The Panther

Do I thank him for risking his life to open my mail?

Buck slid a stack of photographs from the envelope and handed them to Chet, saying, “I warn you, some of these are not easy to look at.”

Chet looked at the first photo, then passed it to me. It was a group shot, taken in front of the columns at the Bilqis ruins. It showed what I assumed were the Belgian tourists-two older couples, two younger couples, and a pretty young woman, maybe sixteen or seventeen years old, all smiling into the camera. In the center of the group was a tall, bearded Bedouin in robes wearing a shiwal, and also wearing a jambiyah. He, too, was smiling. And what was making this murderer smile?

I passed the photo to Kate as Chet passed a second photo to me. This one was of the young woman standing close to the Bedouin-Bulus ibn al-Darwish, The Panther-and they were both smiling, though neither had their arm around the other. I passed the photo to Kate, who said, “That bastard.”

The next few photos showed other posed shots with the couples and the man they thought was a Bedouin.

I knew what was coming, of course, but even so, the next photograph was difficult to process immediately, but then I recognized a close-up of one of the older women lying on the brown paving stone, her throat cut from ear to ear, and a pool of red blood around her head and face.

I stared at it. The woman’s eyes were open, and there was a look of terror on her face. She could have been alive.

Kate, who was looking at me, asked, “What is it?”

I passed the photo to her, and she stared at it, then said softly, “Oh my God… oh…”

Brenner took the photo from her, looked at it and said, “Sick.”

Buck asked, “Do you want to see the rest of them?”

Chet took the photos from Buck’s hand, flipped through them quickly, then handed them to me.

I, too, went through them quickly, noting that some of the long shots showed all nine Belgians dead with their wrists bound behind their backs, and around them were men dressed as Bedouin who were actually Al Qaeda jihadists.

In one photograph I could see a man at the bottom of the steps who had been pushed or had tried to run. One close-up photograph was of a young man who looked Arabic-the guide, I assumed-who had probably taken the group photo of the Belgians with the tall Bedouin who turned out not to be a Bedouin.

The last photograph was a close-up of the young woman. Her eyes were wide open, and her parted lips looked very dark against her white, bloodless skin.

I passed the photos to Kate who passed them to Brenner without looking at them.

Zamo had come over to see what was going on, and Brenner gave him the stack of photographs.

Zamo slung his rifle, shuffled through the photos, and handed them back to Brenner without comment, then he walked to one of the arches and stared out into space.

Buck said, “Obviously, we can identify the man in the posed shots dressed as a Bedouin.” He added, “There was no note with these photographs, but there was this…”

He handed me a business card, and I saw it was my card, the one I’d given to Nabeel in Ben’s Kosher Deli a million years ago. On the back I saw where I’d written, Nabeel al-Samad to see Det. Corey. And someone, obviously Mr. al-Samad, had drawn a smiley face. Good cultural awareness, Nabeel. Asshole.

I gave the card to Kate, who looked at it, then she asked of no one in particular, “Why did they give us these photographs?”

It was Buck who replied, in Latin, no less, “Res ipsa loquitur.” He translated, “The thing speaks for itself.”

Indeed it does. And I got the message.

I said, “I think this answers our question about what The Panther is going to do. He is not showing us what he’s capable of doing, or what he’s done-he’s showing us what he is going to do. To us.” I concluded, “He’s made his decision. He will meet with Sheik Musa.”

Everyone agreed, but I still wondered if The Panther would want to avoid that meeting and try the direct approach by storming this fortress.

Either way, Bulus ibn al-Darwish had a lot of murders to answer for. And he would not answer for them in an American court of law. He would answer for them here, in Yemen, in an appropriate act of violence. He may not have been born here, but he was going to die here.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

The eight Bedouin again invited us to dine with them, which was a good sign that we were still their honored guests, because Bedouin hospitality demands that you don’t kill your guests. I mean, from their perspective this was all a big pain in the ass. Not only did the Bedouin have to share their daily goat with us, but they’d also had to deal with the five Al Qaeda assholes who, in some existential way, were a threat to their ancient way of life.

We dressed for dinner-Kevlar and guns for the gentlemen; balto, hijab, Kevlar, and guns for the lady.

Buck said he’d be along shortly, after he made a sat-phone call. I, too, excused myself, saying I needed to visit the excrement shaft, so Kate, Brenner, and Chet went down to the courtyard. Zamo ordered goat takeout and went up to the mafraj.

Before Buck made his call and before I hit the shaft, I asked him, out of curiosity, “How many tribesmen live around here?”

Buck replied, “There hasn’t been a census since the Queen of Sheba, but I’d guess there are about thirty thousand Bedouin in and around Marib province, and they make up about ninety percent of the population.” He added, “Musa’s tribe-men, women, and children-number maybe ten thousand.”

I did the math and said, “Five million dollars is about five hundred bucks for every man, woman, and child.” I added, “That’s about a year’s pay.”

Buck informed me, “Musa will actually take the lion’s share, and he will also share some of that with the other tribal sheiks as a traditional courtesy.”

Actually, Musa will be dead, but I asked, “How about bribes to government officials?”

“A few.” Buck asked me, “Why does this interest you, John?”

“Because five million is a lot of money and it’s a good motivator, but big bounties attract other people.”

“Who did you have in mind?”

“Well, Colonel Hakim comes to mind.”

Buck said, “I doubt if the U.S. government would pay Colonel Hakim if he killed The Panther.”

“If they’ll pay Musa for The Panther’s head, they’ll pay anyone for that head.” Except us. We get a paycheck. I asked Buck, “Is the Yemeni government offering a reward for the death or capture of The Panther?”

“Yes, but it’s our money they’re offering.” He reminded me, “Al Qaeda is our problem.”

“How about a Yemeni government reward for the death or capture of Sheik Musa?”

“Definitely not.”

“Why not?”

“Because if the Yemeni government put a price on the head of any tribal sheik, no matter how much they wanted him dead, that would cause a tribal uprising all over the country.”

“So that’s why the Americans are whacking Sheik Musa, as a favor to the Yemeni government. Musa is President Saleh’s problem, but our job.”

“Correct.” He looked at me and asked, “What is it that you don’t understand about this?”

“I don’t understand how we can help a corrupt, brutal, and treacherous dictator and his government kill a tribal sheik who has done nothing to us, and who is helping us in a very important matter.”

“We’ve been through this, John.” He informed me, “I’ve done worse during the Cold War.” He let me know, “The ends justify the means.”

I didn’t reply, but on a related subject of people getting whacked, I inquired, “Did you know that Kate killed a