Colonel Kent continued, “And while we’re at it, we can tell the Saudis to go fuck themselves, and we can shut down our bases in Saudi Arabia before they tell us to get out.” He asked me, “Understand?”
“Sounds like a plan.”
“And here’s the kicker. The biggest construction company in this part of the world is bin Laden Construction. Owned by that asshole’s family. So we contract them to do some of the work.” He asked me, “See the irony?”
“I do. But watch the cost overruns.”
“Right.” He looked at me and said, “You didn’t hear any of that from me.”
“Correct.” I needed another drink, so I excused myself and headed for the bar.
On the way, I was intercepted by Brenner’s boss, the sometimes reverend Ed Peters, who asked me how my day went, and I told him I was disappointed about not seeing the donkey market.
He assured me it wasn’t that interesting, then asked me, “What did Colonel Kent have to say?”
Well, Colonel Kent reminded me a little of the general in Dr. Strangelove, but I didn’t want to share this thought with Ed Peters. I mean, I had no idea what the interpersonal relationships were here, or who thought who was a loon, or who was jockeying for position. As I said, everyone here seemed a little nuts to me, and my short- term goal was to get out of this embassy, find The Panther, whack him, and go home. In fact, Tom Walsh was looking very good to me right now.
I said to Ed Peters, “The colonel gave me a briefing about the Yemeni Army.”
“That’s always good for a laugh.”
“Right. We need more serious allies.”
“You won’t find any in this part of the world.” He shifted into diplomatic mode and said, “The irony is that the Yemenis are good people, and they could be good allies if they-or we-got rid of their government.”
“Let’s hope the people choose a better government in the next election.”
“This country is three thousand years old. There hasn’t been an election yet.” He changed the subject and said, “We’re using a five-vehicle convoy tomorrow. That should be all right.”
“I’m sure we can get away with three.”
“Five is better.”
How about twenty? I asked him, “Why don’t we fly?”
“We don’t trust Yemenia air. And we don’t have any of our own air assets here. I wish we did, but these idiots won’t let us bring in helicopters.”
“How about Spook Air?” Meaning the CIA air assets.
He replied, “I don’t know if anyone asked.”
“How about the C-17?”
“We like to have one sitting at Sana’a Airport in case we have to move the whole embassy out of here.”
“Good thinking.”
He explained, “When one C-17 comes in, the other leaves for the States, and the one that came in waits for another to arrive.”
“Got it.” I asked him, “Why don’t we charter an aircraft to take us to Aden?”
“We do that sometimes. But not this time.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know.”
Well, I did. We were driving to Aden because someone wanted to see if Al Qaeda snapped at the bait. Which reminded me, if I needed reminding, that Al Qaeda fighters were on the way to Aden, and I asked Peters, “How would you evacuate the American personnel at the Sheraton in Aden?”
“By ship.”
“Whose ship? And how do we get to it?”
“I’d try the backstroke.”
Why do I think he’s used this joke before? But it
He said, seriously, “My DSS counterpart in Aden, Doug Reynolds, will brief you.” He asked me, “What was your evacuation plan when you were in Aden last time?”
“I think it was the breaststroke.”
While I was wondering if I should mention that I’d just discovered that the Sheraton in Aden was in imminent danger of attack, Howard Fensterman came over to me, and Ed Peters excused himself. There seemed to be an unwritten rule here that conversations needed to be compartmentalized, so it was like a Shakespeare play where the actors entered, delivered their lines, then exited, making way for new actors who didn’t know what the last ones said, which usually led to some misunderstanding or troublemaking, which in turn led to someone getting whacked. That’s what happens when people don’t communicate. Right?
Anyway, Howard said to me, “You and Kate went into Sana’a today with Paul.”
“We did.”
“I would have joined you.”
“We thought you were attending the Catholic Mass at the Italian Embassy.”
He smiled, but he wasn’t amused. He said to me, “I have your satellite phone numbers and we’ll stay in touch when you’re on the road.”
“Why don’t you come to Aden with us?”
“I would, but I have a lot to do here to get this office up and running.” He informed me, “There was an attack last night on an American oil installation in a place called Marib.”
“I heard.”
“One suspect was captured. I’m trying to get permission from the Ministry of Justice to interview him.”
So do I tell him-been there, done that? He was the FBI legat, Kate’s supposed boss, but no one had told him that we’d been to Ghumdan. Who the hell was in charge here? And what was going on behind the scenes? For some reason I pictured Buck as the guy with all the strings in his hands, manipulating the whole puppet show.
I said to Howard, “You need to speak to Buck Harris about that.”
“I do? Why him?”
“Why not?”
Howard asked me, “What is his actual job here?”
“I don’t know. Protocol officer?”
Howard changed the subject and said to me, “I told Kate she needed to see me first thing tomorrow. I have the arrest warrant, a copy of the indictment, and instructions on how to effect a lawful arrest on a suspect in a foreign country who claims dual citizenship.” He also let me know, “You need to read him his Miranda rights, but you first need to establish that he understands English.”
“When can I kick him in the balls?”
He ignored me and said, “I also have all this in Arabic-the warrant, the indictment, and his Miranda warning for him to read and sign.”
“Howard, is this a joke?”
“No, it is not. This arrest will be made lawfully and properly, and it will stand up in an American court of law.”
Well, if I had any second thoughts about whacking The Panther, Howard just put them all to rest.
I said to him, “Brief Kate on all this.”
“I will. But I want you, as one of the likely arresting agents, to understand this.”
“Okay.”
He assured me, “I’m just trying to keep you from making a mistake that could jeopardize a Federal prosecution, and get you or us in trouble.”
“Thank you.”
“That’s what I’m here for.”
“Right.” I actually liked Howard, and I could see that he was bright enough to learn how the world really worked. After a few months in this place, he’d lose his idealism and his fine legal scruples and he’d be helping the PSO torture suspects in Ghumdan Prison. Well, maybe not. But like all of us who’ve been on the front lines too long, and all of us who lived through 9/11, Howard Fensterman would become a little more like the people we were fighting. Of that, I was sure.
