She thought that was really funny, then said to me, “Maybe I see you again.”
“Tomorrow night.”
So Buck and I sat there, smoking Cuban cigars, drinking Russian vodka, listening to American disco, and watching the human comedy.
I was sure that if you stayed in Yemen long enough-like more than a month-you’d develop a deep fatalism, which led to strange and risky behavior. I’m not being judgmental-just expressing an awareness that the people I needed to work with and trust had gone a little around the bend.
Anyway, the DJ switched to American big band, and an instrumental of “I’m in the Mood for Love” filled the room while a Russian chanteuse on the stage did her best to sing along.
“Ahminda moot fa loov, zimply becus yerneermee…”
Brenner and Kate were getting to know each other.
On the subject of fatalism, I imagined that every dangerous mission from the dawn of time through World War Two and the Cold War to the war on terrorism began with an alcohol binge. Or should begin that way. Hey, eat, drink, and be merry. Nothing puts things into perspective like the thought that you might die tomorrow.
I said to Buck, “This was a good idea.”
“It’s the thing to do on the eve of battle.” He added, “War is a good excuse for any type of behavior.”
Indeed.
The DJ was now playing “Moonlight Serenade” and Kate, observing the one slow dance rule, came over to the table, took Buck’s hand, and led him to the dance floor, leaving Mr. Brenner and me to dance if we chose to.
Before I could ask, Brenner sat and said, “Oh, good. Cigars.” He busied himself with pouring a vodka while getting the attention of the cigarette lady, who came over and clipped his Cuban, then lit it for him.
We didn’t have much to say to each other, but he did say, “Good cigar.”
Mr. Brenner, I thought, was becoming less funny and less interesting as he became more distracted by Ms. Mayfield. I’ll write this off to too much alcohol and too much time in the land of limited dating opportunities. Not that you had to be drunk or horny to find Kate Mayfield attractive.
Anyway, I watched Buck and Kate sharing the dance floor with Western European and American men, and Eastern European and African hookers. It was great that so many diverse cultures could get along so well. It would have been even greater if we could get the Arabs out there in their robes and veils, all liquored up, doing the Bristol Stomp.
A few ladies came by to ask if they could sit or have a dance, and Mr. Brenner and I politely declined.
To make conversation, I said to Brenner, “Someday a rocket is going to come through this roof.”
He informed me, “They have steel planking and sandbags on the roof.”
“It should say that on the menu.”
“Moonlight Serenade” ended, and it was my turn to dance with my wife.
The DJ was still spinning big band and the smoky air filled with trombones and saxophones playing Tommy Dorsey’s “I’ll Never Smile Again.”
Kate and I danced, and I didn’t spin her much because I could tell the room was already spinning in her head.
She didn’t have much to say, and I walked her back to our table.
It was past midnight now and the Russia Club was in full swing. Buck suggested cognac, which was not a good suggestion.
Kate said, “I’m ready to go home.”
Me, too. Let’s go to the airport.
Brenner picked up the tab-about forty bucks, which he paid in American dollars.
Sergei showed us to the door and said to us, “Tomorrow is belly dancing show. You come.”
Buck said we’d be back. We left, and Zamo pulled up to the door. I put Kate in the front seat and the boys squeezed in the rear.
As we passed through the gates of Tourist City, Zamo suggested we have our guns handy, which was a good idea considering we were so drunk it would take five minutes to find them.
Zamo also suggested that he drop Kate and me off first at the Sheraton, then double back to the embassy. His final suggestion was that Brenner should stay in the embassy tonight since Zamo had no intention of driving him to his apartment after midnight.
So just another night out in wild and crazy Sana’a.
Kate and I got dropped off at the Sheraton, and Zamo said he’d pick us up at 6:45. Buck told us not to check out, and Brenner said to wear the Kevlar. I said, “Good night and good luck.”
I stuck my gun in my belt and steered Kate into the lobby, which was empty and quiet, though I could hear music from the cocktail lounge.
We went to the elevators, where there should have been a security person, but the chair was empty. We drew our guns and rode up to our floor, where I told Kate to keep an eye on the corridor while I cleared the room.
There were no terrorists under the bed or in the closet so I motioned Kate in, and I closed and bolted the door. The drapes were open and I drew them shut.
Kate, not feeling her very best, collapsed on the bed.
I looked around the room to see if anything struck me as wrong-like a stuffed black panther on my pillow. Everything looked kosher-or I should say halal-and I lowered myself into the stuffed chair.
All in all, this was not a bad day in the Land That Time Forgot. I mean, we learned a lot, and we could make good use of what we learned, and by now, maybe The Panther knew that John Corey, who’d killed The Lion, was now here to kill him. There ain’t room in this country for both of us, asshole.
My teammates seemed more than competent, and I trusted Brenner. Professionally, I mean. Not so much with Kate. Buck seemed trustworthy, though he had a self-admitted history of throwing friends under the bus-but only for patriotic reasons.
Our CIA person was as yet unknown, but not for long. That could change the team balance.
Kate was still gung-ho, and she was a fast learner. I was honestly glad she was with me and I looked forward to that moment when I could say, “I told you we should have stayed home.”
So, tomorrow the road to Aden, which I’d traveled round-trip last time. This time, there would be no round trip. It would be one-way to Aden, then to Marib. And that, too, could be one-way. But to be optimistic, let’s say Marib was the last stop before home. And the last stop for The Panther.
PART V
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
At 7 A.M., everyone who was going to Aden had assembled with weapons and baggage in the small parking lot at the side of the chancery building.
It was a nice morning, dry and cool, with a clear sky for the Predator drones.
Standing around the five black Land Cruisers were about fifteen people, all men, except for Kate and a woman in tan cargo pants and a white T-shirt. She was, according to Buck, our doctor, and her name was Clare Nolan. She looked very young, and I asked Buck, “Is she old enough to use alcohol swabs?”
“She’s very competent,” Buck assured me. “She worked in an inner-city hospital trauma unit for six months. Gunshot wounds and all that.”
“Can she treat a hangover?”
“You look fine, my boy.” His satellite phone rang and he excused himself and went off to speak to someone in
