“But that moment never arrived.”
“Not on that day, sir. But for the next day, we set forth a plan to—”
“Or were you waiting for the opportunity to kill only the security men, then kidnap Corey and his wife and claim your reward?”
Nabeel hesitated, then replied, “No, sir. A kidnapping was not possible in Sana’a with the police, the PSO—”
“Enough!” The Panther said to Nabeel sharply, “So on the following day, your two fortunate Americans again escaped death. Correct?”
Nabeel took another breath and replied, “They were taken from the Sheraton Hotel in an armored vehicle in the early morning and delivered to the American Embassy. Sometime later, the embassy watchers observed a convoy of five vehicles leaving the embassy.” Nabeel reminded his chief, “The armored vehicles have black glass, so neither the watchers nor a soldier who is a friend could say for certain if Corey or his wife were in any of the vehicles, but—”
“But you made the assumption that they were.”
“Yes, sir.” He explained, “Corey and his wife had arrived at the embassy at an early hour, then perhaps half an hour later the convoy passed through the gates, so—”
“I understand, Nabeel. So it was at this time that you decided to ambush the convoy.”
Nabeel had made no such decision. He had, in fact, called The Panther, who agreed that Corey and his wife were most probably in the convoy, and that an ambush should be set for the convoy. But this was not what The Panther wished him to say with Altair present.
Altair asked Nabeel, “Are you saying that you took it upon yourself to authorize an attack on the American Embassy convoy?”
Nabeel lowered his head and replied to Altair, “I did attempt, sir, three times to call al-Numair on the cell phone and satellite phone.”
The Panther said to Nabeel, “You should have attempted calls to others around me.”
“Yes, sir.” Nabeel knew that if the ambush had been successful, then this conversation would not be taking place in this way. He remembered something from the Hebrew Book of Leviticus: Let him go for a scapegoat into the wilderness.
The Panther said to Nabeel, “Now tell us what you know of this ambush.”
“Yes, sir.” Nabeel could take no blame for the failure of the ambush—that blame went to Faris, the local Al Qaeda leader who had organized the ambush—but by taking the blame for ordering it, Nabeel knew he had perhaps condemned himself to death.
“Nabeel? Speak.”
“Yes, sir.” He stood straight and addressed The Panther and Altair. “When I received word of the American convoy leaving the embassy, I immediately contacted our provincial leaders along the expected route.”
It was actually The Panther who had told him to do this, and it seemed a good strategy. Nabeel continued, “The route, as usual, was south, toward Aden, which is where the Americans go by convoy.”
The Panther said, “That was a good thought, Nabeel. I would have approved—if you had contacted me.”
“Yes, sir.” He continued, “Many friends along the route reported on the location of the convoy, and within hours, Faris had assembled fighters for an ambush in the hills south of Ibb.”
“Excellent,” said The Panther. “So is the convoy destroyed? Are all the Americans dead?”
Nabeel had been witness to his chief’s unusual manner of speaking to men who displeased him. He wondered if Bulus ibn al-Darwish had learned that way of speaking in America.
“Nabeel? Am I not speaking loudly enough for you?”
Nabeel drew a deep breath and replied, “I apologize, sir, for my slowness in responding—”
Altair interrupted, “Continue, Nabeel. What happened with this ambush?”
Nabeel continued, “Faris has told me that the ambush was well planned, with twenty jihadists, a car bomb, a roadside bomb, and a bomb in a donkey cart, whose driver was prepared to become a martyr, but—”
“Enough.” The Panther had already been told that the American Predator drones had seen the ambush and launched Hellfire missiles at the jihadists, so he said to Nabeel, “I have heard enough from you.”
“Yes, sir.”
He said to Nabeel, “I wish to see Faris. He is to travel to Marib town and await further instructions.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Or perhaps I should have someone else call him. Perhaps you will not be able to contact him with your troublesome cell phone.”
Nabeel did not reply.
The Panther commented, “You seem frightened, Nabeel. What is frightening you?”
Nabeel again lowered his head and replied, “My own inadequacy frightens me, sir.” He looked directly at The Panther and said, “I have failed you, and I have failed our great cause.”
“I agree with you, Nabeel. I agree that you failed to kill the two Americans as I ordered, and I agree that you ordered an ambush that ended in disaster. And what do you think your punishment should be?”
“Whatever you wish, sir.”
“Even death?”
“If it pleases you, sir.”
The Panther drew his jambiyah from its sheath and held the razor-sharp blade against Nabeel’s throat.
Nabeel felt his body and legs begin to tremble, and felt himself losing control of his bladder.
Altair said, “That is not necessary, Bulus.”
Perhaps, hoped Nabeel, the old man suspected that The Panther was lying and that it was The Panther who had ordered the ambush. Altair knew Bulus ibn al-Darwish well—perhaps too well. Nabeel prayed that Altair would save his life.
The Panther pressed the blade harder against Nabeel’s jugular vein, but did not draw the dagger across his throat. “Look at me. Look into my eyes.”
Nabeel looked into the eyes of The Panther and saw hate, but not of him, he thought. The hate was always there when the talk was of the Americans.
The Panther said to Nabeel, “So the Americans are now at the Sheraton in Aden, Nabeel. They are perhaps swimming in the pool. Or on the beach. Or perhaps they are having alcoholic drinks in the bar room. And how many jihadists lie dead in the hills and on the road because of your stupid decision to attack this convoy? How many, Nabeel?”
Nabeel swallowed and felt the blade press deeper into his flesh. “Ten, sir…”
“I think more.”
Altair said, “Bulus, we have been here too long.” He reminded him, “If the drones and the missiles trouble you, then we need to leave before they visit us.”
“Yes, but first I need to cut a throat.”
“Yes, but not this man’s throat. Another throat awaits you.”
The Panther did not reply to Altair, but he said to Nabeel, “Perhaps your throat can wait for another time.”
Nabeel felt a flood of relief passing through him and he closed his eyes, which filled with tears, and he nodded.
Still holding his curved dagger to Nabeel’s throat, The Panther said to his aide, “You are to travel to Sana’a with all speed, and board an aircraft to Aden. You are to take a room in the Sheraton Hotel and complete the task I have given you.”
Though he knew this was a suicide mission, Nabeel managed to say, “I will, sir.”
“And if you do not, or if you should leave Yemen out of fear, I assure you I will find you. And if I do not find you, I will find your family.” He asked, “Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir. I will kill—”
The Panther drew his blade across the left side of Nabeel’s neck and cut into his flesh.
Nabeel let out a sharp sound of surprise and pain, staggered backwards and grasped his neck with his right hand. Blood ran between his fingers as he probed the wound and satisfied himself that it was not fatal.
The Panther slipped his bloody jambiyah back into its sheath and said to Nabeel, “Come outside. I want you to see that I do know how to cut a throat.”
The Panther and Altair left the hut, and Nabeel hesitated, then, pressing his hand against his wound, he followed.
The men grew silent as their chief and the old man, Altair, stepped out of the hut.
The Panther walked directly to Captain Zuhair, but he did not address him. Instead, he addressed his jihadists and his council of advisors and his aides, and called out, “This man, Behaddin Zuhair, showed cowardice and stupidity as he led his brave jihadists against the American oil facility. He ignored the advice of our council and of his own lieutenant, Sayid al-Rashid, who died a hero’s death while his captain cowered behind a rock.” The Panther continued, “When Zuhair should have pressed the attack to total victory, he hid, then fled like a woman as the Americans and their mercenaries fired their weapons.”
The jihadists and the council of advisors sat silently.
The Panther continued, “I share in the blame for this defeat, because it was I who failed to see that Zuhair was not a true leader of men.”
The Panther’s council of advisors remained silent, but one of his personal aides called out, “No! No! It is Zuhair who is to blame!” Another aide shouted, “Zuhair spoke bravely, but hid his cowardice!”
The Panther motioned for silence. He noticed, as did Altair, that no man in the council of advisors had spoken for their leader as they were expected to do when the leader publicly confessed to a lapse of judgment or a wrong decision.
But he also noticed that the jihadists who were with Zuhair in the attack did not say anything in defense of Zuhair. They sat quietly, avoiding the eyes of their captain, and of The Panther.
The Panther knew he had to end this quickly, so he moved closer to Zuhair’s side and shouted at him, “Confess your cowardice and your incompetence and I promise you a quick and merciful death.”
Zuhair turned his head toward The Panther and spoke in a loud, clear voice, “I have nothing to confess. I have done my duty on the field of battle—”
“Quiet! I have asked you for a confession. Not excuses.”
“I make no excuses.” Captain Zuhair faced his men and, still kneeling with his wrists bound, he exhorted them to come to his defense. “Tell what you know! Tell what you saw! Speak truthfully of my actions—”
“Quiet!”
Zuhair suddenly stood and shouted, “Have I not led you well? Have I not done my duty…?” He looked out at the men who had trusted him with their lives—his men who themselves had faltered under the intense fire from the American compound. Did they not remember that he had rallied them and shouted words of encouragement and comfort as they lay on the ground, paralyzed with fear?
But no one spoke for him.
He called to them, “I do not fear death in battle, but I do not deserve this death. I do not deserve to have my reputation and honor—”
A shot rang out, and Zuhair fell forward on his face.
Everyone looked at the old man, at Altair, who had fired the shot from a pistol.
They then looked at Captain Zuhair, who was still alive, and those who were closest saw that Zuhair had been shot in the left buttock, where blood was spreading across his white fouteh.
The Panther looked at Altair, who was now standing close to him, and Altair said softly, “You let him speak too long, Bulus. Now finish it your way.”
The Panther nodded, then ordered two fighters to lift Zuhair into a kneeling position.
The Panther drew his jambiyah and came up behind Zuhair as the two men held him up. The Panther said to Zuhair, “You have chosen this death.”
Zuhair summoned all his energy to shout, “You will burn in hell!”
The Panther had heard too much already from this man, so instead of cutting his jugular and his arteries, he sliced deep into Zuhair’s throat where his larynx sat, and said, “Satan will be pleased not to hear you speak.”
The two men held Zuhair in the kneeling position as the man began choking and spitting up blood.
The minutes passed as Zuhair continued to drown in his own blood.
The Panther took this opportunity to mock Zuhair, saying to him, “You were too cowardly even to confess your cowardice. A man of honor, a soldier, would have said he had lost his courage and begged for a quick death. But instead, you dishonored yourself further by lying. You—”
Another shot rang out and the front of Zuhair’s head exploded with bone, brain, and blood.
Altair holstered his pistol and said to the jihadists, “Bury him quickly and deep so the animals do not find him.”
To Bulus ibn al-Darwish he said quietly, “You may show no mercy, Bulus, but you may not show such disrespect.” He reminded The Panther, “We are civilized.”
PART VII
Aden,
Yemen
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
The Land Cruiser’s outside temperature gauge read 102 degrees Fahrenheit, so I wasn’t too shocked when I opened my door and got hit by a blast furnace.
Clare and I left our flak jackets in the SUV and I told Clare to go ahead inside.
I took the binoculars and looked up at the hills that rose above the hotel. Last time I was here, there was no Yemeni Army security up there, and I didn’t see any now.
The perimeter security seemed to consist of the dozen Yemeni soldiers I saw along the entrance road, sitting on their asses in their white plastic chairs under sun umbrellas, chatting on their cell phones. Ice coolers completed the picture of intense vigilance. Did anyone tell these guys that Al Qaeda was heading this way?
Also, as I recalled, there was a white tent pitched on a ridge that ran down to the beach on the south side of the hotel, which the Yemenis said was an army observation post. But our commo people said it was a PSO listening post to intercept our radio and sat-phone communications—which was one reason we had the lead-lined tent on the fourth floor. The other reason was Al Qaeda, who also had some commo intercept capabilities.
I focused the binoculars on Elephant Rock on the north side of the hotel. There was still a Yemeni Army pickup truck on the rock, and on the flatbed of the truck was a .50 caliber machine gun manned by four Yemeni Army assholes who liked to keep the gun pointed at the hotel instead of at the surrounding hills. They probably thought this was funny; we did not.
The National Security Bureau, whose job it was to guard hotels, didn’t exist when I was here last time, and I was happy not to see their blue cammies here this time, even though I’d developed a special relationship with Captain Dammaj.
As for our own security, we had the Marines and FBI SWAT Team, and I recalled that there were always four Marine snipers on the roof, and four or five Marines with M-16s on the beach. At night, that figure doubled.
I shifted my attention to the convoy. Everyone was out of the Land Cruisers—all thirteen of us—and one of the DSS agents was overseeing the transfer of luggage and equipment into the hotel lobby, while the others were keeping an eye on things out here.
A few Arab guests, who looked like rich Saudis, in full robes and headgear, exited the lobby doors and spoke to the doorman about the shot-up vehicles.
It’s not often that you have armed military and para-military groups staying in a hotel where civilian guests are also staying. But this was Yemen, and the guests didn’t seem to mind our presence as much as we minded theirs. In a way, though, we provided protection for each other—Al Qaeda probably wouldn’t shoot up a hotel full of their co-religionists. Right? I recalled Buck saying not to worry unless the Arabs started checking out.
I also recalled that this Sheraton franchise was owned by a Saudi prince, but I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing in regard to the hotel getting blown up by Al Qaeda. Probably depended on who the prince was paying off or pissing off.
Anyway, all the luggage was inside, so I slung my M
4 and moved into the cool lobby.
A few DSS agents, including Mike and Zamo, were keeping an eye on the luggage cart, and Brenner was at the front desk checking us in without showing passports or giving names, which was none of the hotel’s business. The Americans owned floors three and four, forever, and the Saudi prince had a great cash cow going here, compliments of the American taxpayers.
The lobby had just been remodeled when I was last here, and it wasn’t bad—lots of mahogany woodwork and wicker furniture; sort of British tropical colonial, like hotels I’d been to in the Caribbean. And there the similarities ended.
I noticed the ubiquitous photo of Ali Abdullah Saleh, President for Life—until someone killed him—hanging on a wall. Big Ali is watching you.
I also noticed a few Western guests, probably clueless Europeans who got a good deal on a winter getaway. American tourists had the big advantage of never having heard of Yemen or Aden, and neither had their travel agents, and if they had, they didn’t want to go anyplace where Americans were not welcome—which was just about everywhere these days. Europeans thought they were welcome all over, which was another kind of ignorance or arrogance.
Also in the lobby were two Yemeni soldiers with AK-47s, and two U.S. Marines with M-16s. What must those European tourists be thinking by now? Great beach, cheap rates—but what’s with all these people carrying assault rifles? They must be shooting a movie.
I saw that a welcome committee of our colleagues had arrived, and Buck was speaking to three men and one woman in the sitting area of the lobby. Buck seemed to know them, and none of them looked like they could be our CIA guy, who I was sure would reveal himself in a more dramatic way—like maybe paragliding onto the beach. Or a more clandestine way, like if that potted palm over there started whispering to me. “Psst. Corey. Over here. The palm tree. Don’t look at me. Just listen.”
My wife, who’d gone off to freshen up, came up to me and said, “This isn’t a bad place.” She asked, “Did you have a good time here?”
That question was more loaded than a sailor on shore leave, and I replied, “Without you, darling, there are no good times.”
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