The Panther jc-6

by Nelson DeMille

  Kate said, “Now I can picture where you were.”

  “Right.” I hadn’t taken many photos, and the ones I’d taken were designed to show the port city of Aden as the shithole it was-mostly dilapidated buildings, barefoot urchins, women in black baltos, and men with guns. I mean, I didn’t want anyone thinking I was having a good time here.

  Kate said to me, “My forty days in Dar es Salaam were no treat, but it wasn’t Yemen.”

  “There is only one Yemen,” I assured her.

  I pointed toward Elephant Rock and said, “On the other side of that peninsula is Aden Harbor, where the Cole was anchored on October 12, 2000.”

  Kate nodded.

  Seventeen American dead and thirty-nine wounded, some disabled for life. And that suicide boat should never have gotten anywhere near an American warship.

  So, what have we learned from the Cole and from 9/11 and from all the terrorist attacks before and since? Two things that we’d forgotten over the years: Kill them before they kill you, and if they kill you, hunt them down and deliver lethal justice. That’s why I was here.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Kate wanted to go down to the pool, so, good husband that I am, I said I’d keep her company. Also, Clare was in the pool, but that had nothing to do with my decision.

  Our rooms here are considered secure, so we were able to leave our rifles in the room, but we locked our papers in the safe, as per regulations. We did need to take our sat-phones, radios, and handguns, which we stuffed in the pockets of our bathrobes, and we took the elevator to the lobby and went out to the pool.

  Buck and Brenner were also there, as was Howard, and they got out of the pool, along with Clare.

  I should mention here that pool attire for gentlemen was long bathing trunks or shorts, and a T-shirt. For women it was long shorts and a long, loose T-shirt. And that’s about as risque as it got at any of the hotels or beaches in Yemen. So if I was looking forward to seeing Clare in a bikini-and why would I be? — I would be disappointed.

  Clare, however, still looked good in a wet T-shirt. In fact…

  “John.”

  “Yes, dear?”

  “We’re sitting over there.”

  “Right.”

  We all sat around a table under an umbrella and ordered a pitcher of iced tea. There was no sea breeze from the gulf, and it was hot.

  A few Western tourists swam in the pool or lay on chaises, but there weren’t any Mideastern guests at the pool, and there never would be. Not that I was dying to see Abdul or Afiya in shorts and T-shirts, but it might do them some good to get a little sun on their skin-vitamin D-and learn how to swim. Or am I being culturally insensitive again?

  Anyway, we all chatted awhile and drank iced tea, which is as bad a drink as anyone ever invented.

  Buck, holding court, said, “Local legend says that the graves of Cain and Abel are located here in the Ma’alla quarter of the city.”

  I had an old homicide sergeant who claimed he worked that case.

  Buck further informed us, “The Yemenis also believe that this is where Noah’s Ark sailed from.”

  Lucky for life on earth that suicide bombers didn’t blow a hole in its side.

  Buck concluded, “The Yemenis like to appropriate history from the Old and New Testaments and move it here.” He added, “The American Mormons have also speculated that some of their history began here.”

  Yeah? Why here? Maybe because the great truth about Yemen was that it was the land of lies and half-truths. As I was discovering.

  “I never thought I’d say this,” Buck confided to us, “but this place was better under the Yemeni Communists.” He explained, “They were secular, and they kept the fundamentalist Muslims in line-with Russian help.” He added, “Now that South Yemen is dominated by the north, it is slipping back into fundamentalism.”

  On a more important topic, Clare had put on her bathrobe. Which has nothing to do with anything. Why did I even mention that?

  Buck informed us, “I was here in January 1986, when the thirty-day civil war devastated Aden. Thousands were killed, and I was almost one of them.”

  He got a faraway look in his eyes, then continued, “The war of 1994 was particularly devastating. This city was under siege for two months and the water pumping facilities were destroyed and people were dying of thirst.”

  Kate asked him, “Did you stay in the city?”

  “I did, and I sent radio reports to the State Department…” He let us know, however, “I had several months’ supply of Seera beer put away for such a situation.” He informed us, “The Seera brewery was built by the British, and it supplied the whole country with beer. But when the North Yemenis took the city, they blew up the brewery.” He added, “Bastards.”

  That got a chuckle. But it was also a hint of what went on here not too long ago. And also a hint of what Buck Harris had experienced here over the years. I had no doubt that this man was a dedicated professional. What troubled me, though, was his profession. I have a thing about intelligence officers, no matter what alphabet agency they work for. I mean, they do a necessary job, and I respect what they do, but if you’re not one of them, you can wind up on their expendable list, as Buck himself had confessed in vino veritas.

  On that subject, I was still waiting for our CIA guy to show himself, and my instincts said it would be soon.

  We were all baking in the heat, so we unrobed and dove into the pool, which was warm as bathwater.

  Everyone, I assumed, had a gun and extra magazines in their bathrobes, and the staff knew that and stayed away from our table. Also, as per my last visit here, there was a Marine sniper on the roof keeping an eye on the pool and beach. Every resort hotel should have a sniper on the roof. Helps you relax.

  Anyway, after about a half hour of pool frolics, I suggested a beach volleyball game, admitting, “I got very good at this when I was here.”

  We carried our bathrobes down to the beach and hung them on the net pole, then chose up sides: Buck, Clare, and me against Brenner, Kate, and Howard.

  We played best out of five, and I seemed to be the only one who knew how to play the game. My team swept the first three, with me as the high scorer, of course. Hey, I played this stupid game for forty days. That’s why I suggested it.

  Brenner, I noticed, was a competitive player, and not a very good loser. Neither am I, which is why I play games I can win.

  Buck suggested a walk on the beach, so we asked one of the Marines to watch our backs and watch our robes and guns, and we all went down to the water. As I said, naked on the beach in Yemen means you don’t have your gun.

  Howard announced, “I want to take a swim. Who’s coming in with me?”

  How could I resist saying, “Do you know why sharks don’t eat lawyers? Professional courtesy.”

  Okay, old joke, but it got a laugh because of the immediate proximity of the lawyer and the sharks.

  Brenner, of course, took the challenge, and I did, too, but Kate said, “John, I don’t want you-any of you-to go in.”

  Buck informed us, “It’s very dangerous.”

  Well, that settled it. Howard, Brenner, and I ran into the surf and dove in. The gulf was calm, the salt water was buoyant, and the tide was running out, so it was an easy swim, even with the weight of our heavy shorts and T-shirts.

  We got about a hundred yards out when I spotted two gray dorsal fins about twenty feet away. Holy shit.

  Howard said hopefully, “Could be dolphins.”

  I suggested, “Tell them the lawyer joke and when they laugh we can see if they have sharp teeth.”

  Anyway, we headed for shore and made it back to the shallow water, where Buck, Kate, and Clare stood waist-deep in the surf watching us set a swim speed record.

  Buck asked, “Sharks?”

  I replied, “I didn’t ask.”

  We all waded ashore, and Kate said to me sharply, “We didn’t come all the way here and survive an ambush so you could get eaten by a shark.”<
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  “Yes, dear.”

  Brenner was probably rethinking his infatuation with Kate Mayfield. My rule is, if you’re thinking of having an affair with a married woman, first see how she treats her husband.

  Anyway, we all decided that the pool was safer, but before we began our walk up the beach, I saw Buck looking at a guy who was standing about thirty feet away at the water’s edge, smoking a cigarette and staring out at the sea.

  I had the impression that Buck knew this guy and knew he would be there.

  Buck said to Clare and Howard, “You go ahead. We’ll join you later.”

  So we were about to meet our last teammate.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  The guy flicked his cigarette into the surf, then began walking toward us.

  He looked to be in his mid-thirties, medium height and very lean, though I had the impression he’d once carried more weight. He was barefoot, wearing white cotton pants and a green flowered tropical shirt, which was unbuttoned.

  His hair was long and straight, and it was bleached almost white by the same Saudi sun that had burned his skin almost black. His eyebrows, too, were sun-bleached, and as he got closer I saw that his eyes were a weird, almost unnatural blue.

  At first glance, you’d say beach bum or surfer dude. But if you looked closer, you’d see a man who’d been here too long; a Westerner who had not gone native, but had gone somewhere else.

  Buck met him halfway and they shook hands. I heard the guy say, “Good to see you again.” His voice was flat as was his whole affect, but he did force a smile.

  Brenner, Kate, and I joined Buck, who introduced us to Chet Morgan. He knew who we were, of course, and now we knew our CIA guy, though Buck hadn’t mentioned Mr. Morgan’s affiliation.

  He shook hands with Kate first, saying, “Glad you could come,” then with Brenner, saying, “Good job on the road.”

  Brenner responded, “Thanks for the Hellfires.”

  He didn’t acknowledge that, and as I shook his hand, he said, “Thank you for coming here.”

  Weird. And for the record, his handshake was more of a jerk than a shake, and his skin was cold. Maybe he was dead.

  Chet, as he wanted to be called, suggested a walk on the beach, so we walked toward Elephant Rock.

  Chet hadn’t said walk and talk, so we walked in silence, like we were old buds just enjoying the moment together.

  I glanced at Buck, who seemed subdued, which is not like Buck.

  Chet lit another cigarette.

  I didn’t give a shit if this guy never said another word, but Brenner broke the silence and asked Chet the standard question, “How long have you been here?”

  Chet replied, “Since the Cole.”

  So that was about three and a half years. No wonder the guy was buggy. But Buck had been in Yemen on and off for a lot longer, and he was okay. Maybe if I stayed here another six months I’d think Chet was okay, too.

  As a cop, I can spot someone who is indulging in a controlled substance, and I had the thought that Chet was on something, maybe khat. So maybe the A-team had a junkie on board. Terrific. Takes the pressure off me.

  Brenner, a man of few words himself, was apparently uncomfortable with a man of no words, and he asked Chet, “Any chance our target was KIA in the ambush?”

  Chet drew on his cigarette and replied, “I don’t think so.” He added, “Chatter puts him in Marib.”

  Well, I guess we were going to Marib to end the chatter.

  Buck asked Chet, “Do you or your people think that this attack on our convoy in any way compromises our mission?”

  Chet replied, “I’m not hearing anything. But it’s a good question.” He added, “I think we need to move fast before somebody in Washington starts asking the same question.”

  Right. As always, it came down to the age-old clash between the hawks and the doves-the ballsy and the ball-less-just like during the Cold War. The Pentagon, the State Department, the intelligence establishment, and the White House all had different agendas. The only people who had a clear agenda were the terrorists.

  Kate asked, “Why would anyone in Washington not want to go ahead with apprehending The Panther?”

  “There are legal issues,” Chet replied, “and diplomatic issues.”

  Right. The Yemenis had this silly idea that their soil was sovereign. Plus there was Mommy and Daddy’s lawsuit. Also, there was a chance we’d be kicked out of Yemen for using the Hellfires today. I asked Chet, “How fast do we need to move?”

  “Maybe tonight.” He added, “It may not be safe here.”

  When was it safe here?

  We continued our walk along the beach, past a Marine patrol, and reached Elephant Rock, which jutted into the gulf.

  There were about a dozen fishing boats moored or anchored in the shallows, and Chet waded into the water toward one of them, so I guess we were supposed to follow.

  He pulled himself into an open twenty-foot wooden boat with an outboard engine, and Buck followed. Kate and I and Brenner glanced at one another, then climbed aboard.

  Chet unfastened the mooring line, put a key in the ignition, set the throttle, and pulled on the starter cord. The engine caught, and off we went. But where were we going?

  The only seat in the open boat was in the stern near the engine, and that’s where Chet sat and steered. The rest of us sat on overturned white plastic buckets. The boat smelled fishy, and our bare feet were submerged in about four inches of nasty bilgewater.

  Also, not to complain, but the sun was starting to burn my exposed skin, and I could see that Buck, Kate, and Brenner were getting a little lobsterish as well. A more immediate concern was that our guns and commo were back on the beach.

  Chet Morgan, I concluded, was crazy. And we were following him. That didn’t make us crazy; it made us stupid.

  There were a few rocks sticking out of the water, and on one of the rocks stood a large black-and-white gull. As we got within fifty feet of the rock, Chet reached under his shirt into the small of his back, pulled a.40 caliber Glock, took aim, and popped off a round at the big bird. Kate, who hadn’t seen Chet pull his gun, was startled; the rest of us were astonished, and Chet was annoyed because he missed. The bird flew away.

  To make him feel better, I said, “To be sure of hitting the target, shoot first and call whatever you hit the target.”

  Chet ignored that and informed us, “That was a masked booby gull.” He assured us, “Not endangered.”

  I remarked, “And never will be with shooting like that.”

  I thought Chet was going to shoot me, but he laughed-a real laugh, which almost made me think he wasn’t nuts. He said, “I’d never shoot a white-eyed gull. They’re endangered. And they bring good luck.”

  Whatever you say, Chet. Now put the gun away.

  But he put it on the seat beside him. Well, at least one of us had a gun. Unfortunately, it was the crazy guy.

  Chet glanced up at Elephant Rock, and I followed his gaze. The Yemeni Army guys in the pickup truck had swung their heavy machine gun toward us, and one of the soldiers was looking at us with binoculars.

  Chet commented, “They get jumpy when they hear gunfire.”

  Me, too.

  He said to us, “If we have time, I’ll take you shark fishing. I have good luck nearly every time I go out.” He smiled and said to me and Brenner, “The sharks almost got lucky when you went out.” He laughed.

  So, here we were on a small boat with an armed psychopath. How do I get myself in these situations? I need to check my contract.

  I glanced at Brenner, who I knew was thinking what I was thinking. Kate, too, seemed a bit unsure about Mr. Morgan, but she has a history of giving CIA nut jobs the benefit of the doubt. Up to a point. Then she shoots them. Well… only one so far.

  Buck had a dopey smile on his face, and I knew he had a lot of tolerance for screwy behavior as long as the screwball was a colleague and a peer. I mean, I had the feeling, based partly on their preppy accents, tha
t Buck and Chet had gone to the same schools or similar schools and came from the same social stratum. Chet was the bad-boy frat brother who was always on double-secret probation, and everyone loved him as long as he didn’t actually get anyone killed. Later in life, however, what had been funny and zany behavior progressed into something less entertaining.

  Also, with these CIA guys, they all cultivated eccentric behavior, which became part of their self-created legend. They wanted their peers to tell stories about them and to spread the word of their unique flamboyance.

  Kate’s aforementioned pal, Ted Nash, was a good example of all this. Plus Ted was an arrogant prick. But now he was dead, and you shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. Even if they were assholes. Which brought me to another thought: Did Chet Morgan know Ted Nash? Probably. But this wasn’t the time to ask.

  Anyway, Chet Morgan had set the stage for his entry into the show, and as they say in the theater world, if you show a gun in the first act, you need to use it in the final act.

  We rounded the peninsula and Chet set a course for the middle of Aden Harbor. I knew where we were going.

  We sailed into the setting sun for about ten minutes, then Chet killed the engine but didn’t drop anchor, and the boat drifted out with the tide.

  Chet said, “This is where the Cole was moored.”

  I informed him, “I’ve been here.”

  He nodded.

  In fact, nearly everyone who worked this case had been taken out to this spot where seventeen American sailors had been murdered.

  Chet lit another cigarette and stared into the blue water. He said, “The USS Cole, a Navy destroyer, under the command of Commander Kirk Lippold, sailed into Aden Harbor for a routine refueling. The mooring was completed at nine-thirty A.M., and refueling started at ten-thirty.”

  Everyone knew this, but this is the way you begin-at the beginning.

  Chet continued, “At around eleven-twenty, a small craft, like this one, with two men aboard-two suicide bombers-approached the port side of the destroyer. A minute or two later, the small craft exploded, putting a forty-by-forty-foot hole in the side of the armored hull.” He added, “It’s estimated that four to seven hundred pounds of TNT and RDX were used.” He asked rhetorically, “Where the hell did they get that much high-grade explosive?”