So with cocktails and hors d’oeuvres served, Buck addressed Sheik Musa in Arabic, and the sheik was listening intently, or he was wasted on khat, and he nodded a few times. Some of the other Bedouin were speaking to Buck and to one another.
Chet knew a few words of Arabic, too, and he used them, but Bulus Brenner kept his Arabic to himself.
Recalling Captain Dammaj who hid his English from us, I asked Buck, “What are these nice people saying?”
Buck replied, “They are confirming our understanding.”
“Right. Five million bucks.”
“And they confirm that they’ve received the letter from Prince Imad of the Saudi royal family.”
“Wonderful.” I smiled at Sheik Musa and said, “Prince Imad is tops.” I gave the prince a thumbs-up.
Buck suggested, “Please be quiet.”
Right. I do the shooting.
On that subject, I looked at Zamo on the other side of the room. He’d been sitting very still the whole time, but his eyes were moving around from Bedouin to Bedouin, who undoubtedly reminded him of Afghan tribesmen. I had the impression he was committing these faces to memory in case he saw them again through his telescopic sight. Good boy, Zamo.
Anyway, Buck and the Bedouin jabbered away for a minute or so and Buck announced, “The sheik confirms that the van with the Predator ground monitoring equipment is here and is now at the safe house, guarded by his men.”
Great. And speaking of Predators, the sheik had to know they were circling overhead and that he had to be nice to us or he’d be toast.
Buck, Musa, and the other Bedouin exchanged a few more words and I heard, “al-Numair” and “Al Qaeda” a few times. Also, the word “Sana’a” came up, as did the word “Mukhabarat,” the PSO. It’s good to get briefed by the locals, except when the locals have their own agenda.
I looked at Sheik Musa in the dim, flickering light. The guy looked imposing, almost regal, and he had a terrific beak—one of those ice cutters like on the bow of a ship. His eyes were alert despite the hour and the green chew, and his skin looked like my leather La-Z-Boy, which, by the way, I missed. I don’t like sitting cross-legged.
The sheik said something that caused his five guys to nod and make approving sounds.
Buck said to us, “The sheik says we are brave men.”
Hey, Kate’s got balls, too. And we’re all idiots.
Buck continued, “He says that we have a common enemy. Al Qaeda. And of course, he says, the enemy of my enemy is my friend.”
Right. Until that changes. Not to mention that the sheik was doing business with our common enemy.
The sheik stood and we all stood. He said something, and Buck translated, “He says we all must be tired from our long journey, so he will have us driven to our house and he wishes us a pleasant sleep, and a safe stay in Marib.”
He probably said the same thing to the Belgian tourists. But they didn’t have five million bucks and Predator drones, so maybe this time he meant it.
Buck thanked the sheik and his trusted lieutenants for their hospitality and their assistance. The sheik decided to shake and he offered his hand to Buck, who took it and shook it. Then we all sheiked. Except for Kate, who kept admiring the carpet.
There were a dozen armed guys outside now, all dressed in robes, and they indicated three of the big Toyota Land Cruisers, which already had our bags in the back. So Kate and I got into one of the SUVs with two Bedouin up front, Buck and Chet got in another, and Brenner and Zamo got in the third. And off we went, down the goat path and onto the road, heading west, toward the rugged hills in the distance.
I announced to Kate, who was still wearing her scarf over her face, “I want to be a warlord.”
No reply.
“But I want to ride a white Arabian stallion. Not a Toyota.”
“The only leather that’s ever come in contact with your ass is your La-Z-Boy.”
Wives bring you down to earth. Every day.
Anyway, it seemed to me that Sheik Musa could be trusted. If he was going to turn us over to The Panther, he’d have already done that.
On the other hand, this was the Middle East. The land of the mirage, the shimmering pond in the sand that drew you farther into the deadly desert, and when you arrived at the lifesaving water, it disappeared, and you discovered the bones of those who’d been there before you. You discovered death.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
The three-vehicle convoy continued on the road that had been our landing strip, toward the hills we’d flown over. Buck and Chet were in the lead vehicle, Kate and I in the middle, and Brenner and Zamo were bringing up the rear.
The SUVs had their lights off, but there was still enough moonlight to see the straight road, which was also defined by the drainage ditch. I doubted if the Bedouin had valid driver’s licenses, but they seemed to know how to drive in the dark. I mean, camels don’t have headlights. Right?
Question: If the tribes rule here, why don’t these guys have their headlights on? Answer: There are other tribes. One is called Al Qaeda.
The night was cool and dry, and the starry sky was crystal clear. The half moon was sinking into the western hills and it would soon be dark, except for the starlight. The desert at night has a stark beauty, an otherworldly feeling that somehow changes your mood and your perception of reality. Maybe this was what drew The Panther to Yemen.
All Arabs were once nomadic, and they originated here, in Yemen, so maybe the desert was in The Panther’s genes, and in his blood. So it would be good for him to die here. Better than dying in New Jersey, which is redundant.
Our driver and shotgun guy were jabbering away to each other while also speaking on their cell phones. Maybe they were calling their wives. Hi sweetheart, yeah, gotta work late again. Don’t wait up. I’ll grab some roadkill.
Actually, neither of these guys spoke English, which limited our ability to gain some knowledge of their culture and their lives. That was the good news. On the downside, I had no idea what they were saying. Hopefully it was all good.
Within half an hour we were at the base of the jagged hills, which, as I saw from the air, were more like a series of eroded plateaus or mesas.
The road suddenly got narrow and twisty as we climbed up a ravine on the face of the plateau. The moonlight was almost gone, but the drivers continued on without their headlights. As we continued up the plateau, the road became a stone-strewn goat path. Then a chipmunk path.
Finally, we came to the top of the plateau, which was not flat like a real plateau, but was studded with huge rock formations. I mean, if the flatlands below were the middle of nowhere, then this place was the top of nowhere. Good place for a safe house, though.
There was still some moonlight up here, and as we drove a few hundred meters across the rocky plateau, I could see the outline of a large structure up ahead, silhouetted by the sinking moon.
The vehicles all stopped near the structure, and I saw Buck and Chet getting out of the SUV. This must be the place.
Kate and I got out and so did Brenner and Zamo, and we all stared at our new safe house away from home.
Rising in front of me was a square tower, like the tower houses in Sana’a. This one was about six stories high with randomly spaced windows beginning about twenty feet from the ground. The top floor of the tower was formed by open arches, and attached to the tower was what looked like a walled-in courtyard, probably the camel parking lot. The entire structure was built out of the only building material around here: rocks. And more rocks. Also, I noticed, the tower sat at the edge of what looked like an eroding cliff.
Buck was speaking to two Bedouin who’d come out of the courtyard to greet us, and we all walked over to them.
Buck said to us, “This is called a nawba, a watchtower or fortress, and it’s named Husin al-Ghurab—the Crow Fortress.”
Right. You’d have to be a crow to get here.
Buck, sounding like a realtor trying to dump a white elephant on clueless yuppi
es, said, “It was the property of Sultan Ismail Izzuddin ibn al-Athir.”
I wouldn’t want to have to sign autographs with that name.
Buck told us, “The sultan was expelled with all the Yemeni sultans after the 1967 revolution and he lives in exile in Saudi Arabia. Sheik Musa, who is his nephew, keeps an eye on the fortress for his uncle until he returns someday.” Buck informed us, “A floor of the tower has been cleaned for us, and bedding provided.”
I wasn’t going to think about that bedding, but I did ask, “Water? Electricity?”
“Neither,” Buck assured us. He continued, “The top of the tower, the mafraj, is good for observation and sat-phone communication.”
Right. The room with a view. Pass the khat, and call home. Hello, Tom? You’re not gonna believe where I am. Asshole.
I inquired, “Is there an excrement shaft in the tower?”
“I’m sure there is.”
Great. Maybe I can get Chet to stand under it.
Anyway, Buck exchanged a few words with one of the Bedouin, who led us toward the small fortress. I didn’t see a door in the tower, but there was a gated opening in the courtyard wall, and we passed through into the large walled-in area where two small SUVs were parked. Also parked in the courtyard was a thirty-foot box van. The van was white and on the side was something written in Arabic and a picture of a red fish. On top of the van’s roof was what appeared to be a refrigeration unit, though I knew this was the sealed dome of a satellite dish.
One of the Bedouin spoke to Buck, who said to us, “The two Hiluxes are for our use. The truck, as you know, is our communication system and Predator monitoring station.” He also let us know, “This truck came into Sana’a Airport with me on the C-17.”
Which was another reason why Kate and I couldn’t get a ride on the C-17. I wondered what else or who else was on board.
Buck and Chet went over to the two rear doors and satisfied themselves that the doors were padlocked. Buck had a penlight and he confirmed, “This is the same padlock from the aircraft, and the wax seal is intact.”
Good. Recalling the Trojan horse, I wouldn’t want to discover that the van was now filled with jihadists. Or explosives.
Buck also informed us, “I have the padlock key.” He added, “We’ll open it in the morning.”
It is morning, Buck.
Chet confirmed that he had the backup key, then he unlocked the cab and checked that the ignition key was in the ignition lock, and Buck and Chet confirmed that they both had backup keys. Also, one of the Bedouin turned over a set of keys to Buck.
So obviously a lot of this had been pre-planned back in the States, including getting Mr. and Mrs. Corey to come along. And now it was all coming together here, in Marib province, where apparently the planners knew The Panther would be. And they knew this before the attack on the Hunt Oil installation. It occurred to me, not for the first time, that what I was seeing was the tip of the iceberg. That in itself was not unusual—you only need to know what you need to know in this business. But I had the feeling that there were things I did need to know that I didn’t know.
Brenner asked Buck, “How did the truck get here?”
Buck replied, “We turned it over to two of Sheik Musa’s men at the airport, and they drove it directly here, without incident, accompanied by a discrete armed escort of SUVs, also provided by Sheik Musa.”
The sheik was earning his five million Yankee dollars. He was incentivized. Money talks. Loyalty is just a word.
Kate, who was still recalling the thrilling ride up to this plateau, asked, through her scarf, “But how did they get this truck up here?”
Buck informed all of us, “My driver, Amid, told me there is a better road coming up here from the north.” He also let us know, “Amid says the sheik has that approach guarded.”
Great. So we were protected by men and terrain. Unfortunately, protected also means boxed in. But to be positive, like Buck, I had to admit that Sheik Musa seemed to be living up to his end of the deal. And yes, we couldn’t have done any of this without the help and cooperation of a local sheik. In this case, Sheik Musa.
The three Toyota Land Cruisers that we’d arrived in pulled into the courtyard and the Bedouin began unloading our bags.
Two of the Bedouin led us across the courtyard to a narrow opening in the base of the stone tower, and as we entered the dark space, I immediately recognized it as the livestock level, complete with dirt floor and pungent smell. I looked up at the high ceiling for the opening of the excrement shaft, but I couldn’t see much in the dark.
The two Bedouin had flashlights and they pointed the beams at a stone staircase, then led the way up.
The second floor of the six-story walk-up was the diwan level, the prime space in the tower, and the Bedouin stopped there and said something to Buck, who said to us, “This is where we stay.”
Our hosts began lighting kerosene lamps, illuminating the large open space that was the entire floor of the tower, supported by stone pillars. A few window openings let in some moonlight, air, and birds. The floor was rough-hewn planks covered with bird shit, and the walls were unplastered stone. This whole place was basically a pile of rock, like a medieval castle, hardly fit for a sultan, let alone six finicky Americans. Well… maybe not all of us were finicky. In any case, this was where we’d be returned to after our staged kidnapping to await the Al Qaeda guys who’d be taken here by Musa’s men to see us. Hopefully that wouldn’t be a long wait.
As my eyes adjusted to the light of about ten lanterns, I spotted our bedroom—six ratty blankets spread over a bed of straw. I also noticed a small wooden shed in the far corner, and if I had to guess I’d say that was the master bathroom, a.k.a. the excrement shaft. Other than a washbasin on a stand, there wasn’t a single stick of furniture in the place, leaving lots of room for a La-Z-Boy recliner. Also, it goes without saying that the only items in the room from the twenty-first century were us.
Buck said, “All the comforts of home.”
Right. If home was Dracula’s castle.
Buck also said, “Someday, when this country is at peace and tourism returns, this will be a quaint country inn.” And he named it for us: “The Sultan’s Crow Fortress. Fifty dollars a night.”
“Great view,” I agreed. But don’t put the reception desk under the excrement shaft.
A few of the other Bedouin began arriving, carrying our bags, which they deposited near the straw and blankets. Nice chaps. I would have tipped them, but if things went right, they’d be sharing in Musa’s five million bucks. Warlords and tribesmen can do okay if they get tight with the Americans and the Saudi princes. I need to look into a career change.
Buck exchanged a few more words with our Bedouin bellboys, who, said Buck, wished us good sleep. But why were they grinning and fingering their jambiyahs? Or was it just the light?
With all the Bedouin gone, Kate pulled off her scarf and balto and threw them on a blanket.
Brenner quipped, “Hussy.”
That got a laugh—the first laugh in a long time. I think we were all relieved to have gotten this far.
We were one step closer to The Panther, and soon he’d know we were here, if he didn’t already know. Let the hunt begin.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
We spent a few minutes exploring our accommodations, discovering a crate of bottled water and a sack of flatbread.
Chet excused himself to go up to the mafraj to make a sat-phone call, probably to his station chief in Sana’a, or maybe mission control in Washington. Also, he’d want to speak to the Predator ground control station, which could be anywhere in the world. And while he was doing all that, he might as well have a little chew.
Zamo was in his sniper mode, going from window to window, sighting his rifle and nightscope at the surrounding terrain. He let us know, “Great perch. But too many rocks down there for cover and concealment. But no concealment between the rocks.”
Zamo saw life through a telescopic sight. Someone
else would see a nice view. Position determines perspective.
Kate and I looked out a window into the courtyard below. The six Bedouin who’d driven us here were apparently staying with the two Bedouin who’d been here watching the van, and I could see them all in the fading moonlight sitting in a circle on a carpet that they’d rolled out. They seemed to be brewing tea on a camp stove and chatting away.
Chet returned and informed us, “Predators report no unusual or suspicious activity in the area.”
I guess Chet told them that the eight Bedouin they saw in the courtyard were on our side. The problem with aerial reconnaissance, no matter how sophisticated, was that it couldn’t read minds or hearts and couldn’t predict intentions. That’s where human intelligence—HUMINT—came in. The problem with human intelligence, however, was that not all Homo sapiens were sapient.
Brenner, who was our security guy, said, “It’s only a few hours to first light. So I suggest we stay awake, and at first light we’ll post two lookouts, and sleep in shifts.”
Everyone, I was sure, was sleep-deprived, but you gotta do what you gotta do to avoid the Big Sleep.
There was a carpet laid out near our sleeping area, which I guess was the living room, and Buck suggested we sit.
Kate and Brenner brought over some bottled water and the sack of bread.
So we sat cross-legged, drank water, and passed around the flatbread, which Buck said was called tawwa, which must mean “fresh last week.”
Chet didn’t seem particularly hungry or tired and I guessed he had a chew in the mafraj. Maybe there was something to this stuff. Chet asked if we minded if he smoked, reminding us half-jokingly, “We could all be dead tomorrow anyway.” Well, if you put it like that, Chet…
The Panther Page 41