Chet seemed upbeat, and I imagined he saw the end in sight-the end of all his work and his frustration, and the end of his time here in Yemen.
All we had to do now was go check into the hotel, go see the stupid ruins, then get kidnapped.
And then wait for The Panther.
CHAPTER SIXTY
At 1:15 P.M., the A-team, minus Chet Morgan, piled into our two Toyota Hiluxes, compliments of Sheik Musa. We left most of our personal items in the Crow Fortress because we’d be coming back later today as kidnapped Americans, also compliments of Sheik Musa. But we did take our overnight bags with us for when we checked into the Bilqis Hotel for a few days of sightseeing fun, cut short, unfortunately, by the above-mentioned kidnapping.
The purpose here, according to Chet’s complex plan, was to make it appear that we were tourists driving in from Sana’a. And at the same time, we were obviously not tourists, so therefore we were Americans on a mission. Hopefully our arrival would come to the attention of The Panther, who would conclude, correctly, that his former compatriots were here to kill or capture him. The Panther, in turn, would make plans of his own to kill or capture us. But before he could do that, a third player-Sheik Musa-would upset The Panther’s plan by doing what the Bedouin do best: kidnapping foreigners for ransom. And the first person who was offered the chance to buy the Americans would be The Panther. The Panther, theoretically, would not smell a setup or a trap because it would appear that Sheik Musa just happened to get wind of the American presence and was taking advantage of an opportunity.
And that’s the way the CIA thinks. It’s not the way I think-I’m a bit more direct and a lot less into the smoke and mirrors that the CIA loves. But, hey, it’s their show and Yemen is the stage, so maybe they’ve got this one right. We will see.
Anyway, in my overnight bag, if you’re interested, I’d packed some bottled water, a can of tuna, and yesterday’s boxer shorts. Also, Chet had provided each of us with a toilet kit to complete the appearance of overnight visitors from Sana’a.
We were carrying our concealed sidearms, we wore our Kevlar, and our M4s were across our laps. Kate also wore her black scarf so she could cover her hair and face when appropriate, like when she was kidnapped by Muslim gentlemen who would be offended to see her face.
The three Bedouin Land Cruisers that had taken us to the Crow Fortress would now provide a discreet escort for us to the town of Marib, to prevent a real kidnapping-or assassination-by someone else. Two of the Land Cruisers had gone ahead to check out the road, and the third would trail behind. And if anyone noticed the Bedouin’s SUVs, they would or should appear to be stalking us, not protecting us.
The two Bedouin who’d been here watching the Predator fish van when we’d arrived were staying here to hold down the fort, literally, and to provide security for Chet. I hoped they didn’t cut his throat. We needed Chet to talk to the Predator pilots.
As for CCC–Command, Control, and Communication-the Bedouin had provided Chet, Buck, and Brenner with local cell phones so the convoy could stay in touch if a security situation arose. Also, we had our hand-held radios for point-to-point contact with one another, and our sat-phones, though they’d work only if we had clear sky, meaning not in the vehicles, unless we had our heads out the window.
The order of march was: Hilux One, Buck driving and Zamo riding shotgun; Hilux Two, Brenner driving, me riding shotgun, and Kate in the rear.
We gave the two lead Bedouin Land Cruisers a five-minute head start, then Chet wished us a safe drive to Marib, a nice day at the ruins, and a pleasant kidnapping. Chet thought that was funny. He waved good-bye, then stepped into the van, where he could watch us getting abducted as he ate a can of tuna.
Buck and Zamo pulled out of the courtyard, and Brenner, Kate, and I followed.
Buck didn’t head back to the steep ravine we’d come up, but headed north and west across the plateau, following the tire tracks of the two Land Cruisers ahead of us, whose raised dust we could see in the distance. Follow that Bedouin.
The gray, rocky plateau looked like the video images from the first moon walk. This place could use another forty days and forty nights of rain.
Brenner said to Kate and me, “I’ve been thinking about this thing with Sheik Musa.”
I asked, “You mean about us killing Sheik Musa?”
“Yes.” He admitted, “I see the reason for it. But I don’t like it.”
“Neither will Sheik Musa,” I assured him. But the sheik would know the reason for it.
“Aside from the ethical issues, there are practical issues,” said Mr. Brenner.
“You mean like, how do we explain to the Saudis that we whacked their Bedouin ally?”
“Yes, not to mention that the Bedouin here in Marib and elsewhere may not want to do business with us in Yemen ever again.” He let us know, “They have long memories and they hold grudges for about a thousand years.”
I said, “Maybe Washington has figured out a way to make Sheik Musa’s death look like an accident or that someone else did it.”
Brenner replied, “Assuming we use a Hellfire missile on Musa, that reduces the possible murder suspects to one. Us.”
“Right. But it’s not murder. It’s termination with extreme prejudice, in CIA lingo.” I added, “Sounds better.”
Kate, who’s been hanging around me too long, said wisely, “When you see a double cross, look for a triple cross.”
Brenner agreed with Ms. Mayfield and added, “As we said in Aden, let’s keep an eye on this and talk to each other.”
Paul Brenner was a good guy, a former cop, and a straight shooter. True, he seemed to have Restless Dick Syndrome, but, hey, we all have a little of that. I wondered what Clare was doing now. Probably floating in the pool with Howard. How did I get from Paul Brenner to Clare Nolan? Could I have RDS?
Anyway, it was interesting that the three of us didn’t completely trust the two intelligence officers. Comes with the territory, I guess, though we were all on the same team. Whatever lies we were told and whatever information Chet and Buck withheld was based on the strong principle of need-to-know. If we needed to know, we’d be told when the time came, and if we never needed to know, we’d never know. And what we didn’t know couldn’t be gotten out of us if we were captured-or worse, interrogated by a congressional committee. And what we don’t know can’t hurt us. Wait. Let’s back up on that one.
Anyway, Kate, Brenner, and I were now on the same page, and we had our antennae up, to mix metaphors.
Brenner’s Bedouin-issued cell phone rang and he answered and listened. Are you allowed to drive while talking on your phone in Yemen? I guess if you’re allowed to fire assault rifles out your window, you can talk on your phone.
Brenner hung up and said, “That was Buck seeing if these cell phones actually worked.”
“Good thinking,” I agreed. Not that we didn’t trust Sheik Musa; it was the Yemen Telephone Company that could be the problem. Especially here. Lots of dead zones. Also, I wondered how the Bedouin paid their phone bills.
Brenner informed us, “Buck said he got a cell phone call from Chet saying Predators report no suspicious activity ahead.”
Didn’t they say that on the road to Aden?
The north side of the plateau, as I saw on the Predator monitor, was a gradual slope, and Buck followed the rutted track as it descended into the flatlands. I could see a road in the distance, a few vehicles, houses, and cultivated areas.
Halfway down the slope, I spotted a white SUV parked behind a big rock formation, and as we got closer I saw four men with AK-47s sitting on the rocks. Obviously they were Sheik Musa’s men, guarding this approach to the fortress as promised. Our two lead escort vehicles had apparently sailed right past these guys, so everyone was in the same tribe. Right? On the other hand, this was Yemen and nothing was as it appeared.