Mr. al-Darwish pressed the muzzle of his AK-47 against the back of my head and said, in perfect English, “Throw your gun on the ground. Now!”
I threw the Colt .45 a few feet away.
He had backed off so I couldn’t grab the barrel of his rifle, and he said, “Hands on your head.”
I put my hands on my head. Where were Kate and Brenner?
“Who are you?” he asked.
“Your worst nightmare.”
“No, I am your worst nightmare.”
“I’m taking you back home, Bulus.” I reminded him, “Your momma’s waiting for you.”
He gave me a kick in the back of the head and asked, “How many people are with you?”
“More than are with you. Everyone you know is dead.”
He had nothing to say about that, and there was a long silence. Then he asked me, “How did you find this place?”
“A soaring eagle told me.” I translated for him, “Altair.” He didn’t respond to that, so I went into my police mode and said, “You’re trapped, Bulus, and you’re going to die unless you surrender.”
“Do not use my given name.”
Shithead? I said, to make it official, “You’re under arrest.”
He thought that was funny and asked, “What is my arresting officer’s name? That’s my right as an American citizen to know your name.”
Asshole. I told him, “John Corey, Anti-Terrorist Task Force.”
“So you finally found me. Or have I found you?” He asked, “Where is your wife, Mr. Corey?”
“Where’s yours? Dead?”
I thought that would send him over the edge and he’d try another kick, which would not go as well for him as the last one, but he didn’t react. Maybe he had more wives.
He asked me, “Do you think this cave has only one entrance? Do you think I’m stupid?”
Yes, I do think you’re stupid, and yes I thought this cave had only one way in and out. But I guess it had two. Shit.
He let me know, “I will be on the other side of this hill in ten minutes, you’ll be dead, and anyone who follows me through the cave will step on a pressure mine and be blown up.”
Holy shit.
“So I will say good-bye to Mr. Corey, and to Mrs. Corey in absentia.”
I was certain he wouldn’t fire, because he knew there were other people out there who would come charging in, firing—so he was going for his jambiyah to do it quietly.
I spun around on my buttocks and as I did I saw that he had his knife in his right hand, his rifle was slung, and his left hand was reaching for my hair. My legs caught him below the knees and he lost his balance and fell sideways.
I pulled my jambiyah, which he didn’t see as he scrambled away from me and unslung his rifle.
Before he could level it, I was on top of him and I pressed my full weight down on him. He thrashed around, trying to get his rifle into a firing position, but I wasn’t going to let that happen. He’d dropped his jambiyah, but now his right hand reached out for it, and he got hold of the handle and brought the tip around and buried it into my back. He realized it wasn’t penetrating, and he brought it up again to stick it into my neck or head.
I gave him the old knee in the balls, which refocused his attention, then I put the curved blade of my jambiyah under his full beard and on his throat and said, “Remember the Cole, asshole.”
Our eyes met for a second, then I pressed hard and drew the blade across his throat, which opened his jugular vein and both carotid arteries, causing his warm blood to spurt over my hand. I told him, “You have the right to remain silent.”
I kept at it, sawing through his flesh, windpipe, muscles, and tendons until I got to his spine, which I separated with the blade, then I kept going until the blade hit the dirt floor.
I sat up, drew a long breath, then grabbed his hair and held up his head. I said to The Panther, “Payback, you fucking bastard. Payback for the men on the Cole, payback for the men, women, and children you murdered, you piece of shit. Payback—”
Kate said, “John… John… it’s okay… it’s okay… stop…”
Brenner grabbed the severed head by its hair, pulled it out of my hand, and threw it across the floor of the cave. He said, “Time to go.”
Kate took my arm and I stood.
Time to go home. That’s the plan.
PART IX
New York City
CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR
The big, four-faced stanchion clock read 6:50. Most of the commuters had departed for the suburbs, but arriving trains brought fresh blood—theatergoers, partiers, and others from near and far who poured into Manhattan every night through Grand Central Station.
Maybe, I thought, it was a little hokey to meet under the clock that had been used in so many movies as a rendezvous for lovers. But the clock had also served as a meeting place for tens of thousands of soldiers, sailors, and airmen coming home to their families, so this was okay.
Buck could not join us, but he was a gentleman of the old school, and he had sent his regrets, demonstrating not only good manners, but also tremendous chutzpah.
In other news from the front, Kate and I had been notified, officially, that Mr. Chet Morgan of the Central Intelligence Agency had been struck by a Bedouin bullet as he tried to rescue us in the Black Hawk helicopter. That’s not quite how I remembered it, but in any case Mr. Morgan had died of his wound before the helicopter reached Najran airbase.
This was the second CIA officer whose death had been announced to me, the first being the aforementioned Ted Nash, who actually died twice, officially, before Kate whacked him for real. And I had the feeling that Chet Morgan, too, would experience a resurrection, and that I’d hear from him again. If not, he would hear from me.
Zamo, too, couldn’t join us because he was on extended medical leave, recuperating from his injury, in Las Vegas. I hope his luck holds out.
We’d also invited Howard Fensterman and Clare Nolan, who had grown closer in the three weeks since we’d seen them, and they would have loved to be in New York with us, but their new duties in Sana’a prevented them from taking home leave at this time. They did promise, however, to be in New York for the holidays, all of which Howard probably celebrates.
Reunions sound good in theory, like my high school reunions, but in reality you don’t always want to see the people who you bonded with at certain times and places in your life journey. The memories are good and they should be preserved and acknowledged with a holiday card or a quick e-mail and not be spoiled by actually having to see those people again. Clare, however, might be an exception.
Also, I was looking forward to seeing Paul Brenner. Mr. Brenner was home on leave, in Virginia, but as I predicted he was returning to Yemen. Some people can’t get enough fun. I mean, this is the guy who did a second tour in Vietnam. One day, some tour in some shithole would kill him, but for now he was happy to feel alive by daring death. I suppose I could say the same about myself, and maybe even Kate, but… Well, no buts. We’re back at 26 Federal Plaza, me with a new three-year contract, and Kate with a guarantee of three more years in the city she’s grown to love with the man she loves, and tolerates. That’s me.
But if we get bored or restless or tired of Tom Walsh’s act, there are a dozen other hellholes where the Anti-Terrorist Task Force operates, and we may volunteer for one of them. Hopefully we won’t have to take another State Department course in cultural awareness. The last one didn’t work too well.
Kate and I watched Paul Brenner and his lady walking across the marble floor of the Main Concourse. They spotted the tall clock, then spotted us, and Brenner and his lady made their way through the crowd.
Kate said, “She’s very attractive.”
I wouldn’t have expected less from a man who has good taste in women.
We waved, they waved, we all met and shook hands or hugged, and Brenner introduced us to his lady, who said to Kate and me, “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
I couldn’
t say the same, but she seemed like a nice woman and we went up to Michael Jordan’s Steak House on the mezzanine, where I got silly and asked the waiter for a Pink Panther, on the rocks.
When the ladies went to freshen up, Brenner said to me, “Buck.”
I didn’t reply.
Brenner asked, “Are we supposed to let that go?”
“We’re supposed to believe that Buck was an unwitting accomplice.”
“He wasn’t unwitting.”
Right. But Buckminster Harris had served his country well and honorably since I was a milk drinker, so I said, “I don’t want to see him disgraced in public.”
Brenner nodded, then inquired, “How about dead in private?”
“Whatever you decide, I’m with you.”
Brenner said, “I’m not buying that Chet is dead.”
“Seems a little suspicious,” I agreed. “When we see Buck, we’ll get the truth.”
Brenner leaned toward me and said softly, “I want both of them dead.”
I nodded.
The ladies returned and we ordered another round. I could see that Kate liked Brenner’s lady, whose name was Cynthia, and we learned that Paul and Cynthia had met on the job, just as Kate and I had. Cynthia Sunhill was Army, Criminal Investigation Division, and she’d requested a posting in Yemen. Good luck.
When the waiter came around, I, of course, inquired about any goat specials. Kate rolled her eyes. Brenner laughed.
It was a good evening and we parted, promising to stay in touch, which was inevitable because of the scheduled CIA post-op meeting in Washington. That should be interesting.
As for the thanks of a grateful nation, that hadn’t yet been scheduled.
Hey, we were lucky we had jobs. Right?
Acknowledgments
First, my sincere thanks to Jamie Raab, Executive Vice President and Publisher of Grand Central Publishing, for taking on an additional job as editor of this novel. Jamie has been tireless, patient, and precise during the entire process, and this is a better book because of her keen editorial judgment and sage advice. We don’t always agree on what I’ve written, but we always agree that the end product is a smooth combination of Jamie’s yin and my yang.
Thanks, also, to Harvey-Jane Kowal, a.k.a. HJ, who came out of retirement from Hachette Book Group to work on another DeMille book. HJ is a master of grammar, punctuation, spelling, and fact-checking, and she saves me from looking uneducated. Our tradition for the last eleven books has been to celebrate the editing of the last page with a few Bloody Marys. Here’s to you, HJ.
A book needs many editorial eyes and minds, and I thank Roland Ottewell, who has worked with care and precision on my last several manuscripts. And because my manuscripts are always late and due at the printer yesterday, Roland also works long hours to make the manuscript printer-ready. Thanks, Roland, for another job well done.
On the corporate level, I’d like to thank David Young, Chairman and CEO of Hachette Book Group. David takes the time from his busy schedule to read my manuscripts, though that isn’t in his job description. David either enjoys my writing or he wants to see what he’s paying for. I thank David, too, for his friendship and for his good taste in Scotch whisky.
As in all my novels, I’ve called on friends and acquaintances to assist me with technical details, professional jargon, and all the other bits and pieces of information that a novelist needs but can’t get from books or the Internet.
First in this category is Detective Kenny Hieb (NYPD, retired), formerly with the Joint Terrorism Task Force and currently doing something similar, though I can’t be specific. Kenny has been to Yemen in real life with the JTTF, and his experience there and his memories, notes, and photos of Yemen have all been invaluable to me as I constructed the world of this book. Thanks, Kenny, for your help, but more important, thank you for your work in keeping America safe.
I should say here that any errors of fact or procedures regarding police work, Anti-Terrorist operations, and related matters are a result of either my misunderstanding of the information given to me, or a result of my decision to take dramatic liberties and literary license.
Another eyewitness to Yemen was Matt Longo, who was in that country for more peaceful reasons than John Corey was. Matt, a college roommate of my son, Alex, is well traveled in many Arabic countries and he has been of great help to me in regard to the Arabic culture and the religion of Islam. I have included Matt as a character in this book with the thought that Matt represents a younger generation who may help define our future relations with the world of Islam, and bridge the cultural gap that exists between the two worlds. Thanks, Matt, for your help and your insights.
Many of my novels have benefited from the assistance of my childhood friend Thomas Block, U.S. Airways Captain (retired), columnist and contributing editor to aviation magazines, and co-author with me of Mayday, as well as the author of seven other novels. Although Tom has retired as an international captain, he has not retired from writing, which does not require good eyesight or quick reflexes, and Tom has recently published his seventh novel, Captain, available on his website: www.thomasblocknovels.com.
Many thanks, too, to Tom’s lovely wife, Sharon Block, former flight attendant for Braniff International and U.S. Airways, for her timely and careful reading of the manuscript and her excellent suggestions, as well as her keen eye for typos and bad punctuation. Sharon’s reading skills have been invaluable to both me and Tom, as our minds tended to wander in high school English class. What we were thinking about is another story, but we both knew we’d someday have a lady in our lives who knew how to proofread.
Thanks, too, to John Kennedy, Deputy Police Commissioner, Nassau County (NY) Police Department (retired), labor arbitrator, and member of the New York State Bar. John has read and assisted with all my John Corey novels, and he comes to this task with a unique combination of skills and knowledge as a police officer and an attorney. John is my reality check, and if he says something is not legally or procedurally correct, then I rewrite it—or I invoke the novelist’s right to make up stuff.
This book would not have existed without the dedication and hard work of my two assistants, Dianne Francis and Patricia Chichester. I write my novels longhand, but for years no one could read my handwriting and it seemed that I had to learn to type or never be published again. But then along came Dianne, then Patricia, who could understand my illegible scrawl and put it into type form so I, too, could read what I wrote. Dianne and Patricia also read the manuscript, page by page, and their comments, fact-checking, and proofreading are nothing short of amazing. Thank you for that and for keeping my life and schedule organized.
As with dessert, the best is last, and that’s my wife, Sandy Dillingham DeMille, who has shared with me all the agonies and ecstasies of book writing. Sandy’s support and encouragement have pulled me through some tough writing periods, and her editorial suggestions and marginal notes are literally the last word on my manuscript before it gets sent to the publisher.
Sandy and I are celebrating our tenth year together, and it’s all been one well-plotted and beautifully written romance novel.
The following people have made generous contributions to charities in return for having their name used as a character in this novel:
Howard Fensterman, who contributed to the Crohn’s & Colitis Foundation of America; and John “Zamo” Zamoiski, who contributed to the Irvington Education Foundation.
I hope they enjoy their fictitious alter egos and that they continue their good work for worthy causes.
NOVELS BY NELSON DEMILLE
Available from Grand Central Publishing
By the Rivers of Babylon
Cathedral
The Talbot Odyssey
Word of Honor
The Charm School
The Gold Coast
The General’s Daughter
Spencerville
Plum Island
The Lion’s Game
Up Country
Wild Fire
The Gate House
The Lion
WITH THOMAS BLOCK
Mayday
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Contents
Welcome
Dedication
Author’s Note
Part I: Marib, Yemen
Chapter One
Part II: New York City
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Part III: Marib, Yemen
Chapter Fifteen
Part IV: Sana’a, Yemen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
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