Brenner then asked, “Did any of your companions or commanders ever live in America?”
Sammy asked the question, and Rahim seemed to hesitate, then replied. Sammy said to us, “He says one of his companions, Anwar, the Egyptian, lived for a time in America. He also says he had heard that a high commander once lived in America.”
Brenner was smart enough not to ask a quick follow-up question and changed the subject. He asked, “Did you receive any assistance or information from any of the tribes in the Marib area?”
Rahim listened to the translation, then said something that Sammy translated as, “He says a sheik of the Yafi tribe-a local chieftain of that tribe-took money from Al Qaeda for safe passage and for the use of this Bedouin camp.”
It was interesting that Al Qaeda was able to make a deal with the local chief. All differences aside, money talks. Or, as Buck said in New York, favors were exchanged.
Brenner followed up with, “What else did this sheik provide?”
Sammy asked Rahim, then said to us, “He says the sheik provided food, guides, and information concerning the security of the American oil installation. He also says he and his comrades were told by their commanders that with this information, their attack would be successful.”
Rahim volunteered something else, which is always a good sign, and Sammy told us, “He says the American oil company security forces appeared to be expecting them, and he now believes that someone betrayed them to the Americans or to the Yemeni security forces.”
Hey, welcome to Yemen, Rahim. Only here we don’t call it betrayal, we call it business as usual. And it was probably the local sheik who was playing both ends of that business.
Brenner asked, “What is the name of this sheik?”
Sammy asked, but Rahim said he didn’t know.
Brenner said to me, “The Yafi are a large tribe around Marib, but like all tribes, they’re broken into many clans that sometimes take their name from their ancestral sheiks. So if we had this sheik’s name, we could identify the local tribe and maybe get a fix on this Al Qaeda camp.” Brenner then said to Colonel Hakim, “You should look into this.”
Hakim replied curtly, “Do not tell me what I should do.”
Ally or asshole?
Brenner thought asshole and explained to me, “The PSO doesn’t like to leave the safety of the cities.”
I thought Hakim was going to blow a gasket, but he controlled himself and said to us, “Five minutes.” He added, for the record, “The prisoner is sick and must rest.”
I pointed out, “The doctor said he was doing great.”
“Five minutes.”
Brenner said to me, “Your turn.”
Okay. As I said, I like to soften up the prisoner with personal questions and sports talk, but we had a big cultural divide here, and I had about four minutes, so I went right for the big enchilada and asked a typical leading question. “When was the last time you saw Bulus ibn al-Darwish-al-Numair?”
Rahim’s puffy eyes opened wide even before the translation.
Sammy translated, and I could see that Rahim was struggling with his response. Finally, he replied.
Colonel Hakim sat stone-faced as he listened to Rahim, and Brenner was nodding as though he understood every word-or at least every third word.
Finally Sammy translated, “He says… al-Numair-The Panther-was present on the evening of the attack. Last night. Al-Numair spoke to the fighters and assured them they would be victorious. They prayed together… then al- Numair entered a vehicle and drove away.”
I exchanged glances with Brenner, then I asked a standard police question. “What kind of vehicle? What color?”
Sammy asked, then told us, “He says it appeared to be a Toyota Hilux. White.”
Brenner informed me, “A very common SUV in Yemen. And ninety percent of the vehicles in this country are white.”
“I noticed.” So The Panther was tooling around in a commonly used vehicle, which was no surprise. But what was surprising was that he seemed to have safe passage in this tribal area.
I asked, “How many vehicles were with him?”
The answer was five, and Sammy said they were all white SUVs, though Rahim couldn’t be certain of their makes or models.
I asked another standard police question. “What was al-Numair wearing?”
The answer was traditional North Yemen clothing-a white fouteh, and a shiwal on his head. No Jersey Shore T-shirt. The Panther, it seemed, was returning to his roots.
I tapped my dagger and asked, “Jambiyah?”
Sammy didn’t have to translate, and Rahim nodded and said, “Jambiyah.”
“Facial hair?”
Yes. A long black beard.
“What was his general appearance? Sick? Healthy? Heavy, thin?”
Sammy asked and said to me, “Rahim believes this man looked healthy. But very thin.”
I asked, “Does Rahim know that Bulus ibn al-Darwish is an American citizen?”
Sammy seemed surprised at that, though Rahim did not. Sammy said to me, “He has heard this. But did not know if it was true.”
In a normal interrogation, I’d now mention the big reward and ask, “Where is he hiding?” But I was sure that Rahim didn’t know. Not even for five million bucks. And if he did know, and if he told us, it wouldn’t be the Americans who got there first. In fact, it would probably be someone telling The Panther to beat feet. Or if the Yemeni Army gave it a try, they wouldn’t necessarily ask us to help, and left to their own proven incompetence, The Panther would get away.
So instead of “Where is he hiding?” I asked, “Where and when is the next attack?”
Sammy translated and Rahim replied. Sammy said to me, “There was talk in the camp of attacks on the oil pipeline between Marib and As-Salif, attacks on oil engineers, aid workers, and Western tourists.” He added, “And talk of an attack on the American Embassy.”
This was hardly hot news, and I doubted if a low-level jihadist had any specific times or places for these attacks. I thought of young Mr. Longo and his planned excursion to see the temples of Marib. Maybe he should just visit the website of the Yemeni Tourist Board, click onto Marib, and call it a day.
Remembering that The Panther got his big start in Yemen with the
Rahim seemed to understand the question before it was translated and replied in Arabic to Sammy.
I heard the word “Sheraton,” which was not the word I wanted to hear.
Sammy said to me, “The Sheraton Hotel. He says he was told there are many American soldiers and police in the hotel… infidels on sacred Islamic soil… He says his companions who did not participate in the attack on the American oil installation are now traveling to Aden. But he has no further knowledge of this.”
I said to Brenner, “That might be interesting information to anyone planning to stay at the Sheraton in Aden.”
Brenner did not respond.
Colonel Hakim said, “Your time is finished.”
I ignored him and said directly to Rahim, “Thank you for your cooperation. If you continue to cooperate with the Americans, we will do everything possible to help you return to your home.”
Sammy didn’t translate, and Hakim stood and said, “It is finished.”
As I suspected, Rahim, like most educated Saudis, actually understood a little English, and he probably enjoyed contraband American DVDs-maybe The Sopranos or Sex and the City, and he said to me, “Please, sir. Help me. I help you.”
I looked at Rahim sitting against the wall, his eyes on me. If he got sprung, I wondered if he’d go home and get his life together, or if he’d rejoin the fight. About twenty-five percent of the jihadists released from Guantanamo had turned up again on the battlefields of Afghanistan. And others had been rearrested for terrorist activities in
