The Panther

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

The Land Cruiser’s outside temperature gauge read 102 degrees Fahrenheit, so I wasn’t too shocked when I opened my door and got hit by a blast furnace.

Clare and I left our flak jackets in the SUV and I told Clare to go ahead inside.

I took the binoculars and looked up at the hills that rose above the hotel. Last time I was here, there was no Yemeni Army security up there, and I didn’t see any now.

The perimeter security seemed to consist of the dozen Yemeni soldiers I saw along the entrance road, sitting on their asses in their white plastic chairs under sun umbrellas, chatting on their cell phones. Ice coolers completed the picture of intense vigilance. Did anyone tell these guys that Al Qaeda was heading this way?

Also, as I recalled, there was a white tent pitched on a ridge that ran down to the beach on the south side of the hotel, which the Yemenis said was an army observation post. But our commo people said it was a PSO listening post to intercept our radio and sat-phone communications-which was one reason we had the lead-lined tent on the fourth floor. The other reason was Al Qaeda, who also had some commo intercept capabilities.

I focused the binoculars on Elephant Rock on the north side of the hotel. There was still a Yemeni Army pickup truck on the rock, and on the flatbed of the truck was a.50 caliber machine gun manned by four Yemeni Army assholes who liked to keep the gun pointed at the hotel instead of at the surrounding hills. They probably thought this was funny; we did not.

The National Security Bureau, whose job it was to guard hotels, didn’t exist when I was here last time, and I was happy not to see their blue cammies here this time, even though I’d developed a special relationship with Captain Dammaj.

As for our own security, we had the Marines and FBI SWAT Team, and I recalled that there were always four Marine snipers on the roof, and four or five Marines with M-16s on the beach. At night, that figure doubled.

I shifted my attention to the convoy. Everyone was out of the Land Cruisers-all thirteen of us-and one of the DSS agents was overseeing the transfer of luggage and equipment into the hotel lobby, while the others were keeping an eye on things out here.

A few Arab guests, who looked like rich Saudis, in full robes and headgear, exited the lobby doors and spoke to the doorman about the shot-up vehicles.

It’s not often that you have armed military and para-military groups staying in a hotel where civilian guests are also staying. But this was Yemen, and the guests didn’t seem to mind our presence as much as we minded theirs. In a way, though, we provided protection for each other-Al Qaeda probably wouldn’t shoot up a hotel full of their co-religionists. Right? I recalled Buck saying not to worry unless the Arabs started checking out.

I also recalled that this Sheraton franchise was owned by a Saudi prince, but I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing in regard to the hotel getting blown up by Al Qaeda. Probably depended on who the prince was paying off or pissing off.

Anyway, all the luggage was inside, so I slung my M4 and moved into the cool lobby.

A few DSS agents, including Mike and Zamo, were keeping an eye on the luggage cart, and Brenner was at the front desk checking us in without showing passports or giving names, which was none of the hotel’s business. The Americans owned floors three and four, forever, and the Saudi prince had a great cash cow going here, compliments of the American taxpayers.

The lobby had just been remodeled when I was last here, and it wasn’t bad-lots of mahogany woodwork and wicker furniture; sort of British tropical colonial, like hotels I’d been to in the Caribbean. And there the similarities ended.

I noticed the ubiquitous photo of Ali Abdullah Saleh, President for Life-until someone killed him-hanging on a wall. Big Ali is watching you.

I also noticed a few Western guests, probably clueless Europeans who got a good deal on a winter getaway. American tourists had the big advantage of never having heard of Yemen or Aden, and neither had their travel agents, and if they had, they didn’t want to go anyplace where Americans were not welcome-which was just about everywhere these days. Europeans thought they were welcome all over, which was another kind of ignorance or arrogance.

Also in the lobby were two Yemeni soldiers with AK-47s, and two U.S. Marines with M-16s. What must those European tourists be thinking by now? Great beach, cheap rates-but what’s with all these people carrying assault rifles? They must be shooting a movie.

I saw that a welcome committee of our colleagues had arrived, and Buck was speaking to three men and one woman in the sitting area of the lobby. Buck seemed to know them, and none of them looked like they could be our CIA guy, who I was sure would reveal himself in a more dramatic way-like maybe paragliding onto the beach. Or a more clandestine way, like if that potted palm over there started whispering to me. “Psst. Corey. Over here. The palm tree. Don’t look at me. Just listen.”

My wife, who’d gone off to freshen up, came up to me and said, “This isn’t a bad place.” She asked, “Did you have a good time here?”

That question was more loaded than a sailor on shore leave, and I replied, “Without you, darling, there are no good times.”

She seemed to doubt my sincerity, then moved on to, “How did Dr. Nolan handle the problem back there?”

That wasn’t the real question, but I replied, “Shook her up a bit.”

“Were you able to calm her down?”

“I was too busy fighting her for her tranquilizers.”

Kate suppressed a smile, then informed me, for the record, “I’m still annoyed at you for that police stop.”

“Well, try to get over it.” I reminded her, “Life is short.”

She softened and said, “You’re a brave man, John, but reckless and arrogant.”

“Thank you. Hey, the bar here is not bad. Can I buy you a drink?”

“Paul says drinking alcohol is on hold until further notice.”

“Yeah? Then how about a beer?”

Howard, who had also gone off to freshen up, came up to us and said, “Not a bad place. But is it safe?”

“No,” I assured him. I suggested, “You may want to return to Sana’a.”

“I think I’ve had enough car travel for one day.”

“I’d hate to see you miss the return-trip ambush.”

He actually laughed. Howard was now a combat vet who laughed at death.

He informed us, “I live on Long Island. I love the beach and I’m a competitive swimmer.”

“Good. The sharks love competitive swimmers.”

Clare, too, joined us and said to Kate, “Your husband is a very brave man.”

Kate replied, “He’s my hero.” Actually, she said… well, nothing.

Clare continued, “I’ve never been so frightened in my life. But John-and Mike-were totally cool and calm, and John made sure I stayed below the windows.”

“And,” I added, “I covered her with my body.” No, I didn’t say that. I’m not that brave.

Kate had no comment.

Brenner was finished at the front desk, and he came up to us and handed out key cards in envelopes with our room numbers on them. Brenner had remembered to put me in the same room as my wife, so I think he was over Kate.

Brenner suggested, “Let’s meet our Aden colleagues.”

I asked him, “Where is our Company man?”

“I don’t know.”

Okay. But if I had to guess, I’d say our missing teammate was in the commo room speaking by radio to his station chief in Sana’a, asking if there was any intel about the Hellfires vaporizing The Panther. Wouldn’t that be nice? Or did I really want to whack this guy myself? It’s been a while since anyone from the New York Task Force personally whacked a bad guy, and I think I had the last kill. The Lion. Which was why I was here for an encore performance. Also, maybe Kate whacking a CIA guy was the other reason we were here.

In any case, I was on a roll with killing big cats, and I hoped to continue my winning streak.