He didn’t have much to say, but there wasn’t much that needed to be said.
The Land Cruiser in front of us began moving, and Yasir said to Buck, “Yalla nimshi.” Let’s go.
We drove past the stopped truck and I looked at the driver, who was literally covering his face with his hands. I mean, he didn’t see nuthin’!
Anyway, the kidnap convoy continued north, toward Marib, but before we got to the Bilqis Hotel, the lead vehicle turned left on a dirt trail, west toward the hills, and we all followed.
Our passenger seemed to relax a bit and he said something to Buck, who replied.
Buck said to us, “This gentleman, Yasir, says it is good to see us again.”
I asked Yasir, “Have you done this before?”
Anyway, everything seemed cool so far, and I didn’t pick up on anything wrong or suspicious. Bottom line, I had my Colt automatic in my pocket, my M4 on my lap, my Kevlar in place, and my antenna way up.
Regarding that, everyone’s hand-held radio crackled and Zamo’s voice said, “Clean Sweep Five here. Read?”
I replied, “Sweep Three, loud and clear.”
“Everything good?”
“So far.”
“Same.” He added, “This sucks.”
Could be worse. Could be real. Or it could turn real.
There weren’t many vehicles on this dirt trail, and not too many people in the scattered fields, but there were a number of goat herders sitting around on stone fences, and they seemed interested in the five-vehicle convoy kicking up dust.
Buck made small talk with Yasir, who still seemed a little jumpy. Probably, I thought, despite the fact that this was Bedouin territory, Yasir didn’t want to run into an army patrol, or even the National Security police, though the NSB was bought and paid for. I doubted if Yasir and his friends were worried too much about the Mukhabarat, a.k.a. the PSO, a.k.a. the secret police, who operated mostly in the towns. In any case, the fix was in with the government, though Yasir didn’t know that, and neither did he know why the fix was in—because the Americans were going to whack his sheik as a favor to President Saleh.
The other thing on Yasir’s mind would be Al Qaeda. They were on my mind, too. It was possible that Al Qaeda had been tipped off by now about the Americans at the Bilqis Hotel and at the ruins, and maybe they had put together a snatch job of their own.
Bottom line, though, if Al Qaeda was around, they’d have to defer to the Bedouin, who’d been here for two thousand years. Right?
Anyway, I saw that we were going southwest, and I could see the hills ahead, meaning we were on our way back to the Crow Fortress, which was the plan. If, however, we were going someplace else—like the Al Qaeda training camp—I was ready to cut this trip short.
I said to Buck, “No detours, no bullshit from Yasir.”
Buck replied, “Relax, please.”
“I’ll relax when I’m on that Otter.”
Kate said, “I’m going to call Chet.”
“Good idea.”
She opened her window and leaned out to get clear sky and dialed Chet on her sat-phone, but he didn’t answer.
Yasir didn’t seem to care if we used our hand-held radios or sat-phones or that our automatic rifles were on our laps, so maybe I shouldn’t be paranoid. We were on our way to the safe house, the Crow Fortress. However, if we found Chet there with his throat cut, that would not be a good sign. Or was I ambivalent about that?
I reminded Kate, “The Predators are watching us.”
Kate reminded me, “You have a Bedouin sitting next to you with an AK-47.”
“Right. I’m on top of that.”
Buck said, “This is all going as planned.”
And it was. So I said to Yasir, “Where did you go to college?”
Buck translated, and Yasir replied, and Buck said to me, “He thanks you for your compliment.”
“What compliment?”
“I told him you said you admired his shiwal.” Buck added, “He might give it to you. Then you have to wear it.”
“Thanks, Buck.”
“And if you keep making me translate silly remarks, you’ll be wearing his underwear.”
Kate thought that was funny, and I was happy she was starting to relax.
Anyway, I gave up on trying to make conversation with Yasir, and I paid attention to where we were going.
Within ten minutes we intersected the wide dirt road that I recognized as our landing strip, and we turned right toward the plateau where the Crow Fortress stood.
Kate said to me, “Try Chet.”
So I opened my window, leaned out, and dialed Chet.
He answered and I said, “We’ve been kidnapped.”
He replied, “I saw that.”
I reminded him, “In case you forgot, we’re in the two small Hiluxes. Tell the Predator pilots.”
“Thank you. Anything further?”
“Any dust?”
There was a short pause, then he replied, “No dust tonight.” Chet let me know, “You should be here in fifteen minutes.”
“Keep the beer cold.”
“Further?”
“Negative.”
So I sat back and relaxed.
Chet thought I was funny, but annoying. Maybe even a bit silly. And it was good that he should think that. There are a lot of felons in jail who thought that.
Brenner, however, ex-cop, recognized the act. Zamo, too, may have seen beyond the jokes, and Buck had also been perceptive enough to figure out my M.O.
Kate, of course, had seen me play dumb and funny with suspects, as well as supervisors. Playing dumb is smart. People let their guard down. And make mistakes.
Buck and Chet were my colleagues, my compatriots, and my teammates. But they were not my trusted friends. In fact, they were up to something.
We got to the ravine at the base of the plateau, and up we went. This was actually scarier in the daylight.
We made it to the top and headed toward the Crow Fortress.
I had no idea how long we were going to be here waiting for the Al Qaeda delegation to come check us out and confirm who we were. But if I had to spend more than a week with Chet and Buck, I’d surrender to the first jihadist who came through the door.
Meanwhile, I had to keep an eye on Chet and Buck. Especially Chet. I could wait to see if Chet was here to settle an old CIA score with Kate and me, or I could confront him with it. If I waited, it might be too late to tell him, “I knew you were up to something.” So maybe I needed to make a pre-emptive strike. Before he did the same.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
The five-vehicle kidnap convoy drove through the open gates into the walled courtyard of the Crow Fortress and we all got out of the SUVs.
The two Bedouin hadn’t cut Chet’s throat, and he greeted us and said, “It looked picture perfect on the video monitor.” He added, “I hope enough locals saw it happening, and that by now the word has gotten back to Al Qaeda.”
I asked Chet, “What if the locals or Al Qaeda know or suspect that we’re in the Crow Fortress?”
Chet replied, “That’s possible. But Al Qaeda is not going to interfere with a Bedouin kidnapping or mount an operation against a fortress occupied by Sheik Musa.”
Probably not. But I wouldn’t want to leave here again until The Panther and his jihadists were ready for the goo bags.
We thanked our Bedouin hosts for a pleasant kidnapping experience and climbed up to the second floor of the tower, where we would await further developments, as per Chet’s briefing in Aden.
Chet had retrieved a sat-phone antenna from the van that he’d rigged up in one of the windows, and he plugged his phone into one of the antenna cable jacks, saying, “Now we don’t need clear sky to be in direct sat-phone contact with the Predator ground control station.”
That’s good.
“Or with the embassy, Langley, 26 Fed, or Washington, or anyone who needs to call us.”
That sucks.
He advised us,
however, “Sat-phone reception is sometimes spotty and also the PSO could be listening. Maybe even Al Qaeda if they have the capability. So we’ll keep our sat-phone calls to a bare minimum.” He assured us, however, “The satellite radio signal from the van is very strong, and it’s scrambled and encrypted, so that’s secure.”
Bottom line, this was a well-thought-out mission, but the ability to operate in this environment was severely limited. Chet, though, wanted this to work, to show that the CIA could mount surgical strikes in hostile territory as they did so well at the beginning of the Afghan war. The U.S. military and others, however, would like to see boots on the ground. Lots of them. I found myself rooting for the CIA on this one.
So now that we saw the new sat-phone antenna, what else do we do for fun? Maybe we could play Chutes and Ladders with the excrement shaft.
Before I could suggest that, Buck said, “I brought along some magazines, paperback novels, and crossword puzzles to kill the time.”
I asked Chet, “Any more cognac?”
“One bottle for a celebration.”
Let’s celebrate.
Anyway, we all sat cross-legged on the carpet, except for Zamo, who went from window to window with his rifle and binoculars.
Kate asked Buck and Chet, “How long do you think it will take for Sheik Musa to contact Al Qaeda?”
Chet replied, “Could be a day or two.” He explained, “Musa will make it appear that he’s biding his time, maybe exploring his options, or maybe waiting to see if Al Qaeda contacts him to inquire if he knows anything about some kidnapped Amriki.” He added, “It has to play itself out and we don’t want to micromanage Musa.”
No, but we want Musa to get his ass in gear.
Chet also reminded us, “The Panther could have felt the heat here after the Hunt Oil attack, and maybe he left the area. If so, when Musa offers him five kidnapped Americans, The Panther will have to make the decision about coming back here or not, because Musa is not going to leave his tribal lands and go to The Panther with the five Americans.” Chet concluded, “So it could be a long wait. But I’m confident that one way or the other, Bulus ibn al-Darwish will show up in the crosshairs of a Predator drone video camera.”
Maybe. But the problem was the long wait, and I asked Chet, “How long do we wait?”
“As long as it takes.”
Holy shit. I asked, “What happens when the tuna runs out?” I prompted him, “Come on, Chet. What’s the max time we sit here doing crossword puzzles?”
Chet thought about that, then replied, “I say we give it two weeks. After that we may have a security problem.”
Not to mention a mental health problem. I mean, two weeks in this dungeon? We could get a disease. Call Clare.
Chet also informed us, “The decision is not wholly ours to make. I need to consult with Langley on a day-to-day basis.” He added, “We’ll play it by ear.”
I suggested, “We should also stay in touch with Sheik Musa. He’s the guy who’s in touch with Al Qaeda.”
Chet replied, “We don’t call Musa. Musa calls us.”
Buck also informed us, “The Arabs in general, and the Bedouin in particular, have a different sense of time than we do in the West.” He let us know, “They can negotiate for months over even a simple matter. They’re in no rush.”
But Chet was more reassuring and said, “The Panther, having a half-American head, will probably come to a quick decision.” He added, “He’s impatient. And hungry.”
“Me, too.”
So we had a long wait. Or a short wait. In the end, the best-laid trap still depends on the guy you’re trying to trap.
Kate had a good question. “Will our disappearance—or kidnapping—be reported to the media?”
Buck replied to that. “There is a news blackout at the embassy PIO office.” He smiled and said, “Which is redundant since the PIO doesn’t put out many news releases from Yemen anyway.” He added, “As for snooping Western journalists, there are virtually no resident American news organizations in Yemen. Only the BBC has an office in Sana’a, and the lone reporter there is on extended home leave. As for Yemeni journalists, or government sources, they either know nothing or they’ve been told to know nothing.”
Right. This was truly the Land That Time Forgot, and the black hole of the Mideast, and you could be missing here for months before anyone outside of Yemen noticed.
Kate asked, “What if our friends or family don’t hear from us, or are trying to contact us?”
I said to Kate, “If you mean your parents, consider this a vacation.” No, I didn’t say that. I kept my mouth shut.
Buck replied, however, “Each of us will write a note that will be delivered by our respective offices in the States to anyone on your list.” He advised us, “Keep it general, and don’t mention that you’ve been kidnapped.” He smiled.
Buck also advised us, “Any inquiries to our offices coming from friends or families will be handled by the embassy in Sana’a.” He added, “We should have no problem staying incommunicado for a week or two.”
Chet informed us, “I stay out of touch with friends and family for weeks at a time.” He added, “Comes with the job.”
Also, no one gives a shit if they don’t hear from you. In fact, they welcome it. That’s not nice. Someone somewhere loved Chet.
On that subject, we knew virtually nothing about Chet’s personal life, and he never volunteered a word. But Kate took the opportunity to ask him, “Are you married?”
Chet hesitated a second, then replied, “I am estranged from my wife.”
Maybe that has to do with Chet being strange.
Kate said, as women do, “I’m sorry.”
The wife is probably not.
Chet volunteered, “This assignment and the separation has put a strain on the marriage.”
I’ll say. And I did feel a little sorry for him. On the bright side, he could have four wives here… or maybe only three. He’s already got one. Right?
Buck, who had seemed to make his marriage work despite decades of foreign assignments—or maybe because of that—said, “This business is difficult for family life. We sacrifice a great deal for our country and sometimes I’m not sure it’s appreciated by the country.”
How about never? And why do we care? We do what we do for other reasons. Appreciation is not part of the plan.
Buck said, regarding the long or short wait here, “Let’s be optimistic and assume that we’ll be on a plane heading home before anyone even knows we are missing.”
Okay. Let’s be optimistic.
I opened one of the crossword books and said, “An Arab who ran out of ammunition? Eight letters.”
Brenner, who knew the joke, replied, “A moderate.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
It was dinnertime and we feasted on canned tuna, cold mixed vegetables, and tawwa bread, all washed down with warm bottled water. Chet had a smoke.
The light was fading and we lit a few kerosene lanterns. Out in the courtyard it was prayer time again and the Bedouin were praying loudly, making me homesick for Brooklyn.
After the call to prayer, Chet announced that he had to do a sit-rep and he was going to use the secure radio in the van. I said I’d keep him company, and we both went down to the courtyard where he unlocked the van and we entered.
Chet checked his voice mail and text messages, then made his sit-rep—all okay—then signed off and swiveled his chair toward me. He asked, “You wanted to talk to me?”
“I do.” I remained standing and said to him, “About Ted Nash.”
He nodded.
“You knew him.”
He nodded again, then said, “But not well.”
“Whatever. Here’s the deal, Chet. My wife, before we were married, was involved with Nash.” I looked at his face in the dim light of the console. “You know that?”
“I heard.”
“So what happened was maybe more personal than business.”
He didn’t r
espond.
I continued, “On the other hand, Nash, a few seconds before his death, had a gun pointed at us—at me and Kate—and that was business. Did you know that?”
“I don’t know the details.”
“I’m giving you the details. Here’s another detail. Nash was involved in a rogue operation that would have caused a nuclear attack by the U.S. on the world of Islam.” I asked, “Did you know that?”
“If I did, I wouldn’t tell you that I did.” He added, however, “I did not.”
“Now you know.” I further informed him, “That might sound like a good idea to you—nuke ’em, as I said, and you agreed. But wiping out tens of millions of innocent people and leaving the Mideast a nuclear wasteland is not really a good idea.”
He smiled and replied, “That’s your opinion.”
“Yeah. And my opinion was the one that counted.” I also informed Chet, “Kate and I were prisoners of a nut job who was going to kill us. And Nash knew this. In fact, after Kate and I whacked the nut job, Nash showed up and was going to finish the job for the psycho. Follow?”
“I guess.”
“So we’re talking about self-defense, with maybe a little personal history between the parties.”
“Okay. But what does this have to do with me? Or this mission?”
“You tell me.”
“Okay. Nothing.”
“Try again.”
Chet stayed silent a moment, then said, “I think I see how your paranoid mind is working. And to be honest, I can understand how you might reach some wild and erroneous conclusions. But—”
“No buts, Chet. Do you think I’m stupid enough to believe that Kate and I were asked to come here because we’re perfect for this job?”
“You are perfect for this job, John. And so is Kate.”
“Right. Perfect in every way.”
He asked me a question that I’d asked myself. “If you really believe what you’re suggesting, why in the world did you come here?”