The Panther jc-6

by Nelson DeMille

  “Maybe. But forewarned is forearmed. We’ll keep an eye out for one another, keep an eye on Chet and Buck, keep Zamo close, and be ready to take charge if things start to smell bad. Agreed?”

  Kate and Brenner nodded, and Brenner asked me, “What’s motivating you? Aside from the Cole?”

  “That’s enough motivation. But aside from that, all of us are in this business, and this is not a safe business. Never was, never will be. Look at Buck. He’s put his balls on the line for over thirty years. And even Chet, living in this shithole for three years to avenge the Cole. And you, Paul, you’ve been in harm’s way for a good part of your life. And so has Kate. This is not a career, it’s a calling. It’s not a paycheck, it’s a life.” I concluded, “We’re making the homeland just a little safer.” Plus, I have a big ego, but I didn’t mention that.

  Brenner nodded and said, “I’m still in. I just wanted to see if you two understood the problems with this plan and this mission.”

  Kate said, “We all understand. And I’m glad we spoke about it.” She added, “We’ll keep alert for problems.” She looked at me, then at Brenner, and said to him, “John actually likes bad plans from higher-ups. He can’t wait to change the plan, rescue the mission from disaster, and show everyone how smart he is.”

  Totally not true. That’s just the way it happens. Anyway, I said, “First things first. First we have to get to the airport without getting kidnapped.”

  We all stood, and I said, “See you downstairs,” and Brenner left.

  The guy on the TV was still going nuts and I thought he was going to pass out like that TV newscaster in Network. I wondered if the Evening News with the Mad Mullah had a big market share.

  “John?”

  I shut off the TV. “Yes, dear.”

  “I know you know what you’re doing.”

  “Absolutely.” Not a clue.

  “And I’ll trust you on this.”

  “Smart move.”

  She let me know, “I think Paul still has some valid misgivings, but not enough to pull out.”

  “We actually don’t need him even if he does.” To be provocative and snotty, I added, “And I know you won’t think any less of him if he hightails it back to the safety of the embassy.”

  “You’re an asshole.”

  “I am an alpha male on the A-team. We will kill The Panther, then go to Washington and get a handshake. Maybe we’ll take a week and go to a nude beach in St. Maarten. No Muslims on a nude beach to worry about. And if there were, where would they hide a gun or a suicide belt?”

  She didn’t reply to that, but she did give me a kiss.

  So we stuffed some things in our overnight bags, and Zamo called to say he’d come for our bags and rifles, and now here we were in the lobby, waiting for the rest of the A-team.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  My cell phone, which worked near the hotel SCIF, chimed and I looked at the text message: Parking lot.

  Kate and I went outside and walked to the unlit parking area in front of the hotel, where I saw one of the Marines with a bomb-sniffing dog. As the Marine approached our five Land Cruisers, he commanded, “Cummins, search!” Good doggie. A journey of a thousand miles can end quickly if your car blows up when you turn the key.

  Cummins seemed happy with all the Land Cruisers, but he growled at Chet, sensing a CIA man. Or maybe Cummins smelled the khat. Also, FYI, Chet had changed into dark clothing and he’d found his shoes. This was getting serious.

  Two of our DSS drivers from Sana’a, including Mike Cassidy, loaded the bags in the back of the two vehicles and handed us our rifles.

  Brenner said to everyone, “Top speed, we stop for nothing, keep your rifles at the ready.”

  Right. Just in case we run into the forty Al Qaeda guys heading for the hotel.

  Brenner, Buck, and Chet got in one vehicle with the driver, and Kate and I got in the rear of the other with Zamo up front and Mike behind the wheel.

  Mike said, “I thought I was done for the day.”

  “Me, too.”

  Brenner’s Land Cruiser pulled out of the parking area, and we followed, past the Yemeni Army lawn chair brigade.

  I asked Zamo, “Did you see Dr. Clare?”

  “Yeah…”

  Bullshit. Some guys look for the million-dollar wound that will keep them out of action, and some guys who get the wound, like Zamo, are afraid it will keep them out of the action. I wondered what motivated Zamo. Probably he liked to kill jihadists with his sniper rifle. That simple.

  We accelerated uphill on the narrow, winding road that cut through the hills and bluffs above the beach. There were no other vehicles on the road, and we stayed in the middle of the blacktop, hitting 120 KPH. As we crested the bluff and got into the flatlands, Brenner’s driver gunned it, and Mike followed.

  This was the road we’d come in on, and it skirted around the city, then ran along the Gulf of Aden. In less than five minutes, I could see the lights of the airport, but I didn’t see any aircraft flying at this hour.

  We followed the lead vehicle into the airport and shot past a manned guard booth without stopping, then veered off the road that led to the terminal and headed across a dusty field toward the runway.

  At the end of the runway, I saw a high-winged twin-engine prop aircraft that must be the Otter. The paint job was a monotone gray, the official color of Spook Air, and the small tail markings were almost unreadable, another indication that this was a Company aircraft. Also, the cockpit and cabin windows were dark, and as we got closer I saw that the cabin shades were pulled and the boarding door was closed.

  As we approached the aircraft, the cockpit lights went on, both engines fired up, and the props began spinning.

  The two SUVs stopped near the rear boarding door, and everyone piled out. Mike said, “Good luck. Look me up in Daytona or Madrid.”

  “Will do.”

  We quickly retrieved our bags from the rear, including Zamo’s sniper rifle case, some backpacks, and a heavy duffel bag that I hoped held junk food and extra ammo. As we got to the left rear boarding door, it opened and one of the pilots dropped a short ladder down, and up we went. At the top of the ladder I glanced back and saw that our two DSS drivers were covering the situation with automatic rifles.

  The copilot was making his way up the aisle back to the cockpit, and I saw that the dimly lit cabin had rows of double seats on the right and single seats on the left that would hold about fifteen people. Here near the tail were two facing bench seats along the wall, I guess for napping. Chet pointed out an open baggage area to the right of the door where we threw our bags and weapons as Chet pulled up the ladder, closed the boarding door, and then directed everyone to take seats toward the front. Chet went up to the cockpit and spoke to the pilots for a few seconds, then returned to the cabin and took a single seat across from Buck in the row ahead of Kate and me. Brenner and Zamo had slid into single seats across the aisle, so the aircraft seemed balanced for takeoff.

  The dim cabin light went out, then the PA speaker crackled and one of the pilots made a boarding announcement, “Welcome aboard,” and a safety announcement, “Get ready for takeoff.”

  And thank you for flying Spook Air. I noticed, too, that neither pilot introduced himself by name. Not even a first name. Company policy.

  The engines revved and we buckled in as the aircraft began rolling fast down the runway. In less than ten seconds, the Otter abruptly pitched up and we were airborne. The aircraft seemed to strain as it continued to climb at a very steep angle.

  I reached across Kate and opened the window shade and looked down at the lights of Aden and the harbor where all this began. I mean, had Commander Kirk Lippold challenged the approaching boat and fired a shot across its bow, I wouldn’t have been here two and a half years ago, and I wouldn’t be here now. But for sure, I’d be someplace else. There was no end to this.

  The ground was falling away at a fast rate as we continued our steep, full-throttle climb, and I turned my att
ention to my seat mate. “How you doing?”

  “Can we go back and get my stomach?”

  I knew she’d start to see the funny side of anti-terrorist operations in dangerous, fucked-up places.

  I said, “This is nothing. Wait until you see the landing.”

  “Not funny.”

  “Just trying to lighten the moment.”

  “Try jumping out.”

  Anyway, a few minutes after our thrilling short-takeoff maneuver, the pilot, still climbing at a steep angle, banked hard right, which caused the aircraft to shudder and caused Kate to grip her armrests. A voice on the PA said, “Sorry, folks. There was some traffic ahead.”

  I hate it when planes collide in midair.

  The pilot or copilot also announced, “We’re flying dark-no exterior lights, and please keep all the shades down if you turn on your overhead light.”

  I lowered my shade.

  A few minutes later, we came out of our gravity-defying climb and leveled off. I turned on my overhead light and scanned the aisle for the beverage cart.

  The pilot came back on the PA and said, “Marib is almost due north of here, but unfortunately I forgot to file a flight plan with the authorities.” He chuckled. A little CIA pilot humor. He also told us, “To confuse anyone watching us on radar, we’ll take a northwesterly heading towards Sana’a, then as we approach Sana’a we’ll drop below radar coverage and head east into Marib.” He informed us, “Marib has an airstrip, so if someone thinks we’re going there, they’ll think we’re heading for the airstrip.”

  Right. Because no one would think we were stupid enough to land on a road in the dark.

  The pilot also assured us, “Weather is good en route, and we have some moonlight to fly by and we have night vision goggles for the landing.”

  Do we have parachutes?

  “Flight time is about two and a half hours.”

  Well, we had reached the point of no return regarding Operation Clean Sweep.

  Actually, Kate and I had reached that point when we walked into Tom Walsh’s office to talk about Yemen.

  And here I was.

  And here we all were, all six of us, with not much in common except one goal-to kill someone. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have some misgivings about this, but I’d be lying more if I said I wasn’t looking forward to the kill. That’s the reason I came here. Well, one of the reasons.

  PART VIII

  Marib, Yemen

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  The pilot announced that we’d reached our cruising altitude of thirteen thousand feet, and we were free to help ourselves to refreshments from an ice chest in the rear.

  So we all got up and fished soft drinks and bottled water out of the chest, and Chet invited us to sit on the facing bench seats. Zamo had no need or desire to know what Chet was going to say, so he returned to his seat with a Dr Pepper. Was it my imagination, or did his left arm seem not to be moving normally? I mean, if you take a hit like that, with soft tissue trauma, it’s going to stiffen up, and maybe it was also infected. Great. A sniper with a bum arm.

  Anyway, Kate, Brenner, and I sat together, and Buck and Chet sat facing us. Chet turned on an overhead light and I saw that he had a file folder in his hand-what the CIA calls a dossier, just to be tres cooler than the FBI.

  Chet spoke over the steady din of the twin engines. “This is our psychological profile and background analysis of Bulus ibn al-Darwish. It was put together by a team of FBI and CIA psychologists and investigators over the last three years since we identified Mr. al-Darwish as a prime suspect in the Cole bombing.” Chet also informed us, “This report is based on interviews with the suspect’s parents, a younger sister, childhood and college classmates, teachers, school counselors, Muslim clerics, and others who knew the bastard in the States.”

  I asked, “Any girlfriends?”

  “Only one that we know of.”

  “There’s the problem. He wasn’t getting laid enough.”

  “John, please.”

  Who said that?

  Chet agreed, “Young men without women are a problem in this culture, and that often leads to male aggressiveness and other abnormal behavior.”

  “Right.” When I get horny, I get mean.

  Chet continued, “It may not seem necessary to know all of this, considering that we’re going to terminate the subject. But I thought you’d find this interesting, maybe for future assignments. And maybe you’d also just like to know what’s inside the head we’re going to blow off.”

  I would. And I’d also like to know what’s going on in Chet’s head.

  Chet continued, “Also, if you know how al-Darwish got to where he is, and who he is, you’ll see why I think he’s going to walk into that meeting with Sheik Musa and get himself killed.”

  Chet, as I said, was a small breath of fresh air after my four years with the FBI, which, as part of the Department of Justice, needed to at least sound legalistic. Ergo Howard. And Kate, too. But I was working on Kate. The CIA, on the other hand, made few public statements, and therefore they had not developed a politically correct vocabulary for public consumption. Maybe I should consider asking Chet for a job. I was sure I could explain about my wife killing one of his colleagues.

  Chet informed us, “The subject, as he is called in this report, was born in New Jersey to Yemeni-born parents. As I said, he has a younger sister, Hana. His father, Jurji, was and is a successful importer and wholesaler of Mideastern goods, and he commutes to his office in Newark. He uses the name George, which is Jurji in Arabic. The mother, Sabria, is a stay-at-home housewife. They live in a large Victorian house in the waterfront section of Perth Amboy, which is more affluent than most of the working-class city.”

  Right. The house I’d seen in that photo.

  Chet said, “FYI, Bulus means Paul, but the subject never used Paul to identify himself to non-Arabic speakers.” He added, “We shouldn’t make too much of that, but it’s interesting that his father calls himself George, and mother’s and sister’s names are nondescriptive-Western-sounding.”

  Right. A shrink would have a field day with that. More importantly, in a few days Bulus would be known as Mayit-Dead.

  Chet also told us, “The al-Darwish family and the wife’s family in Yemen are city dwellers-Ta’iz-and they remain there. We have asked the PSO to keep these families under surveillance, but nothing has come of that.” He added, “I’m sure the suspect doesn’t go to Ta’iz for family visits. The senior Mr. al-Darwish, George, sends money to his and his wife’s relatives, and he used to visit now and then on business, but since the Cole, George hasn’t set foot in Yemen.”

  Right. War separates families and divides loyalties, and for the emigrant, the fatherland can become a dangerous place. As for jihadists like Bulus, who do come home, they discover they can’t pop in on Uncle Abdul for a cup of tea. They are alone. Except for their new friends with AK-47s.

  Chet continued, “The family in Perth Amboy kept a halal home, read the Koran, and attended a storefront mosque in the downtown section of the city. The mosque has not come to the attention of the authorities and neither has the al-Darwish family.” He added, “Mr. and Mrs. al-Darwish have been known to have a cocktail or two with Christian friends.”

  I hoped they reciprocated with a khat chew.

  Chet flipped a page and continued, “The subject terrorist attended the public schools and had few friends in grade school or high school, possibly because he lived in a non-Muslim community. The people we interviewed claim, however, that the subject’s social isolation was his choice and not a result of any prejudices in the community. As possible proof of this, most of those interviewed confirmed that the subject’s parents and sister had friends and social contacts in the non-Muslim community.” Chet speculated, “If we believe that, then maybe the subject wrongly perceived prejudice and animosity, and reacted accordingly, and that reinforced his social isolation.”

  Right. Little Bulus was an angry, unhappy, and wei
rd kid, and this made him a prime target for other kids. And that’s why he wanted to be a terrorist when he grew up.

  Chet continued, “The subject seems to have ignored the fact that his parents and sister were integrating well into the community, and the analysts believe that this shows the subject’s tendency to exclude any realities that don’t fit his preconceived beliefs.”

  Kate suggested, “That describes half the world’s population.”

  Chet nodded, but said, “The subject takes it to an extreme.” He also said, “But to be objective, we need to concede that the subject, being a Muslim, may have experienced some degree of prejudice.”

  Right. But it’s how you handle it that determines if you’re going to move on and live the American dream or if you’re going to become the American nightmare.

  Chet went on, “Bottom line on this is that the subject could never see himself as anything but an outsider in American society, and he had no attitudinal loyalty to the country of his birth. His alienation and anger were, of course, reinforced by the daily news, which gives extensive coverage to foreign and domestic acts of terrorism, the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, our strained relations with Islamic countries, and so forth.”

  Unless you listen to NPR.

  Chet reminded us, “Young people are impressionable and sensitive and there is a whole generation of American-born Muslims who are growing up in what some of them perceive as a hostile environment, especially after 9/11.” He added, “Ironically, their foreign-born parents are better adjusted because they have voluntarily made the decision to become Americans. Most of them are happy with that decision, and if they’re not, they can move back to wherever they came from. Children don’t have that option, and the children of Muslim immigrants sometimes feel trapped and blame their parents for bringing them to America or for having been born in America. In contrast to earlier immigrants, these children sometimes romanticize their ancestral land and think they would have been happier if they’d never left there.” Chet concluded, “We think this is what happened to Bulus ibn al-Darwish, based on statements he’s made, letters and e-mails he’s written, and long, rambling audiotapes that he’s recorded and distributed.”