Still, it was a danger to meet them, and Nabeel was glad that he had to do this only once or twice in a year. But it was also a good thing for him to do this, because it raised his status with his chief.
Bulus ibn al-Darwish said, “You did not say if my sister was still betrothed.”
“She is, sir.”
“And is there a date set for the wedding?”
“Not yet, sir.” He added, “But soon.” Or perhaps not. In truth, Nabeel had not asked the family about any of this, and Hana had said nothing to him on this subject.
Nabeel always found himself in a difficult situation on these occasions-in New York, and in Yemen. He needed to be careful. A lie was not good, but sometimes necessary. And the truth was not always good.
The Panther stayed silent with his thoughts. He did not want to ask a question that Nabeel had answered three days before, and he did not want to seem overly concerned about any of this. So he said nothing.
He knew that one day he would again see his mother, his father, and his sister, and it would be here in Yemen. And that day would be soon after his total victory. He would see them in Sana’a-in the palace of the president. On the day he became Supreme Leader of Yemen. On that day, his family would be with him to share in his triumph. And they would never again return to America.
The Panther looked at Nabeel and said, “That will be all.”
Nabeel bowed and left the hut.
The Panther remained standing in the light of the flickering candle, then blew it out and went into the night.
Zuhair and al-Rashid were preparing the soldiers for their movement, and The Panther motioned them to him.
He said to his two commanders, “Well, you have heard Nabeel. The Americans are sending more agents here, and soon they will be sending soldiers unless we kill the small numbers who are already here.” He added, “More reason to attack the embassy and the Sheraton Hotel in Aden.”
Captain Zuhair thought that the opposite might be true; every attack on the Americans in Yemen increased the number of Americans in Yemen. The jihadists, he thought, should be attacking the Yemeni Army and security forces, but Bulus ibn al-Darwish, the Amriki, had a hard hate in his heart for his former countrymen. Nevertheless, Captain Zuhair said, “Yes, sir.”
The Panther said to his two officers, “Let us go now and begin the march.”
The three men moved closer to the soldiers, and Captain Zuhair called out to them, “It is time!”
The men cheered.
The Panther, too, called out a last time to his jihadists, “We will meet again, amid the inferno of the oil camp, and among the corpses of the Americans-or we will meet in Paradise!”
The men let out a long, loud shout: “Victory!”
Captain Zuhair and Lieutenant al-Rashid paid their final respects to their leader, who blessed them and blessed the jihadists. Then the officers took charge of their men and began the march toward the American oil compound.
The Panther watched them disappear into the dark, then he turned and walked toward five waiting vehicles, filled with his personal bodyguard. He would remove himself from this place and await the outcome of the attack in a nearby Bedouin camp. It was necessary, he knew, to keep moving, to not stay in one place too long, and to take shelter under a roof or in a cave away from the probing eyes of the American Predator drones. And it was for this reason that he wore the robes and long beard of a Bedouin.
He glanced up at the desert sky. It looked the same as it did since the beginning of time-but there was something new up there, something that had already killed too many of his fellow jihadists. And they were looking for him. And now, perhaps, the Americans had sent a man-and maybe a woman-to look for him also. Well, he thought, the Predators would not find him, and the man Corey would not find him. He could not kill the Predators, but he could kill the man. And kill the man’s wife. And kill any American who came to the sacred soil of Yemen to find him.
The Americans may rule the air, but he, Bulus ibn al-Darwish, The Panther, ruled the land.
PART IV
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
It was 2:35 in the morning and the Egyptair flight from Cairo was approaching Sana’a International Airport. The airport had a name-El Rahaba-which according to my Arabic dictionary means, “I’d like the fruit salad.” No. That can’t be right.
Anyway, it had been almost three hours since we’d left Cairo, and this leg of the flight was unexpectedly full; mostly young men, probably all Yemeni guest workers bringing home a few bucks so their families could eat. It was a sad country.
Kate and I were sitting in first class and the other gentlemen in first class were dressed Western, but looked Mideastern; maybe Yemeni and Egyptian businessmen or government officials. A few of them had their wives with them, and the women were dressed in traditional clothing. Most of the ladies had been unveiled in flight, but now that the aircraft was landing, they all had scarves and veils in the full upright position.
Kate, FYI, was wearing loose blue pants and a matching high-collared blouse with long sleeves. Buck would have approved, except that Kate had no head covering and her medium-length blonde hair was completely exposed for every man to see, as was her pretty face. Also, FYI, she’d gone light on the makeup.
As for me, I had on my usual tan slacks, navy sports jacket, and a blue shirt, which was a Christian Dior. Christian-get it?
The big Airbus continued its descent, and I leaned over and peered through the window. It was a clear night and I could see hills in the distance, and below was an expanse of arid landscape washed in blue moonlight. In the near distance I saw a few scattered lights that must be Sana’a.
As we crossed over the airport boundary, I could see the military end of the airport: two jet fighters with Yemeni markings, a few helicopters whose markings I couldn’t make out, and a huge United States Air Force C-17 cargo plane. The outpost of Empire.
We touched down and the aircraft rolled to a halt, then taxied to a hardstand a hundred yards from the terminal. The engines shut down and Kate said, “He’s not taxiing to the gate.”
“We walk.”
“I’m assuming that’s a joke and it’s not funny.”
Clearly Kate was a bit anxious, not to mention tired and cranky after a nearly thirty-hour journey. I said to her, “This whole country is a joke. Learn to laugh or you’ll go crazy.”
No reply.
Everyone was standing, and I stood and moved to the exit door and looked through the porthole at the terminal, which I remembered from last time; a low building not much longer than a strip mall, badly lit by three stanchion lights. I could see the headlights of the mobile staircase, followed by a bus, heading toward the first-class exit door, which reassured me that the peasants in the rear wouldn’t be on my bus.
I returned to my seat, and Kate and I collected our things and moved into the aisle.
The staircase pulled up without smashing the aircraft, the door opened, and I could smell the fresh, cool morning air rushing into the cabin. Yemen.
So down the stairs and across the tarmac to the waiting bus. Our fellow passengers from first class were all seated, but Kate and I stood in the rear. Kate was the only unveiled woman on board, and the men, who had not taken much notice of her on the aircraft, now looked at her, as did the women. It was as if we’d all been on a nude beach, then got dressed and boarded a bus, except that one of the women was still naked.
There are two gates in Sana’a Airport, and we stopped at the one called two. We let everyone get off first, then followed. So far, so good.
Inside the terminal, our cabin mates moved toward the passport control booths. Only two booths were manned at this hour, and the booth marked for VIPs, diplomats, and crew was closed. Also, there was no one around who looked like us, and Kate said, “Maybe we have to go through passport control.”