The Panther

Anyway, Buck exchanged a few words with one of the Bedouin, who led us toward the small fortress. I didn’t see a door in the tower, but there was a gated opening in the courtyard wall, and we passed through into the large walled-in area where two small SUVs were parked. Also parked in the courtyard was a thirty-foot box van. The van was white and on the side was something written in Arabic and a picture of a red fish. On top of the van’s roof was what appeared to be a refrigeration unit, though I knew this was the sealed dome of a satellite dish.

One of the Bedouin spoke to Buck, who said to us, “The two Hiluxes are for our use. The truck, as you know, is our communication system and Predator monitoring station.” He also let us know, “This truck came into Sana’a Airport with me on the C-17.”

Which was another reason why Kate and I couldn’t get a ride on the C-17. I wondered what else or who else was on board.

Buck and Chet went over to the two rear doors and satisfied themselves that the doors were padlocked. Buck had a penlight and he confirmed, “This is the same padlock from the aircraft, and the wax seal is intact.”

Good. Recalling the Trojan horse, I wouldn’t want to discover that the van was now filled with jihadists. Or explosives.

Buck also informed us, “I have the padlock key.” He added, “We’ll open it in the morning.”

It is morning, Buck.

Chet confirmed that he had the backup key, then he unlocked the cab and checked that the ignition key was in the ignition lock, and Buck and Chet confirmed that they both had backup keys. Also, one of the Bedouin turned over a set of keys to Buck.

So obviously a lot of this had been pre-planned back in the States, including getting Mr. and Mrs. Corey to come along. And now it was all coming together here, in Marib province, where apparently the planners knew The Panther would be. And they knew this before the attack on the Hunt Oil installation. It occurred to me, not for the first time, that what I was seeing was the tip of the iceberg. That in itself was not unusual-you only need to know what you need to know in this business. But I had the feeling that there were things I did need to know that I didn’t know.

Brenner asked Buck, “How did the truck get here?”

Buck replied, “We turned it over to two of Sheik Musa’s men at the airport, and they drove it directly here, without incident, accompanied by a discrete armed escort of SUVs, also provided by Sheik Musa.”

The sheik was earning his five million Yankee dollars. He was incentivized. Money talks. Loyalty is just a word.

Kate, who was still recalling the thrilling ride up to this plateau, asked, through her scarf, “But how did they get this truck up here?”

Buck informed all of us, “My driver, Amid, told me there is a better road coming up here from the north.” He also let us know, “Amid says the sheik has that approach guarded.”

Great. So we were protected by men and terrain. Unfortunately, protected also means boxed in. But to be positive, like Buck, I had to admit that Sheik Musa seemed to be living up to his end of the deal. And yes, we couldn’t have done any of this without the help and cooperation of a local sheik. In this case, Sheik Musa.

The three Toyota Land Cruisers that we’d arrived in pulled into the courtyard and the Bedouin began unloading our bags.

Two of the Bedouin led us across the courtyard to a narrow opening in the base of the stone tower, and as we entered the dark space, I immediately recognized it as the livestock level, complete with dirt floor and pungent smell. I looked up at the high ceiling for the opening of the excrement shaft, but I couldn’t see much in the dark.

The two Bedouin had flashlights and they pointed the beams at a stone staircase, then led the way up.

The second floor of the six-story walk-up was the diwan level, the prime space in the tower, and the Bedouin stopped there and said something to Buck, who said to us, “This is where we stay.”

Our hosts began lighting kerosene lamps, illuminating the large open space that was the entire floor of the tower, supported by stone pillars. A few window openings let in some moonlight, air, and birds. The floor was rough-hewn planks covered with bird shit, and the walls were unplastered stone. This whole place was basically a pile of rock, like a medieval castle, hardly fit for a sultan, let alone six finicky Americans. Well… maybe not all of us were finicky. In any case, this was where we’d be returned to after our staged kidnapping to await the Al Qaeda guys who’d be taken here by Musa’s men to see us. Hopefully that wouldn’t be a long wait.

As my eyes adjusted to the light of about ten lanterns, I spotted our bedroom-six ratty blankets spread over a bed of straw. I also noticed a small wooden shed in the far corner, and if I had to guess I’d say that was the master bathroom, a.k.a. the excrement shaft. Other than a washbasin on a stand, there wasn’t a single stick of furniture in the place, leaving lots of room for a La-Z-Boy recliner. Also, it goes without saying that the only items in the room from the twenty-first century were us.

Buck said, “All the comforts of home.”

Right. If home was Dracula’s castle.

Buck also said, “Someday, when this country is at peace and tourism returns, this will be a quaint country inn.” And he named it for us: “The Sultan’s Crow Fortress. Fifty dollars a night.”

“Great view,” I agreed. But don’t put the reception desk under the excrement shaft.

A few of the other Bedouin began arriving, carrying our bags, which they deposited near the straw and blankets. Nice chaps. I would have tipped them, but if things went right, they’d be sharing in Musa’s five million bucks. Warlords and tribesmen can do okay if they get tight with the Americans and the Saudi princes. I need to look into a career change.

Buck exchanged a few more words with our Bedouin bellboys, who, said Buck, wished us good sleep. But why were they grinning and fingering their jambiyahs? Or was it just the light?

With all the Bedouin gone, Kate pulled off her scarf and balto and threw them on a blanket.

Brenner quipped, “Hussy.”

That got a laugh-the first laugh in a long time. I think we were all relieved to have gotten this far.

We were one step closer to The Panther, and soon he’d know we were here, if he didn’t already know. Let the hunt begin.

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

We spent a few minutes exploring our accommodations, discovering a crate of bottled water and a sack of flatbread.

Chet excused himself to go up to the mafraj to make a sat-phone call, probably to his station chief in Sana’a, or maybe mission control in Washington. Also, he’d want to speak to the Predator ground control station, which could be anywhere in the world. And while he was doing all that, he might as well have a little chew.

Zamo was in his sniper mode, going from window to window, sighting his rifle and nightscope at the surrounding terrain. He let us know, “Great perch. But too many rocks down there for cover and concealment. But no concealment between the rocks.”

Zamo saw life through a telescopic sight. Someone else would see a nice view. Position determines perspective.

Kate and I looked out a window into the courtyard below. The six Bedouin who’d driven us here were apparently staying with the two Bedouin who’d been here watching the van, and I could see them all in the fading moonlight sitting in a circle on a carpet that they’d rolled out. They seemed to be brewing tea on a camp stove and chatting away.

Chet returned and informed us, “Predators report no unusual or suspicious activity in the area.”

I guess Chet told them that the eight Bedouin they saw in the courtyard were on our side. The problem with aerial reconnaissance, no matter how sophisticated, was that it couldn’t read minds or hearts and couldn’t predict intentions. That’s where human intelligence-HUMINT-came in. The problem with human intelligence, however, was that not all Homo sapiens were sapient.

Brenner, who was our security guy, said, “It’s only a few hours to first light. So I suggest we stay awake, and at first light we’ll post two lookouts, and sleep in shifts.”