The Panther

He asked me, “What’s with panther?”

“If I tell you, I have to kill you.”

“Anything else I can do for you today?”

“Yeah, if Nabeel shows up.” I added, “Thanks.”

Al’s a good guy and he takes a lot of crap well. But he also knows how to dish it out. If you’re an Arab and you work here, you have to have a sense of humor-and very thick skin. I wondered why Al Rasul wasn’t asked to go to Yemen. Right?

I checked my e-mail and found a note from Tom to me and Kate telling us that we were expected at Legal Affairs and the Medical Office before noon. I’ve never seen government workers move this fast. Tom really wanted us out of here, which compelled me into some paranoid thought processes, and the word “expendable” kept popping into my mind.

I had an e-mail from Betty Alvarez informing me that she had no info on a Yemeni male named Nabeel al- Samad. She asked for his passport info and visa, if any. I replied: Still waiting for subject to show.

I used my ATTF password to access the internal files on ACS-the Automated Case System. I didn’t have a case name, but I typed in “USS Cole,” which got me hundreds of hits, though probably nothing I didn’t already know. I typed in “Panther,” which got me nothing, then “Numair”-thank you, Al-which got me a file that said “Restricted,” followed by rows of Xs. Usually you get something, even on the restricted files, like when the file was opened, what the classification level was, and who to see about getting access to the file. But apparently all this was above my pay grade, and all I saw was “Numair” and Xs. Well, at least Walsh didn’t make that up.

I e-mailed Walsh and asked him about getting access to the Numair file, based on my recent need-to- know.

A few minutes later, he replied: Your need-to-know begins when you’re in Yemen. P.S. Stop snooping. He didn’t actually write that, but that was the message.

Kate came over to my desk and asked, “Where to first? Legal or Medical?”

“Medical. We need our heads examined.”

“That could take all day. Legal first.”

The FBI Legal Affairs Office here normally deals with cases, warrants, wiretaps, documents, and so forth, and not with employees’ problems or work assignments. But this was a special case, and it needed to be done on an expedited basis.

We had a few papers to sign, including a new confidentiality statement, and also a statement having to do with “interrogation under duress.” As I signed it, I said, “As a married man, I am an expert on interrogation under duress.”

No laughs.

Our wills were on file and we checked them over, then we were given powers of attorney to fill out and sign. Jennifer, a young lawyer I’d seen before my first trip to Yemen, explained, “This is in case you’re abducted or go missing.”

I asked, “So we just show this to our kidnappers?”

“No. You-”

Kate interrupted and explained to me, “If we’re dead, the executors of our wills handle our affairs. But if we’re missing or unlawfully imprisoned, then someone has to act on our behalf-someone to write checks, pay our bills, and so forth. It doesn’t have to be an actual attorney.” She inquired, “Didn’t you do this last time?”

“Right. I named you as my attorney-in-fact.”

“Good. We’ll name each other. But… if we share the same fate, we’ll need an alternate.”

This was getting a little heavy.

Kate said, “It should be a family member.” She suggested, “How about my father?”

Am I related to him? I mean, what if we both wound up kidnapped or missing, then got free and found out that her father had spent all our money on his collection of J. Edgar Hoover memorabilia?

“John?”

“Yeah. Fine.” They’ll never take me alive anyway.

We filled out the forms, signed them, and Jennifer notarized them.

Finally, Jennifer produced our black diplomatic passports, which had been kept in a safe since our last make- believe diplomatic assignments to Tanzania and Yemen.

Jennifer also informed us that the State Department had called the Yemeni consulate office and our visas should be ready after 1 P.M. for us to pick up.

There aren’t many Americans who go to Yemen, so by now our Yemeni allies were aware that John Corey and Kate Mayfield would be arriving soon. Maybe they’d have someone at the airport to greet us.

Another thought popped into my head-a thought about the speed of all this paperwork-and I asked Jennifer, “When did State call the Yemeni consulate about our visas?”

She replied, “Thursday.”

Kate and I glanced at each other. Thursday?

Anyway, we finished up with Jennifer, who said, “You get to do exciting things. I wish I was going.”

I wish you were, too, Jennifer.

As we walked down the hallway, Kate said, “Thursday?”

“The Friday meeting was just a formality. Yemen is our fate. It is written in the sands of time.”

No reply. Clearly she was not happy with her friend Tom. Good.

I said to Kate, “By the way, I went into ACS and there’s a file called Numair, which is Arabic for ‘panther,’ and it’s restricted.”

“Who do we see about getting access?”

“Didn’t say.”

“Odd.” She suggested, “We’ll ask Tom.”

“Did that. He said go to Yemen.”

We took the elevator down to the nurse’s office, where a young lady named Annie was expecting us.

Because Kate and I were scheduled for departure within five days, we couldn’t get the shots spaced over the recommended seven days, and sweet Annie stuck us like we were voodoo dolls.

We got eight shots-diphtheria, dysentery, typhoid, anthrax, scarlet fever, and three diseases I’ve never heard of. I especially enjoyed the two shots in the butt. Annie gave us each a starter vial of malaria pills and said, “Start taking these now.” She added, “Come back Friday morning for the rest of the shots.”

“How many more diseases could there be?”

“Leprosy, for one.”

Jeez.

She advised us, “You have a lot of vaccines in you, so you may not feel well later.”

“Can I have alcohol?”

“Sure. Just be close to a toilet.”

We went to Kate’s desk, and she called the FBI Travel Office at Headquarters in D.C.

Kate put it on speaker phone, and a woman answered, “Travel Office. Mrs. Barrett speaking. How may I help you?”

Kate said we were calling from the New York office, and she gave our names and our travel authorization numbers.

Mrs. Barrett replied, “Hold on… yes, here you are. Sana’a.”

“Santa Ana,” I corrected. “California.”

“No… Sana’a. Yemen.”

Kate picked up the phone and disengaged the speaker, saying, “Ready to copy.”

She listened to Mrs. Barrett, made some notes, then said, “Thank you,” and hung up. She said to me, “American Airlines to London, British Air to Cairo, Egyptair to Sana’a. First class.”

“Hard to believe there are no direct flights to Sana’a.”

“There are. From Cairo.”

“How do the deli guys get back and forth from Brooklyn?”