Everyone’s a comedian.
Sunday morning we got up late and I offered to make breakfast. I asked Kate, “Do you feel like pickles and ice cream?”
“What?”
“You should make sure you’re not pregnant before we see Walsh tomorrow.”
“John, I’m on the pill.”
“Right. How about scrambled eggs?”
We had breakfast, read the New York Times, and watched a few morning news shows. BBC is really the best source of world news that Americans don’t give a shit about, and we tuned in just in time to discover that there was yet another civil war going on in Yemen.
Apparently some tribal leader in the north named Hussein al-Houthi was trying to topple the government in Sana’a and restore the Imam to power and create an Islamic fundamentalist state. Hussein, according to the reporter with the British accent, wanted to kick out all the foreigners and infidels in the country and return Yemen to Sharia law. Not a bad idea. Kicking foreigners out, I mean. Me first. Hussein also wanted to cut off the head of Yemen’s longtime dictator president, a guy named Ali Abdullah Saleh. Hussein sounded like a guy who took the fun out of fundamentalist.
Kate hit the mute button and said to me, “I didn’t realize there was a war going on there.”
“There’s always a war going on there.” I inquired, “Did you know that Yemen has the highest ratio of guns to people in the whole world?” I explained, “They have to do something with those guns.”
She didn’t reply, but I could sense she was rethinking her year abroad.
We belong to a health club on East 39th Street, and we spent a few hours there, burning off the beef fat from Michael Jordan’s and sweating out the red wine.
Kate and I stay in pretty good shape, and we also spend time at the pistol range. If we were FBI accountants, we probably wouldn’t bother with any of this.
I needed a drink after the health club, so we walked up to Dresner’s, a neighborhood pub where they know my name too well.
We took a table near the window and ordered two beers to rehydrate.
Kate asked, “Do you want to talk about Yemen now?”
I replied, “I thought that was a done deal.”
“Well… I’m still leaning toward it, but I want you to go with me.”
What she actually wanted was for me to talk her out of it. My role-if I choose to accept it-is that of bad guy. But I didn’t want to play that role or that game. I said, “If you’re going, I’m going.”
“I don’t want you to do something you don’t want to do.”
“I want to do whatever you want to do, darling.”
“Well… maybe we should weigh the pros and cons.”
I couldn’t think of a single pro, but in the spirit of weighing all the issues, I said, “Maybe your parents could come for a long visit.”
She seemed a little annoyed and said to me, “If you’re going to be flippant about this, then I say we should just go.”
“Okay with me.”
End of discussion. Right? Well, no. It doesn’t work that way. She said, “I don’t think you mean that.”
Obviously Ms. Mayfield was wavering, and I was elected to give her the push one way or the other. I could have killed this thing right then and there, but I was taking some perverse pleasure in this. I mean, she was gung-ho for Yemen on Friday, but now some reality had set in.
Oddly enough, I was starting to think of some reasons why we should go. Not good reasons, but reasons-the biggest being that like most husbands, I sometimes let my wife do something I’ve advised against, which gives me the pleasure of saying, “I told you so!” I was actually looking forward to that moment. I pictured us in the desert with an overheated vehicle-maybe with bullet holes in the radiator and all the tires shot out-surrounded by Bedouin tribesmen with AK-47s. As I was slamming a magazine into my Glock, I’d look at her and say, “I told you so!”
“What are you smiling at?”
“Oh… I was just thinking about… how beautiful the desert is at night. Lots of stars.”
The waitress came by and I ordered a bacon cheeseburger with fries and another beer. Kate did the same. Hey, life is short. I informed Kate, “Not much beer or pork in Yemen.”
“If we go, I don’t want to hear you complaining for a year.”
“I’m not a complainer.”
“That’s a joke-right?”
“Complaining is a New York thing. It’s an art.”
“It’s annoying.”
“Okay. I won’t complain in Yemen. No one there gives a shit anyway.” I added, “Or they just kill you. End of complaint.”
She suppressed a smile.
I said, “There’s actually an off-Broadway theater in Sana’a, and they’ve got a long-running musical called ‘Guys and Goats.’ ” I broke into a show tune: “I got the goat right here, the name is al-Amir-”
She reminded me, “You’re an idiot.”
Back in our expensive apartment, we had coffee and watched some TV. The History Channel had yet another documentary about the end of the world, this one about the End of Days, as predicted by the Mayan calendar. December 21, 2012, to be exact. But they weren’t saying what time this was going to happen. I mean, you wouldn’t want to be sleeping and miss it.
Anyway, I felt like a cigar, so I went out to the balcony, lit up, and looked out over the city. It was a clear, cold night and I had great views to the south, and from here on the 34th floor I could see where I worked. We used to be able to see the Twin Towers, and after they were gone we could see the smoke rising for weeks, and then a few weeks later twin light beams rose high into the sky to symbolize the Towers. And now there was nothing.
Kate came out wearing a coat and carrying one for me. “Put this on.”
Real men don’t wear coats while they’re smoking a cigar on their balcony-but I put it on.
We didn’t speak for a while, and we watched the moon rising over the magical lights of Manhattan Island.
Finally, Kate said, “I’m actually going to miss New York.”
“You’ll appreciate it even more when you get back.”
She said, “This is obviously not a routine foreign assignment. This is something important. And Tom is showing confidence in us by asking us to take the job.”
“It’s very flattering,” I agreed.
“Which is why it’s hard to say no.”
“I thought we were saying yes. But if you want to say no, that’s easy.” I reminded her, “I signed on for domestic anti-terrorist work. So I have no legal or moral obligation to go to Yemen or anywhere else outside the U.S. You’re in a different position. So if you feel you need to go, I’ll go with you.”
She thought about that, then replied, “Thank you.” She said, “This may be a chance for us to make a difference. To actually apprehend the mastermind of the Cole attack.”
“Right.”
I looked toward the skyline where the Towers once stood. We’d both lost some good friends that day. And tens of thousands of other people lost friends, family, and neighbors. We were all heartbroken. Now we’re pissed.
Kate stayed quiet awhile, then said, “I really wouldn’t have gone without you.”
“You would have. But you’re not.”
We went inside and I settled into my soft leather La-Z-Boy recliner. I was really going to miss this chair.
Kate was curled up on the couch with her laptop, and she said to me, “You were right-Yemen has the highest ratio of guns to people in the world.”
“It’s a typical baby shower gift.”
She also informed me, “It’s the most impoverished, backward, and isolated country in the Mideast.”
“And that’s from the Ministry of Tourism. Wait until you read what the critics say.”
“Over a hundred Westerners-tourists, scholars, and businesspeople-have been kidnapped in the last ten years and held for ransom. Some were killed.”
I didn’t respond.
She continued, “
Did you know that Yemen is the ancestral homeland of Osama bin Laden?”
“I did. It’s also the homeland of Nabeel al-Samad.”
“Who?”
“My breakfast date.”
“He was Yemeni? Did you talk to him about Yemen?”
“Yeah. He said don’t drink the water.”
She went back to her computer and informed me, “Yemen is known as the Land That Time Forgot.”
“Sounds romantic.”
“In ancient times, it was the Kingdom of Sheba-where the Queen of Sheba came from.”
“Where’s she living now?”
“She’s biblical. King Solomon’s lover.”
“Right. As long as you’re up, can you get me a beer?”
“I’m not up.” She read her screen silently for a minute or two, then said, “This place is a shithole.”
“What was your first clue?”
“You never said much about it when you got back.”
“I don’t like to complain.”
I launched myself out of my chair and got two beers from the refrigerator. I handed one to Kate and said, “You understand that if we tell Tom we’re going, and he tells us more about this, then there’s no turning back.”
“Tom thinks this is right for us and I trust him.”
“I don’t. Tom only knows part of this. We get the real deal after we land.” I added, “It’s like quicksand.”
“I’m still in. As long as you promise that after we get there, you won’t say, ‘I told you so.’ ”
“That’s the only reason I’m going.”
“No, we’re going there to apprehend the man who masterminded the murder of seventeen American servicemen.”
“Correct.” We clinked bottles and drank.
CHAPTER SIX
Monday morning.
Kate and I got to 26 Federal Plaza at 8 A.M.
The lobby elevators are surrounded by thick Plexiglas walls and a Plexiglas door with a security pad. I punched us in and greeted the three armed and uniformed security guards, who are actually FBI Police. I gave the senior guy, Larry, my card, on the back of which I’d written Nabeel’s info, and told him, “Arab gent to see me. He’s supposed to show in the A.M. If he’s late or he doesn’t have his passport, beat the shit out of him until I get down.”
Larry thought that was funny. Kate, Ms. FBI poster girl, pretended she didn’t hear that. But on the way up in the elevator, she said to me, “Tom’s right. You’ll do better overseas.”
“I do just fine here.”
“Every Islamic civil rights group in the city has a wanted poster of you hanging in their office.”
I assured her, “I just joke around.”
“Like when you punched that Iranian U.N. diplomat in the groin?”
“He slammed his nuts into my fist.”
Anyway, we got to our office on the 26th floor and separated. Kate is in the FBI cube farm, I’m on the NYPD side. The FBI gets more sunlight, but the cops are closer to the elevators.
I gave ICE a call. Immigration and Customs Enforcement is in the same building and they work closely with us. I explained to a woman I know there, Betty Alvarez, that I had a possible informant and he had a work visa problem. I gave her the info from my notebook, and she said she’d try to check him out in her data bank. She asked, “Do you have his passport info?”
“No. But if he shows, I will.”
“Okay. Call me later.”
“Right.” I asked her, “Are you here legally?”
“John, fuck off.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
I was feeling a little nuts this morning, a result no doubt of the liberating effect of my pending departure to Siberia.
I used my landline phone to call Alim Rasul. Alim is NYPD, working for the Task Force. He was born in Iraq, but now lives in Brooklyn and calls himself Al.
He answered, and I said, “Are you around this morning?”
There was a second of silence, then he asked, “Is this Corey?”
“Yeah. Are you around?”
“John, I’m sitting right next to you.”
“Good. Do you speak Arabic?”
“Why are you calling me on the phone?”
“This is a secure landline.”
“You’re a fucking idiot.”
“Me? You’re the one still talking on the phone.”
He hung up and came around to my cube. “What can I do for you?”
I explained about Nabeel and said, “I need you to be in the interview room.”
“To translate?”
“No, Al. I just need you to hold him while I head-butt him.”
Al smiled politely.
I said, “I have to see Walsh at nine. If Nabeel shows while I’m with El Cid, maybe you can go down and get him.”
“Sure.”
I also informed him, “I may be out of town for a while. Maybe you want to handle this guy.”
“Okay.” He asked, “Where you going?”
“Sandland.”
“That’s a derogatory term.”
“Sorry. I’m going to the shithole of Yemen.”
“You screw up?”
“Not recently.” I let him know, “This is a promotion.”
He thought that was funny. He asked me, “Kate?”
“She’s coming.”
“Good. It’s b.y.o.b. in Yemen.”
“Yeah? I thought the babes were hot.”
“No, it’s the guys who will make you lose your head.”
So, with all the cultural jokes and slurs out of the way, I thanked Al for sitting in on the interview-formerly known as the interrogation-and I promised to bring him back a crucifix from Yemen.
I spent the next half hour on my computer, reviewing and updating my cases for whoever was going to get them.
Kate came over to my desk and said it was time to go see Tom.
On the way up the elevator to Tom’s office, she asked me, “Are we still okay with this?”
“I’ve always wanted to go to Sweden.”
“It’s Yemen, John.”
“Oh… well, that’s different.”
We got off at the 28th floor-housewares, supervisors, aggro, and bullshit-and walked to Tom’s door.
I was about to knock and enter, but Kate said, “Last chance.”
I knocked on the door and said to her, “You make the decision. Surprise me.” I added, “Remember the Cole.”
I opened the door and we entered.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Tom stood and greeted us at his desk. He asked, “How was your weekend?”
I informed him, “We saw the Monet exhibit at the Met.” And I got laid Saturday night. How about you?
All the pleasantries aside, he asked us, “So have you reached a decision?”
Kate, without even a glance at me, said to Tom, “We’ll take the assignment.”
He smiled. “Good. Have a seat.”
There’s a grouping of armchairs and a couch around a coffee table that Tom uses for important people, or people he needs to screw nicely, and Kate and I took the chairs facing the window. Tom sat on the couch and began, “First, I want to say that I appreciate your willingness to accept this overseas assignment.”
And so on. We got a short speech that he probably gives to everyone who’s going off to some craphole or another.
I interrupted Tom’s good-bye, good-luck speech and asked, “Are you going to tell us what this is about?”
He feigned surprise at the question and replied, “It’s pretty much what I said Friday.” He elaborated, “One of the three masterminds who were behind the Cole attack is in Yemen. He has been indicted in absentia. You will be part of a team that is looking for him.”
I asked, “What do we do with him when we find him?”
“You arrest him.”
“And?”
“And, we will extradite him to the U.S. Or maybe to Guantanamo.”
“Right. But as I was told when I was there, and
as you probably know, Tom, the Yemeni constitution specifically forbids extradition of any Yemeni citizen for any reason-including terrorism and murder.”
“Yes… that’s true. But they make exceptions. And that’s what Kate will be working on as our legal attache.”
“They haven’t made an exception yet, but okay.” I asked him, just to set the record straight, “Are you sure we’re not supposed to terminate this guy?”
He informed me, “We don’t assassinate people.”
“We don’t assassinate people,” I agreed. “But we have used Predator drones with Hellfire missiles in Yemen and elsewhere to… let’s say… vaporize about fifty or a hundred people.”
“That’s different.”
“I’m sure the vaporized guys understood that.”
Tom seemed a little impatient with me and said, “I’ll give you both a piece of information that you will get in Yemen. This suspect holds an American passport. He claims dual citizenship-Yemen and U.S. So yes, we have a good case with the Yemeni government for extradition.” He also reminded us, “We don’t kill U.S. citizens.”
“Actually we do if they’re enemy combatants. Also, as you know, if we do apprehend him and turn him over to the Yemenis, we may never see him again.” I reminded him, “Some of the Cole plotters were captured, put in Yemeni jails, and miraculously escaped.”
Tom nodded, then said, “Let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves. First things first. First, we need to apprehend this man.”
“Right. So to recap, we find this Yemeni with U.S. citizenship, turn him over to the Yemeni government, and hope they give him back to us.”
“Correct.”
“Can we at least torture him? Just a little?”
Tom asked, “Any other questions?”
Kate asked, “What is this man’s name?”
“You’ll be given his name when you get there. But he goes by the nom de guerre of al-Numair. Means The Panther.”
It seems to be my fate to get mixed up with Arabs who name themselves after big cats. The last guy was Asad-The Lion. Now I’ve got a panther to deal with. Hopefully, the next one will call himself Kitty.
The Panther jc-6 Page 4