had organized the ambush—but by taking the blame for ordering it, Nabeel knew he had perhaps condemned himself to death.
“Nabeel? Speak.”
“Yes, sir.” He stood straight and addressed The Panther and Altair. “When I received word of the American convoy leaving the embassy, I immediately contacted our provincial leaders along the expected route.”
It was actually The Panther who had told him to do this, and it seemed a good strategy. Nabeel continued, “The route, as usual, was south, toward Aden, which is where the Americans go by convoy.”
The Panther said, “That was a good thought, Nabeel. I would have approved—if you had contacted me.”
“Yes, sir.” He continued, “Many friends along the route reported on the location of the convoy, and within hours, Faris had assembled fighters for an ambush in the hills south of Ibb.”
“Excellent,” said The Panther. “So is the convoy destroyed? Are all the Americans dead?”
Nabeel had been witness to his chief’s unusual manner of speaking to men who displeased him. He wondered if Bulus ibn al-Darwish had learned that way of speaking in America.
“Nabeel? Am I not speaking loudly enough for you?”
Nabeel drew a deep breath and replied, “I apologize, sir, for my slowness in responding—”
Altair interrupted, “Continue, Nabeel. What happened with this ambush?”
Nabeel continued, “Faris has told me that the ambush was well planned, with twenty jihadists, a car bomb, a roadside bomb, and a bomb in a donkey cart, whose driver was prepared to become a martyr, but—”
“Enough.” The Panther had already been told that the American Predator drones had seen the ambush and launched Hellfire missiles at the jihadists, so he said to Nabeel, “I have heard enough from you.”
“Yes, sir.”
He said to Nabeel, “I wish to see Faris. He is to travel to Marib town and await further instructions.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Or perhaps I should have someone else call him. Perhaps you will not be able to contact him with your troublesome cell phone.”
Nabeel did not reply.
The Panther commented, “You seem frightened, Nabeel. What is frightening you?”
Nabeel again lowered his head and replied, “My own inadequacy frightens me, sir.” He looked directly at The Panther and said, “I have failed you, and I have failed our great cause.”
“I agree with you, Nabeel. I agree that you failed to kill the two Americans as I ordered, and I agree that you ordered an ambush that ended in disaster. And what do you think your punishment should be?”
“Whatever you wish, sir.”
“Even death?”
“If it pleases you, sir.”
The Panther drew his jambiyah from its sheath and held the razor-sharp blade against Nabeel’s throat.
Nabeel felt his body and legs begin to tremble, and felt himself losing control of his bladder.
Altair said, “That is not necessary, Bulus.”
Perhaps, hoped Nabeel, the old man suspected that The Panther was lying and that it was The Panther who had ordered the ambush. Altair knew Bulus ibn al-Darwish well—perhaps too well. Nabeel prayed that Altair would save his life.
The Panther pressed the blade harder against Nabeel’s jugular vein, but did not draw the dagger across his throat. “Look at me. Look into my eyes.”
Nabeel looked into the eyes of The Panther and saw hate, but not of him, he thought. The hate was always there when the talk was of the Americans.
The Panther said to Nabeel, “So the Americans are now at the Sheraton in Aden, Nabeel. They are perhaps swimming in the pool. Or on the beach. Or perhaps they are having alcoholic drinks in the bar room. And how many jihadists lie dead in the hills and on the road because of your stupid decision to attack this convoy? How many, Nabeel?”
Nabeel swallowed and felt the blade press deeper into his flesh. “Ten, sir…”
“I think more.”
Altair said, “Bulus, we have been here too long.” He reminded him, “If the drones and the missiles trouble you, then we need to leave before they visit us.”
“Yes, but first I need to cut a throat.”
“Yes, but not this man’s throat. Another throat awaits you.”
The Panther did not reply to Altair, but he said to Nabeel, “Perhaps your throat can wait for another time.”
Nabeel felt a flood of relief passing through him and he closed his eyes, which filled with tears, and he nodded.
Still holding his curved dagger to Nabeel’s throat, The Panther said to his aide, “You are to travel to Sana’a with all speed, and board an aircraft to Aden. You are to take a room in the Sheraton Hotel and complete the task I have given you.”
Though he knew this was a suicide mission, Nabeel