thing or a bad thing in regard to the hotel getting blown up by Al Qaeda. Probably depended on who the prince was paying off or pissing off.
Anyway, all the luggage was inside, so I slung my M4 and moved into the cool lobby.
A few DSS agents, including Mike and Zamo, were keeping an eye on the luggage cart, and Brenner was at the front desk checking us in without showing passports or giving names, which was none of the hotel’s business. The Americans owned floors three and four, forever, and the Saudi prince had a great cash cow going here, compliments of the American taxpayers.
The lobby had just been remodeled when I was last here, and it wasn’t bad-lots of mahogany woodwork and wicker furniture; sort of British tropical colonial, like hotels I’d been to in the Caribbean. And there the similarities ended.
I noticed the ubiquitous photo of Ali Abdullah Saleh, President for Life-until someone killed him-hanging on a wall. Big Ali is watching you.
I also noticed a few Western guests, probably clueless Europeans who got a good deal on a winter getaway. American tourists had the big advantage of never having heard of Yemen or Aden, and neither had their travel agents, and if they had, they didn’t want to go anyplace where Americans were not welcome-which was just about everywhere these days. Europeans thought they were welcome all over, which was another kind of ignorance or arrogance.
Also in the lobby were two Yemeni soldiers with AK-47s, and two U.S. Marines with M-16s. What must those European tourists be thinking by now? Great beach, cheap rates-but what’s with all these people carrying assault rifles? They must be shooting a movie.
I saw that a welcome committee of our colleagues had arrived, and Buck was speaking to three men and one woman in the sitting area of the lobby. Buck seemed to know them, and none of them looked like they could be our CIA guy, who I was sure would reveal himself in a more dramatic way-like maybe paragliding onto the beach. Or a more clandestine way, like if that potted palm over there started whispering to me. “Psst. Corey. Over here. The palm tree. Don’t look at me. Just listen.”
My wife, who’d gone off to freshen up, came up to me and said, “This isn’t a bad place.” She asked, “Did you have a good time here?”
That question was more loaded than a sailor on shore leave, and I replied, “Without you, darling, there are no good times.”
She seemed to doubt my sincerity, then moved on to, “How did Dr. Nolan handle the problem back there?”
That wasn’t the real question, but I replied, “Shook her up a bit.”
“Were you able to calm her down?”
“I was too busy fighting her for her tranquilizers.”
Kate suppressed a smile, then informed me, for the record, “I’m still annoyed at you for that police stop.”
“Well, try to get over it.” I reminded her, “Life is short.”
She softened and said, “You’re a brave man, John, but reckless and arrogant.”
“Thank you. Hey, the bar here is not bad. Can I buy you a drink?”
“Paul says drinking alcohol is on hold until further notice.”
“Yeah? Then how about a beer?”
Howard, who had also gone off to freshen up, came up to us and said, “Not a bad place. But is it safe?”
“No,” I assured him. I suggested, “You may want to return to Sana’a.”
“I think I’ve had enough car travel for one day.”
“I’d hate to see you miss the return-trip ambush.”
He actually laughed. Howard was now a combat vet who laughed at death.
He informed us, “I live on Long Island. I love the beach and I’m a competitive swimmer.”
“Good. The sharks love competitive swimmers.”
Clare, too, joined us and said to Kate, “Your husband is a very brave man.”
Kate replied, “He’s my hero.” Actually, she said… well, nothing.
Clare continued, “I’ve never been so frightened in my life. But John-and Mike-were totally cool and calm, and John made sure I stayed below the windows.”
“And,” I added, “I covered her with my body.” No, I didn’t say that. I’m not
Kate had no comment.
Brenner was finished at the front desk, and he came up to us and handed out key cards in envelopes with our room numbers on them. Brenner had remembered to put me in the same room as my wife, so I think he was over Kate.
Brenner suggested, “Let’s meet our Aden colleagues.”
I asked him, “Where is our Company man?”
“I don’t know.”
Okay. But if I had to guess, I’d say our missing teammate was in the commo room speaking by radio to his station chief in Sana’a, asking if there was any intel about the Hellfires vaporizing The Panther. Wouldn’t that be nice? Or did I really want to whack this guy myself? It’s been a while since anyone from the New York Task Force personally whacked a bad guy, and I think I had the last kill. The Lion. Which was why I was here for an encore performance. Also, maybe Kate whacking a CIA guy was the other reason we were here.
In any case, I was on a roll with killing big cats, and I hoped to continue my winning streak.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
We moved to where Buck was chatting with the welcome committee, and Buck did the honors and said to the four people, “You all know Paul Brenner. And this is FBI Special Agent Kate Mayfield, our new assistant legal attache in Sana’a, just arrived from the ATTF in New York. And this is Kate’s husband, also known as Detective John Corey of the FBI Evidence Response Team, also from the New York ATTF.” Buck added, “John, as I told you, has been here before and he was homesick for Aden.”
That got a laugh, but not from me.
Buck also introduced Dr. Clare Nolan, and FBI Agent Howard Fensterman, the new legat, adding, “Howard volunteered to come along for the ride.”
Did I hear someone say, “Schmuck”?
We shook hands all around, and each person introduced himself and herself.
The lady was Betsy Collins, Supervisory Special Agent and Team Leader of the five-person FBI Evidence Response Team. She seemed pleasant and welcoming, and assuming my reputation had preceded me, she was probably thrilled to have learned from Buck that she didn’t actually have to work with me.
Brenner’s Aden counterpart in the Diplomatic Security Service was Doug Reynolds, whose title was Regional Security Officer, and who looked like ex-military.
I took the opportunity to tell him, “The DSS did a hell of a job getting us here.”
He nodded and said, of course, “That’s what they get paid for.”
The second guy was Lyle Manning, Supervisory Special Agent of the ten-man FBI SWAT Team. He was a young guy, obviously in great physical shape, and like most FBI Special Agents, he wasn’t sure if an ex-cop was his peer. He was okay with Kate and Howard, though, who were in the club. FBI, by the way, means Fabulously Boring Individual. Just kidding.
The third guy was easy to identify-he wore desert cammies, a Marine cap with globe-and-anchor insignia, captain bars on his collar, and a nametag that said “McAndrews,” though he said, “Call me Mac.”
We all pulled up wicker chairs, and we stacked our rifles neatly against the cocktail table. A hovering waiter put menus on the table and said, “Welcome, new sirs and new ladies, and already honored guests to the Sheraton Aden. I am Masud. Please to inform me of your wishes.”
“Water for me and a scotch for my rifle.”
