I said to Brenner, “They seemed to know you.”
No response.
Tourist City was a collection of five- and six-story concrete slab buildings, not unlike an urban housing project for the poor. But here, in Sana’a, it was the height of luxury, and more importantly, it was guarded. Not safe. Guarded.
I could see why Paul Brenner might choose not to live here; it was sort of depressing, but also an admission that you felt unsafe on the outside. And macho men would never admit that. They’d rather die. And often did.
There were a few low-rise buildings on the grounds, including a few shops, and in one of the buildings was the Russia Club.
Zamo pulled up and we piled out.
There were two more armed guys in front of the place, and they definitely recognized Mr. Buckminster Harris. In fact, they greeted him in Russian, and Buck replied in Russian with what must have been a joke, because the two guys laughed.
Ironic, I thought, that Buck Harris, who’d spent most of his professional life trying to screw the Russians, was now yucking it up with them in Yemen, where he’d spent part of the Cold War spying on the now-defunct Evil Empire. If you live long enough, you see things you could never have imagined.
We entered the Russia Club, and the maitre d’ saw me and shouted, “Ivan! It is you! Excellent. Tatiana is here tonight. She will be delirious with joy!”
Just kidding.
But the maitre d’, Sergei by name, did know Buck, though not Paul Brenner, which disappointed me. I would have liked to discover that Mr. Cool dropped his paycheck here every month, boozing and whoring. Kate, too, would find that interesting.
Anyway, the place looked a bit sleazy, which it was. There was a long bar to the right, a raised stage, and a ceramic-tile dance floor surrounded by tables, half of which were empty. A DJ was playing some god-awful seventies hard rock, and a few couples were on the dance floor, looking like they were having seizures.
The bar was crowded with casually dressed men and barely dressed women. I mean, I haven’t seen so much deep cleavage since I drove through the Grand Canyon. The men looked Western—Europeans and Americans—and most of the ladies appeared to be from Eastern Europe and Russia, though there were a few black ladies who, I’d once been told, were from Djibouti, Ethiopia, Somalia, and Eritrea, which is not far from here if you cross the pirate-infested Red Sea. Also at the tables were a few Western-looking women accompanied by their gentlemen friends or husbands. I recognized two men and women from the embassy, but they didn’t wave.
If there were any Yemeni customers or service staff in the Russia Club, I didn’t see them. In fact, I’m sure one selling point of this place was the promise that you didn’t have to see a single Yemeni, unless you stayed until closing time and watched them mop the floor under the eye of armed Russians.
Kate broke into my thoughts and asked me, “Been here before?”
“They’ve named a cocktail after me.”
Anyway, Sergei escorted us to a table, though I’d have preferred the bar.
Buck ordered a bottle of Stolichnaya on ice, a plate of citrus fruit, and zakuskie—snacks.
My last case, involving The Lion, had taken me to a Russian nightclub in Brighton Beach, Brooklyn, which is home to many Russian-Americans. The club, Svetlana by name, was a lot more opulent than this place, and the clientele were mostly immigrants from the motherland on a nostalgia trip. This place, named simply the Russia Club, was the Village of the Damned in the Country of the Lost.
Anyway, the vodka came quickly and we toasted, “Na Zdorov’e.”
Kate seemed comfortable enough in the proximity of horny guys and hookers, and her only complaint was the volume of the bad music.
Mr. Brenner asked her to dance, of course, and she accepted and walked unsteadily onto the slippery dance floor with Brenner holding her arm.
Buck said to me, “She’s a delightful woman.”
“She is,” I agreed. More so when she’s had a few. However, if it was me who’d suggested coming here, she might not be such delightful company.
Kate slipped on the tile floor, but Brenner caught her, and Kate kicked off her shoes and they danced to some horrid disco tune.
An attractive, scantily clad lady came over to the table carrying a tray suspended from a strap around her neck, and in the tray were two huge hooters and a selection of cigars and cigarettes. Take your pick.
Buck found three Cubans hiding under the lady’s left humidor, and gave her a twenty-dollar bill, which included tax, tip, and a light.
The lady said to Buck, in a heavy Russian accent, “I don’t see you for many weeks.”
Buck replied in Russian, and the lady laughed and tousled his thinning hair. Buck was apparently still fucking the Russians.
The lady checked me out and asked, “You are new in Sana’a?”
“I feel I’ve been here all my life.”
“Yes?” She further inquired, “Is that your wife or girlfriend? Or his?”
“My wife, his girlfriend.”
She thought that was really funny, then said to me, “Maybe I see you again.”
“Tomorrow night.”
So Buck and I sat there, smoking Cuban cigars, drinking Russian vodka, listening to American disco, and watching the human comedy.
I was sure that if you stayed in Yemen long enough—like more than a month—you’d develop a deep fatalism, which led to strange and risky behavior. I’m not being judgmental—just expressing an awareness that the people I needed to work with and trust had gone a little around the bend.
Anyway, the DJ switched to American big band, and an instrumental of “I’m in the Mood for Love” filled the room while a Russian chanteuse on the stage did her best to sing along.
“Ahminda moot fa loov, zimply becus yerneermee…”
Brenner and Kate were getting to know each other.
On the subject of fatalism, I imagined that every dangerous mission from the dawn of time through World War Two and the Cold War to the war on terrorism began with an alcohol binge. Or should begin that way. Hey, eat, drink, and be merry. Nothing puts things into perspective like the thought that you might die tomorrow.
I said to Buck, “This was a good idea.”
“It’s the thing to do on the eve of battle.” He added, “War is a good excuse for any type of behavior.”
Indeed.
The DJ was now playing “Moonlight Serenade” and Kate, observing the one slow dance rule, came over to the table, took Buck’s hand, and led him to the dance floor, leaving Mr. Brenner and me to dance if we chose to.
Before I could ask, Brenner sat and said, “Oh, good. Cigars.” He busied himself with pouring a vodka while getting the attention of the cigarette lady, who came over and clipped his Cuban, then lit it for him.
We didn’t have much to say to each other, but he did say, “Good cigar.”
Mr. Brenner, I thought, was becoming less funny and less interesting as he became more distracted by Ms. Mayfield. I’ll write this off to too much alcohol and too much time in the land of limited dating opportunities. Not that you had to be drunk or horny to find Kate Mayfield attractive.
Anyway, I watched Buck and Kate sharing the dance floor with Western European and American men, and Eastern European and African hookers. It was great that so many diverse cultures could get along so well. It would have been even greater if we could get the Arabs out there in their robes and veils, all liquored up, doing the Bristol Stomp.
A few ladies came by to ask if they could sit or have a dance, and Mr. Brenner and I politely declined.
To make conversation, I said to Brenner, “Someday a rocket is going to come through this roof.”
He informed me, “They have steel planking and sandbags on the roof.”
“It should say that on the menu.”
“Moonlight Serenade” ended, and it was my turn to dance with my wife.
The DJ was still spinning big band and the smoky air filled with trombones and saxopho
nes playing Tommy Dorsey’s “I’ll Never Smile Again.”
Kate and I danced, and I didn’t spin her much because I could tell the room was already spinning in her head.
She didn’t have much to say, and I walked her back to our table.
It was past midnight now and the Russia Club was in full swing. Buck suggested cognac, which was not a good suggestion.
Kate said, “I’m ready to go home.”
Me, too. Let’s go to the airport.
Brenner picked up the tab—about forty bucks, which he paid in American dollars.
Sergei showed us to the door and said to us, “Tomorrow is belly dancing show. You come.”
Buck said we’d be back. We left, and Zamo pulled up to the door. I put Kate in the front seat and the boys squeezed in the rear.
As we passed through the gates of Tourist City, Zamo suggested we have our guns handy, which was a good idea considering we were so drunk it would take five minutes to find them.
Zamo also suggested that he drop Kate and me off first at the Sheraton, then double back to the embassy. His final suggestion was that Brenner should stay in the embassy tonight since Zamo had no intention of driving him to his apartment after midnight.
So just another night out in wild and crazy Sana’a.
Kate and I got dropped off at the Sheraton, and Zamo said he’d pick us up at 6:45. Buck told us not to check out, and Brenner said to wear the Kevlar. I said, “Good night and good luck.”
I stuck my gun in my belt and steered Kate into the lobby, which was empty and quiet, though I could hear music from the cocktail lounge.
We went to the elevators, where there should have been a security person, but the chair was empty. We drew our guns and rode up to our floor, where I told Kate to keep an eye on the corridor while I cleared the room.
There were no terrorists under the bed or in the closet so I motioned Kate in, and I closed and bolted the door. The drapes were open and I drew them shut.
Kate, not feeling her very best, collapsed on the bed.
I looked around the room to see if anything struck me as wrong—like a stuffed black panther on my pillow. Everything looked kosher—or I should say halal—and I lowered myself into the stuffed chair.
All in all, this was not a bad day in the Land That Time Forgot. I mean, we learned a lot, and we could make good use of what we learned, and by now, maybe The Panther knew that John Corey, who’d killed The Lion, was now here to kill him. There ain’t room in this country for both of us, asshole.
My teammates seemed more than competent, and I trusted Brenner. Professionally, I mean. Not so much with Kate. Buck seemed trustworthy, though he had a self-admitted history of throwing friends under the bus—but only for patriotic reasons.
Our CIA person was as yet unknown, but not for long. That could change the team balance.
Kate was still gung-ho, and she was a fast learner. I was honestly glad she was with me and I looked forward to that moment when I could say, “I told you we should have stayed home.”
So, tomorrow the road to Aden, which I’d traveled round-trip last time. This time, there would be no round trip. It would be one-way to Aden, then to Marib. And that, too, could be one-way. But to be optimistic, let’s say Marib was the last stop before home. And the last stop for The Panther.
PART V
Death Highway,
Yemen
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
At 7 A.M., everyone who was going to Aden had assembled with weapons and baggage in the small parking lot at the side of the chancery building.
It was a nice morning, dry and cool, with a clear sky for the Predator drones.
Standing around the five black Land Cruisers were about fifteen people, all men, except for Kate and a woman in tan cargo pants and a white T-shirt. She was, according to Buck, our doctor, and her name was Clare Nolan. She looked very young, and I asked Buck, “Is she old enough to use alcohol swabs?”
“She’s very competent,” Buck assured me. “She worked in an inner-city hospital trauma unit for six months. Gunshot wounds and all that.”
“Can she treat a hangover?”
“You look fine, my boy.” His satellite phone rang and he excused himself and went off to speak to someone in private.
I was actually feeling not too bad, considering I’d had a few glasses of wine with dinner, after the martinis and before the bottle of vodka.
Kate also looked good, but that may have been the makeup. I hoped she remembered that she’d saved the last dance for me.
On that subject, Mrs. Corey and Mr. Brenner seemed to have little to say to each other this morning. Ah, yes. Been there myself.
Anyway, Kate and I had chosen desert boots and jeans for Death Highway and she wore a black pullover, under which was her Kevlar vest. Over my vest I wore a khaki shirt that I’d worn last time I was in Yemen—my good-luck shirt. And since we were going through Indian Territory, we had our .45s unconcealed, strapped on our hips.
The uniform of the day for the DSS guys was cargo pants and sleeveless bush jackets over black T-shirts, and that’s what Mr. Brenner was wearing along with his heart on his sleeve.
Howard Fensterman had decided to show up, and he looked ready for adventure in his bush shirt with his Glock slung low at his side. All FBI Special Agents are trained and qualified on a variety of weapons, but some are more qualified than others. Still, I’d been surprised before by who was a good gunslinger. It’s all in the head.
Howard also carried the most lethal of lawyers’ weapons: his briefcase. In the briefcase, he informed Kate and me, was all the paperwork we needed to make a lawful arrest of one Bulus ibn al-Darwish, a.k.a. al-Numair, a.k.a. The Panther.
Mr. Fensterman also informed us, “I have copies of everything for both of you and for Buck.”
I was tired of giving Howard a hard time so I said, “Thank you.”
“I also have copies of the suspect’s fingerprints, and three color snapshots of him taken in the U.S. about twelve years ago, plus his last driver’s license and U.S. passport photo.”
“Good.” If you look like your passport photo, you’re already dead.
Anyway, I thought we’d get all this in Aden, but it was good to have it now in case we ran into the suspect on the road.
Mr. Fensterman continued, “He’s clean-shaven in these photos, but we know from various sources that he’s grown a beard.”
That’s what Rahim said at Ghumdan.
Howard further informed us, “He’s also wanted by a number of foreign governments for attacks against their citizens.”
“Right. The Saudis want him for killing some of their border guards.”
“Correct. And the Belgians for a possible kidnapping and suspected murder.”
I’d just heard about this from Colonel Kent, but I hadn’t mentioned it to Kate, who asked, “What was that about?”
Howard replied, “Back last August, nine Belgian tourists disappeared at the ruins near Marib.”
Kate said, “I remember reading something about that in the Times.”
She may have read it in the Post, but she always cites the Times. I do the opposite.
Howard continued, “It looked like a tribal kidnapping, but there was no ransom demand, and there was blood found at the ruins.” He added, “The Yemeni tour guide and bus driver were found… dead.” He added, “Throats slit.”
Didn’t sound good for those tourists. I asked, “Why does the Belgian government think it was The Panther?”
Howard replied, “The Belgians arrested an Al Qaeda suspect in Brussels on an unrelated charge, and apparently this information came out during the interrogation.”
Right. That’s how we get half our information; bad guys know lots of bad things.
Howard said to us, “So, aside from the Yemenis, other governments, including the Saudis, will want to be notified if we make an arrest, and they may ask for extradition. So we need to make a strong case for our Cole-related charge.”
&
nbsp; “Right.” The Saudis could be a problem if we did snatch The Panther and had to beat feet with him across the Saudi border. Therefore, we were probably not taking The Panther to Saudi Arabia, and certainly not handing him over to the Yemenis. It occurred to me that there was more going on here than I knew. I’m shocked.
Bottom line here: A bullet in the brain settles all extradition requests, jurisdictional disputes, and silly lawsuits.
Howard also informed us, “I’m going to stay on with you in Aden.”
Shit. But I said, “Great.” I felt obligated, however, to advise him, “We have intel that the Sheraton in Aden might be the subject of an Al Qaeda attack.”
“Really?”
“With luck, this will happen before we get there and the cocktail lounge won’t be damaged.”
Kate suggested to Howard, “You might want to return to Sana’a today.”
Howard thought about that—Death Highway back to Sana’a this afternoon, or Ground Zero in Aden tonight? Personally, I’d head inside for a muffin. But Howard said, “No, I’ll stay in Aden until a convoy heads north again.” He added, “I want to be close to this.”
“Your call.”
Zamo came over and asked us to join him at his Land Cruiser for a quick course on the M4 carbine.
He handed each of us a weapon and said, “This is the Model A1, a shorter and lighter version of the standard military M-16 assault rifle, which I’m sure you’re all familiar with.”
I hefted the carbine in my hands. It felt good. It felt bad.
Zamo, warming to his favorite subject, said, “It has a telescoping stock, and this model fires fully automatic.” He continued, “It takes the standard 5.56mm cartridge, and has a thirty-round magazine. The cyclic rate of fire is seven hundred to nine hundred and fifty rounds a minute.”
Kate asked, “Effective range?”
“You’ll get good accuracy at three hundred yards.” He further explained, “The short barrel reduces the effective range, but we have day and night scopes that I’ll give you.”
The Panther Page 25