind them.” He added, “Another thing to remember about the tribes is that they tend to be monarchists. They actually owe allegiance to and take orders from the exiled princes, sheiks, and sultans who live mostly in Saudi Arabia and who command the loyalty of different tribes. We, meaning the Foreign Office, are in contact with many of these Saudi princes and sultans and through them we can gain the assistance of certain tribal chieftains. In fact, if you do go into the tribal lands, you may be provided with letters from these exiled princes, sultans, and sheiks asking the tribal chieftain to give you safe passage or assistance.”
We seemed to have returned to this subject of us going into Indian Territory.
Kate asked, “Do these letters actually work?”
“Sometimes.”
And sometimes not. Like, hey, chief, I got a letter here from Sultan Salami asking you to help me out. Oh… that’s the next tribe? You don’t like Sultan Salami? He did what to your brother? Sorry. Which way to the next tribe?
This was moot anyway, because we weren’t going into the tribal regions. Or did Tom mention that we might do that?
Buck said, “The social and political situation in Yemen is complex beyond understanding—part feudal, part Islamic, and part modern dictatorship—and the Yemenis themselves are confused by shifting alliances and a central government that sends mixed signals to friends and foes alike. Their president, Ali Abdullah Saleh, has said, ‘Governing Yemen is like dancing with snakes,’ and I couldn’t have said it better. So you have some challenges ahead of you.”
“We love challenges,” I assured Buck.
“Good,” he said. “You’re going to the right place.”
I thought maybe the class was over, but Buck continued. “Khat. It’s cheap and plentiful. About ninety percent of the males chew khat. And almost eighty percent of the arable land is used for growing it, which has caused food shortages, water shortages, and widespread malnourishment—not to mention a population that is under the influence from about noon to bedtime.” Buck also said, “Part of the malnourishment is a result of khat being an appetite suppressant, which works well in a country with food shortages.”
Right. Not like pot, which gives you the munchies.
Buck continued, “Khat is an amphetamine-like stimulant that causes excitement and euphoria. Individuals become very talkative and may appear to be emotionally unstable.”
My last girlfriend must have been a khat chewer. Also, I hope that the n
inety percent of the men who chew khat are not the same ninety percent who carry assault rifles. On the plus side, they probably couldn’t shoot straight. Right?
Buck said, “Khat can also induce manic behavior and hyperactivity.”
Maybe Tom Walsh chews khat. But I was thinking about khat as an appetite suppressant. I saw an opportunity here to make a fortune in lard-ass America. Amber waves of khat.
Kate asked, “Do women chew khat?”
Buck replied, “About half the women do. The other half get the work done.”
I was really getting excited about this. Lose thirty pounds in thirty days. Also good for alcoholics. Dry out, stay blitzed.
Buck continued, “Some people say khat is a mild aphrodisiac, or at least it makes people uninhibited, which may account for the high birthrate.”
Triple wow. Lose weight, get high, get laid. Does it get any better than this?
“Mr. Corey? I seem to have lost you.” He brandished his dagger playfully.
“Oh… sorry. I was just thinking about… any downside to khat?”
“I just told you. Loss of appetite, erratic behavior, plus it turns your teeth green.”
“How green?”
“Long-term use can cause male impotence.”
“Viagra.”
“And the withdrawal symptoms are very unpleasant.”
Why stop? Anyway, every drug has a few side effects, and that never stopped Big Pharma. Let’s focus on appetite suppressant. Thirty days, thirty pounds. America can be thin again.
Buck broke into my reverie and said to me, “I don’t know if you tried khat when you were there, but I warn both of you, khat has been the downfall of many a Westerner in Yemen.”
I observed, “But if you’re thinner, you make less of a target.”
He smiled, then got serious and said, “Khat will get you through a bad day in Yemen, but it will not get you through the year.”
“Day at a time.”
I had the thought that Buck must have been a good American diplomat—Arabic speaker, cross-dresser, khat chewer, culturally sensitive. I asked him, “What was your job with the embassy?”
He replied, “Cultural Affairs.”
Right. And I’m going there to gather evidence on the Cole bombing, and Kate is there to issue visas. We all lie like Yemenis.
The khat chat was finished, and Buck moved on to climate—sucks. Geography and topography—empty beaches, lethal deserts, dangerous tribal highlands. Health concerns—every disease known to man, plus some. Medical facilities—get evacuated to someplace else. Relations with neighboring Oman and Saudi Arabia—pretty bad. Boating on the Gulf of Aden or the Red Sea—pirates. Food—tastes good, but you might get sick. Local water—tastes bad and you will get sick. Security concerns—not much petty crime; just kidnapping and getting whacked. Tourist attractions—lots of good ones, but that’s where you’ll get kidnapped or whacked. Agriculture—eighty percent khat, twenty percent wasted on food. Manufacturing—incense, perfume, and AK-47 knockoffs. Entertainment—khat and kidnapping. Sports—soccer and shooting. Tourism—down slightly from none. Leisure activities—khat. Arts and crafts—daggers. Government—dysfunctional and oppressive, except where non-existent.
There were a few other areas that Buck covered, and basically I was getting the impression of a country that had lots of problems and no solutions.
Buck, in fact, had painted a picture of the land and the people that didn’t look like the tourism website. And yet I had the impression that Yemen historically had once been part of the world, an important center of trade and commerce between East and West, a center of learning, and a happier land than it was in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. It had, unfortunately, devolved into a hell on earth. Shit happens, but in Yemen it happened hard.
Buck was finished with the required tutorial, and he said to us, “I’m aware that your mission to Yemen is not entirely diplomatic, and I hope you learned something this morning that could be useful to you—though you may not recognize it at this time.”
Neither Kate nor I replied to that leading statement, and Buck concluded with what was probably his standard wrap-up. “Yemen is an ancient land where time has stood still, and where you can see glimpses of an almost biblical civilization. It is where the Arabs are thought to have originated, where the people practice customs and rituals that are rooted in a forgotten, pre-Islamic past. Whatever you know or think you know about the Mideast is not necessarily true in Yemen. So keep an open mind, and think of your time there as a unique and incomparable experience. And good luck.”
Eleven A.M. Not bad.
We stood and shook hands with Buck, who gave Kate his card and said to her, “If you think of any questions, don’t hesitate to call or e-mail me, even after you’ve arrived in country.”
To me, he said, “I would strongly advise you, Detective, not to underestimate these people. They may be backward, but they’re not stupid, and they will use your Western arrogance and disdain to play you like a lute.”
“I’ve figured that out.”
“Good. You’re intelligent.” He said to both of us, but really to Kate, “And don’t go the other way, as some Western people do, and patronize them, or try to find excuses for their sometimes unacceptable customs and practices.” He advised us, “Remember who you are, why you’re there, and what you believe in, and they will respect that.”
“Good advice,” Kate agreed.
He concluded, “You will have no natural allies there, but neither will you have natural enemies—except Al Qaeda. With everyone else, it’s very situational. Learn to read the situation. And above all, learn how to make a good deal. It’s all about the deal. But don’t promise what you can’t deliver. And keep in mind, the Yemenis can’t always be bought with money. As with the Italian Mafia, it’s often about favors. If you can help a group or an individual in a vendetta against another group or individual, they will help you in your mission.” He looked at us and said, “For instance, the Sana’a government helps us locate Al Qaeda targets for our Predator drones and Hellfire missiles. In exchange, the government tells us which tribal chieftain or political opposition leader they’d like to see dealt with in a similar manner.” He added, “It’s all about quid pro quo.”
Neither Kate nor I responded to that, and Buck told us, “You didn’t hear that from me.”
The post-class chat seemed to be finished, so we thanked him, said our good-byes, and Kate remembered to take the handouts.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Out in the hallway, Kate remarked, “An interesting man.”
“Especially at the end.”
“CIA?”
“No. He was too nice. Maybe State Department Intelligence.”
She nodded. “That would fit.”
“Right. Hey, do we get a certificate for this course?”
“Just a note in our file so we don’t have to take it again when we do another tour in Yemen.”
Not funny. We got on the elevator and rode up to the 26th floor. I said, “I think we just got a mission briefing—a glimpse of how we’re going to find and eliminate The Panther.”
She nodded.
And did I have a problem with that? “That” being a promise to the corrupt and nasty Yemeni government to vaporize some poor tribal leader or political opponent if the government gave us the location of Al Qaeda targets, including, hopefully, The Panther.
And how did Kate and I fit into this? Maybe we were on the team that would coordinate this with the Yemeni government, and/or we would be on the waste collection team, i.e., going out to the hills or desert where a Hellfire missile just turned some guys into hamburger, then collecting fingers for a print match or a DNA analysis to make sure we got The Panther.
Well, no use speculating. We’d know when we got there.
We got off on the 26th floor and Kate said to me, “I’m feeling a little more prepared for the country, but still not sure about the job.”
“Cultural awareness i
s ninety percent of the job.”
We returned to our desks and got some work done. I love reading memos and electronically checking that I’ve seen them. Plus, some e-mails needed a response. It occurred to me that none of this had anything to do with me anymore. I was going to the front. I was free.
Before I knew it, it was noon, and the sacred lunch hour had begun. Short of a national emergency, you cleared the building at noon. To have lunch at your desk was unpatriotic or suspicious, and you might be questioned by the Office of Professional Responsibility.
I grabbed my topcoat and met Kate at her desk, and we left the building with no plan other than to get some air and clear our heads.
Before we’d left on our last overseas assignments, Kate and I had gone for cocktails to the Windows on the World in the North Tower of the World Trade Center. That was no longer possible, so we walked to the observation deck at the WTC site.
It was a cold day, but there were dozens of people on the deck, mostly tourists, but also some office workers, construction guys, and a group of elementary school kids.
We don’t come here often—we don’t need to—but today seemed like a good day to reconnect with this place, to remember, as Buck said, who we are, why we’re here, and what we believe in.
We walked down to Battery Park, got a coffee and hot dog at a food cart, and sat on a bench, looking out at the harbor.
There was a time when everyone coming to New York from overseas—tourists, immigrants, and Americans returning home—had to sail past the Statue of Liberty. Now, ninety percent of overseas travelers came in through the airports, and they were definitely missing something. Almost everyone arriving here—immigrants, tourists, people on work or student visas, and businesspeople—was here for legitimate reasons. The ones who weren’t, like the bastards who took down the Towers, became my problem.
But now I was going to one of the breeding grounds of this sickness—to find one diseased sonofabitch. A guy who helped kill seventeen American sailors as well as other innocent people. Tom Walsh keeps telling me it’s not about revenge; it’s about justice. I keep telling him to get real.
The Panther Page 8