The DJ was still spinning big band and the smoky air filled with trombones and saxophones playing Tommy Dorsey’s “I’ll Never Smile Again.”
Kate and I danced, and I didn’t spin her much because I could tell the room was already spinning in her head.
She didn’t have much to say, and I walked her back to our table.
It was past midnight now and the Russia Club was in full swing. Buck suggested cognac, which was not a good suggestion.
Kate said, “I’m ready to go home.”
Me, too. Let’s go to the airport.
Brenner picked up the tab-about forty bucks, which he paid in American dollars.
Sergei showed us to the door and said to us, “Tomorrow is belly dancing show. You come.”
Buck said we’d be back. We left, and Zamo pulled up to the door. I put Kate in the front seat and the boys squeezed in the rear.
As we passed through the gates of Tourist City, Zamo suggested we have our guns handy, which was a good idea considering we were so drunk it would take five minutes to find them.
Zamo also suggested that he drop Kate and me off first at the Sheraton, then double back to the embassy. His final suggestion was that Brenner should stay in the embassy tonight since Zamo had no intention of driving him to his apartment after midnight.
So just another night out in wild and crazy Sana’a.
Kate and I got dropped off at the Sheraton, and Zamo said he’d pick us up at 6:45. Buck told us not to check out, and Brenner said to wear the Kevlar. I said, “Good night and good luck.”
I stuck my gun in my belt and steered Kate into the lobby, which was empty and quiet, though I could hear music from the cocktail lounge.
We went to the elevators, where there should have been a security person, but the chair was empty. We drew our guns and rode up to our floor, where I told Kate to keep an eye on the corridor while I cleared the room.
There were no terrorists under the bed or in the closet so I motioned Kate in, and I closed and bolted the door. The drapes were open and I drew them shut.
Kate, not feeling her very best, collapsed on the bed.
I looked around the room to see if anything struck me as wrong-like a stuffed black panther on my pillow. Everything looked kosher-or I should say halal-and I lowered myself into the stuffed chair.
All in all, this was not a bad day in the Land That Time Forgot. I mean, we learned a lot, and we could make good use of what we learned, and by now, maybe The Panther knew that John Corey, who’d killed The Lion, was now here to kill him. There ain’t room in this country for both of us, asshole.
My teammates seemed more than competent, and I trusted Brenner. Professionally, I mean. Not so much with Kate. Buck seemed trustworthy, though he had a self-admitted history of throwing friends under the bus-but only for patriotic reasons.
Our CIA person was as yet unknown, but not for long. That could change the team balance.
Kate was still gung-ho, and she was a fast learner. I was honestly glad she was with me and I looked forward to that moment when I could say, “I told you we should have stayed home.”
So, tomorrow the road to Aden, which I’d traveled round-trip last time. This time, there would be no round trip. It would be one-way to Aden, then to Marib. And that, too, could be one-way. But to be optimistic, let’s say Marib was the last stop before home. And the last stop for The Panther.
PART V
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
At 7 A.M., everyone who was going to Aden had assembled with weapons and baggage in the small parking lot at the side of the chancery building.
It was a nice morning, dry and cool, with a clear sky for the Predator drones.
Standing around the five black Land Cruisers were about fifteen people, all men, except for Kate and a woman in tan cargo pants and a white T-shirt. She was, according to Buck, our doctor, and her name was Clare Nolan. She looked very young, and I asked Buck, “Is she old enough to use alcohol swabs?”
“She’s very competent,” Buck assured me. “She worked in an inner-city hospital trauma unit for six months. Gunshot wounds and all that.”
“Can she treat a hangover?”
“You look fine, my boy.” His satellite phone rang and he excused himself and went off to speak to someone in private.
I was actually feeling not too bad, considering I’d had a few glasses of wine with dinner, after the martinis and before the bottle of vodka.
Kate also looked good, but that may have been the makeup. I hoped she remembered that she’d saved the last dance for me.
On that subject, Mrs. Corey and Mr. Brenner seemed to have little to say to each other this morning. Ah, yes. Been there myself.
Anyway, Kate and I had chosen desert boots and jeans for Death Highway and she wore a black pullover, under which was her Kevlar vest. Over my vest I wore a khaki shirt that I’d worn last time I was in Yemen-my good-luck shirt. And since we were going through Indian Territory, we had our.45s unconcealed, strapped on our hips.
The uniform of the day for the DSS guys was cargo pants and sleeveless bush jackets over black T-shirts, and that’s what Mr. Brenner was wearing along with his heart on his sleeve.
Howard Fensterman had decided to show up, and he looked ready for adventure in his bush shirt with his Glock slung low at his side. All FBI Special Agents are trained and qualified on a variety of weapons, but some are more qualified than others. Still, I’d been surprised before by who was a good gunslinger. It’s all in the head.
Howard also carried the most lethal of lawyers’ weapons: his briefcase. In the briefcase, he informed Kate and me, was all the paperwork we needed to make a lawful arrest of one Bulus ibn al-Darwish, a.k.a. al-Numair, a.k.a. The Panther.
Mr. Fensterman also informed us, “I have copies of everything for both of you and for Buck.”
I was tired of giving Howard a hard time so I said, “Thank you.”
“I also have copies of the suspect’s fingerprints, and three color snapshots of him taken in the U.S. about twelve years ago, plus his last driver’s license and U.S. passport photo.”
“Good.” If you look like your passport photo, you’re already dead.
Anyway, I thought we’d get all this in Aden, but it was good to have it now in case we ran into the suspect on the road.
Mr. Fensterman continued, “He’s clean-shaven in these photos, but we know from various sources that he’s grown a beard.”
That’s what Rahim said at Ghumdan.
Howard further informed us, “He’s also wanted by a number of foreign governments for attacks against their citizens.”
“Right. The Saudis want him for killing some of their border guards.”
“Correct. And the Belgians for a possible kidnapping and suspected murder.”
I’d just heard about this from Colonel Kent, but I hadn’t mentioned it to Kate, who asked, “What was that about?”
Howard replied, “Back last August, nine Belgian tourists disappeared at the ruins near Marib.”
Kate said, “I remember reading something about that in the Times.”
She may have read it in the Post, but she always cites the Times. I do the opposite.
Howard continued, “It looked like a tribal kidnapping, but there was no ransom demand, and there was blood found at the ruins.” He added, “The Yemeni tour guide and bus driver were found… dead.” He added, “Throats slit.”
Didn’t sound good for those tourists. I asked, “Why does the Belgian government think it was The Panther?”
Howard replied, “The Belgians arrested an Al Qaeda suspect in Brussels on an unrelated charge, and apparently this information came out during the interrogation.”
Right. That’s how we get half our information; bad guys know lots of bad things.
Howard said to us, “So, aside from the Yemenis, other governments, including the Saudis, will want to be notified if we make an arrest, and they may ask for extradition. So we need to make a strong case for our Cole-related charge.”