Kate asked me, “Any other thoughts on what Buck said?”
“No, not about what he said. But about what he didn’t say.”
“Meaning?”
“Why us?”
“I’m sure he has no knowledge of that. And you can keep asking that all week and you’ll never get the answer. The answer is in Yemen.”
“Right.” But I think I already knew the answer.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
On Tuesday night, some of our civilian friends gave us a going-away dinner in what used to be the basement speakeasy of the 21 Club. We celebrated the end of Prohibition in America, and drank enough to get us through a year of Prohibition in Yemen.
I invited everyone to come to Yemen and promised an exciting visit, including a civil war reenactment, except, I confessed, they weren’t acting.
We used Wednesday and Thursday to settle our personal affairs, including the usual of having our mail forwarded—in this case to a State Department address in Washington where it would be sent on to the U.S. Embassy in Sana’a in a diplomatic pouch. Can’t wait to get those Victoria’s Secret catalogues.
Our travel orders instructed us to take only a week or two’s worth of clothes and necessities, and to arrange with the State Department Travel and Relocation Office for a hundred pounds each of additional personal items to be shipped at government expense to an address in Yemen, which was not yet known. I wondered if I could sneak my La-Z-Boy recliner into the shipping container.
We arranged with Alfred, our excellent doorman, to let the shippers in and to have someone look after our apartment. I gave Alfred a nice tip and promised him a jambiyah when we got home.
We also saw our lawyer and gave him power of attorney for certain legal matters, including the shipment of our mortal remains—but only if we were dead. He asked for the name of a local funeral director, so I said, “Walsh Funeral Home,” and gave him Tom’s home address.
Kate wanted to shop for modest clothing that would be appropriate for wear both in the embassy and on the streets of Sana’a or Aden. I suggested, “A black balto is good for day or night wear, as well as the beach, and you can accessorize with different-colored veils.”
Kate had managed to get us a direct military flight from Dover Air Force Base to Sana’a, but later we got an e-mail from DOD—Department of Defense—informing us that the flight was full. I suppose a big C-17 could be full, but the question was, what was it full of? Military equipment? Troops? Hellfire missiles? Or maybe people we weren’t supposed to see or talk to. The e-mail further advised us that we were authorized to use a commercial air carrier, which we knew.
On Thursday night, a number of our Task Force colleagues—NYPD and FBI—gathered at Walker’s, a neighborhood pub on North Moore, a few blocks from the office. The supervisors, including our pal Tom Walsh, made an early appearance before the gathering got out of hand and before the owner had to call the police—most of whom were already there.
The FBI and NYPD don’t usually socialize, but this was a going-away party for two extremely popular colleagues, one of whom was FBI, and the other NYPD.
There were a few NYPD guys there who’d been to Yemen with the Evidence Response Team, and one female FBI agent who’d spent half a year there. They all had some useful advice, like sleep with your gun, never travel alone, and don’t chew the khat. The FBI lady, however, said to Kate, “Without alcohol, the only way your marriage is going to survive with this guy is to chew khat.”
Al Rasul was there, of course, and he got behind the bar and did a funny impersonation of a Yemeni bartender telling his customers it was ladies’ night and the women could drink for half price, but no women were allowed, and neither was alcohol. Al also accused the Christians of turning his water into wine.
Later, Al told me, “Still nothing on Nabeel.”
On Friday at 10 a.m., after getting our final shots in the nurse’s office, we were sitting in Mr. Walsh’s office.
Tom asked us how the rest of the evening went and apologized for not staying longer.
I assured him, “The party died when you left.”
We were again sitting in the preferred seating section, and Tom had thoughtfully ordered coffee, which I needed.
Tom Walsh is not really a bad guy—well, he is, but he’s not much different than any NYPD boss I’ve ever dealt with. It comes with the job—or it comes with ambition.
Tom, however, had been a little deceitful in the past, lying mostly by omission, then telling me after I’d found out the truth that I had no need to know what he hadn’t told me. When I was a cop, the bosses told you all they knew because you had a need to know everything about a criminal case. But this was a different game. Lots of classified information, compartmentalization, firewalls, and outright lies. Some of this was necessary; most of it was not. It’s gotten better since we lost three thousand people on 9/11, but old habits die hard.
With all this in mind, I listened to Tom Walsh’s final briefing. Basically, he had nothing new to add, but he did say, “You will be part of a five-person team. Two are already in place, and one will join you later.”
He put a manila envelope on the coffee table and said, “These are your travel documents, including your airline tickets. Also included is your contact info for when you arrive at Sana’a Airport.” He continued, “The Travel Office did the best they could, but you’ll be arriving in Sana’a at about two-thirty A.M. on Sunday morning. You’ll be met, of course, but in the event you’re not, you have instructions that will tell you what to do.”
I asked, hopefully, “Take the next flight home?”
“No.”
Kate inquired, “Why would we not be met?”
Walsh replied, “Things can go wrong.”
“So,” I inquired, “if four guys in white robes ask us to get into a black van, we should say no?”
“You should definitely say no.” He added encouragingly, “We’ve never lost anyone at the airport.”
I inquired, “Anyone ever delayed at the airport?”
“Now and then.” He reminded us, “But you’re traveling on diplomatic passports, so you’re not required to answer any questions, except for your destination, which is the American Embassy.” He added, “Demand a phone call to the embassy. The night duty officer is alerted to your arrival.”
“If he doesn’t answer, can I call you?”
“No.” Tom continued, “You will be met before you go through passport control. You will not have to go through customs, but if someone demands that you open your bags, then open them. And make sure there is nothing in your luggage that is offensive, compromising, or contraband.”
“Like soap?”
“Like weapons, alcohol, or certain magazines. Or anything made in Israel.”
“So no Uzi submachine guns?”
He informed us, “There’s a list in the envelope.” He continued, “Assuming all goes right at the airport, there will be a three-car convoy to take you to the embassy.”
I asked, “Do our guns travel in the dip pouch?”
“No. You will leave your handguns here. When you get in your vehicle in Sana’a, you’ll be issued handguns which you are authorized to carry at all times.”
Kate asked, “Who’s our contact person at the airport?”
Tom replied, “His name is Paul Brenner. There’s a photo of him in your envelope. I understand he’s former Army CID—Criminal Investigation Division. He’s now working for the Diplomatic Security Service.”
Kate asked, “Does he know why we’re in Yemen?”
“I don’t know.” Tom stood and said, “I want to thank you again for taking on this assignment. And I want to wish you both the best of luck.” He looked at me and said, “I know you have some reservations about this, John, but I also know that you will become more enthused about this assignment when you learn how important it is to the country.”
“I can feel it already, Tom.”
“Good.” He said to Kate, “You’ll have a
more difficult time as a woman—and as the member of the team who has to keep John in line.”
They both got a chuckle out of that. Really funny.
Tom and I did a good, firm handshake, and Kate got a hug, which in a Federal building is sexual assault.
We promised to stay in touch by e-mail and send cards on the holidays.
Out in the hallway, Kate said, “I can’t believe we’re getting on a plane tonight to go to Yemen for a year.”
“Did you unplug the toaster?”
“Well… maybe it won’t be a full year.”
“Probably not.”
She asked me, “Are you excited?”
“I keep pinching myself to make sure I’m not dreaming.”
She stayed silent as we walked to the elevators, then said to me, “I feel better that we’re together and we can look out for each other.”
“Right.” I remembered an old Arab saying. “When walking through a minefield, make one of your wives walk fifty paces in front of you and your camel.” I didn’t say that, of course. I said, “If I had three more wives, we’d have a whole five-person team looking out for each other.” Actually, I didn’t say that either. I said, “We always look out for each other.”
She kissed me as we waited for the elevator, and we held hands on the way down.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Al Rasul said he wanted to see me before I left, so I went to his desk and he suggested a cup of coffee in the break room.
We sat at a table with our coffees, and I said to Al, “Tom has agreed to send you to Yemen with us.”
He smiled, then said, “You know, I’ve never actually been to a Muslim country.”
“Except Brooklyn.”
He smiled again and said, “I don’t think I’d like it. I know my wife wouldn’t.”
“She Muslim?”
“Yeah. But born here. She sees the new immigrant women with the scarves and veils and it makes her crazy.”
Which reminded me of the question that had been bugging me, and I asked him, “Maybe you can tell me why some American-born Muslims have gone to Sandland to fight for the bad guys?”
Al Rasul replied, “The short answer is jihad. The long answer is God, history, Sharia law, and lots of hate. And here’s a secret—they hate the West only slightly more than they hate their own corrupt governments, and a little more than they hate themselves.”
I thought about that, and I guess I understood what he was saying. But it didn’t really answer the question of how all this had translated into a growing jihad.
Al had part of an answer and said, “Islam began with military conquest, forced conversions, religious fundamentalism, and an intolerant theocratic state. And then there was a period of enlightenment. But what you’re seeing now is a return to the good old days. The Dark Ages.”
“Right. But don’t forget those seventy-two virgins in Paradise.”
He smiled, then got serious and said, “The fundamentalists take that literally. If you kill innocent non-believers, you don’t go to hell where you belong—you go to Paradise.” He added, “Their goal on earth is Sharia law and world domination. Their spiritual goal is to ascend into Paradise.” He advised me, “Don’t try to make sense of it. And don’t think that what these homegrown radicals need is a good dose of Western civilization and a few beers. They’ve had that—here and in Europe—and they reject it.”
“You don’t reject it.”
“I’m a bad Muslim. At least by their standards. I’m also a marked man.”
“Right. Don’t sit so close to me.”
I looked at the Department of Justice wanted posters on the wall. Mostly bearded guys with dark, dead eyes. Almost all the captions said Wanted for Murder, some said Suspected Murder, and some said Conspiracy to Commit Murder. Murder used to be my game, but this wasn’t murder. It was something else, and it wasn’t war; it was sick and it was evil.
Happily, a lot of the posters had big red Xs on them, and notations: Killed, Captured, Convicted.
There was no wanted poster for Bulus ibn al-Darwish, a.k.a. The Panther, and I wondered why not. I guess for the same reason that al-Numair came up empty on the automated case system; The Panther had gone from wanted by the Department of Justice to the CIA kill list.
Anyway, assuming that Al Rasul wasn’t Al Qaeda, I confided in him, “I’m going to Yemen to look for an Al Qaeda guy who was born here.”
“I know that. The Panther. Al-Numair.”
“How do you know that?”
“If I tell you, I have to kill you.”
“Right. Any advice?”
“Yeah. Watch your ass.”
“That’s it? That’s the total wisdom of the East?”
“That’s the total wisdom of East Flatbush, where I grew up, and the Lower East Side, where you grew up. But here’s another tip—this guy is not some rural desert hick like your last big cat, The Lion. You may or may not be able to get into The Panther’s head, but he’s multicultural so he’s already in your head.”
“Right. I know that.”
“Good. So don’t try to guess what he’s going to do as an Arab. Try to guess what his conflicts are. His strength as a Westernized Arab is also his weakness. His head is on Channel One some days, and Channel Two other days, and sometimes both channels, and that’s when he gets static. He would tell you that he has no sympathy and no admiration for the West, and that the West is not in his heart or soul. But it is in his head, and if he were honest with himself, he’d understand that his hate was, in fact, a form of respect. You don’t bother to hate what you think is contemptible.”
“Right.” And Al Rasul knew all of this because…? I asked him, “How do I actually find this guy?”
“You know very well that he will find you.”
I was afraid he was going to say that.
“Make sure you let everyone know you’re looking for him. The word will reach him—if it hasn’t already.” He reminded me, “You understand that you have somewhat of a reputation after The Lion. Asad Khalil was not Al Qaeda, but as you well know, he worked with Al Qaeda on his last mission here. And he was a respected jihadist, and because you sent Khalil to Paradise, you are not unknown to Al Qaeda.” And then the kicker. “In fact, Al Qaeda would like to see you in Yemen to even the score.”
Actually, that thought had occurred to me. In fact, it kept occurring to me, but I’d put it into my denial file. Now good old Al had pulled it out for me. Also, I think Tom Walsh forgot to mention that I was actually going to Yemen to be red meat for The Panther. See what I mean about Tom?
I asked Al, “Did someone tell you to brief me?”
He hesitated, then replied, “Not officially. And not Tom Walsh.” He confided to me, “I’m working this end of the case. Mommy Panther and Daddy Panther in New Jersey.” He let me know, “They’re clean. Good citizens. Very upset. But they’re not giving up their son… Still, we might get some leads through them.”
“Let me know.”
“Will do.” He also let me know, “Bulus ibn al-Darwish is on the CIA’s kill or capture list, and Mom and Dad have actually brought suit in Federal court to get their son removed from the kill list. Their reasoning is that their son is an American citizen and therefore can’t be assassinated by the American government.”
“Okay. But did anyone explain to them that their son has killed American citizens? Like seventeen U.S. sailors.”
“In fact, that’s why they may get their son removed from the CIA kill list.” He explained, “His parents have also made the legal argument that what their son did, did not constitute an act of terrorism, but was an act of war.” He further explained, “This legal theory is backed by some past decisions in American courts and the International Court. So if attacking an American military target—as opposed to attacking civilians—is ruled an act of war, then The Panther has committed no crime and he will not be brought to trial. He will be detained as a prisoner of war, and under the Geneva Convention he is not obligate
d to give any information other than his name, rank, and service number.”
That sucked. I mean, not only couldn’t I kill him, I couldn’t even torture him. I said to Al, “Sounds to me like Mom and Dad are playing it both ways. First, their son is an American citizen with Constitutional rights. Next, he’s a soldier in a foreign army and he has protections under the Geneva Convention.”
“Right. Whatever works.”
I said, “What he actually is, is a traitor to his country, and that’s a hanging offense.”
Al agreed, but reminded me, “We don’t assassinate traitors. We put them on trial. Bottom line, Mom and Dad may get Junior removed from the CIA terrorist kill list.”
I didn’t reply, but I wondered now what the goal of the mission was. It’s a lot easier to whack someone than it is to capture them and return them to U.S. soil. Therefore, someone—like the CIA—had perhaps decided that Bulus ibn al-Darwish needed to be killed quickly, before some Federal judge got him removed from the kill list. After The Panther was dead, the lawsuit became moot. Strange war. I mean, judges, lawsuits, and all that.
Al advised me, “You didn’t hear any of this from me.” He stood, we shook, and he said, “Good luck.”
“Thanks. See you next year.”
“Maybe sooner.”
I found Kate strolling around, saying a few good-byes to colleagues, but I hate long and repetitious good-byes, and I got us out of there in five minutes.
We began the six-mile walk back to our apartment—her idea, not mine—and we took in the sights and sounds of New York City, my hometown. Could be the last time, but with luck, we’d be back.
I thought about telling Kate of my conversation with Al Rasul, and how I’d just discovered the real reason I was being sent to Yemen. Bait. But… well, did she have a need to know that? Actually, yes. But she wanted to think that her pal Tom chose us for this mission because we were the best of the best. And we were. So Tom only half lied to us.
The Panther Page 9