The Charm School

screamed.
    Then everything happened very quickly. Two of the Bedouins pointed their rifles at the Belgians while the others bound their hands behind their backs with tape.
    Annette shouted to Wasim, “What is happening? Why are they doing this?”
    Wasim, whose wrists were also bound, was at first afraid to speak, but then he found his voice and said, “It is a kidnapping. Do not be frightened. They kidnap for money. They will not harm us.”
    And as Wasim said this, he hoped it was so. A tribal kidnapping of Westerners. It was a common thing–what was called a guest kidnapping–and they would spend a week, perhaps two with a tribe until money was delivered. And then they would be released. These things usually ended well, he knew, and Westerners were rarely harmed, and never killed unless the army intervened and attempted to free those who were taken by the tribes.
    Annette, though she was terrified, said to her compatriots, “It is a kidnapping. For ransom. Wasim says not to be --”
    “Shut up,” said the tall Bedouin in English. He then said to Wasim in Arabic, “This is not a kidnapping.”
    Wasim closed his eyes and began praying aloud.
    Bulus ibn al-Darwish, The Panther, drew his curved dagger and moved behind Wasim. With one hand, he pulled Wasim’s head back by his hair, and with his other hand he drew his curved dagger across Wasim’s throat, then shoved the man forward.
    Wasim fell face first onto the stone floor of the Temple of the Moon and lay still as his blood flowed quickly and spread across the hot stones.
    The Belgians stared in horror, then some of them began screaming and some began crying.
    The armed men now forced all the Belgians to their knees, and The Panther moved first to Annette, coming around behind her, and said to her, “So you don’t have to watch the others die,” and with a quick motion, he pulled her head back by her long hair and sliced open her throat with his curved dagger, then moved on to the others.
    Some cried or begged for mercy, and some struggled though it was futile because the jihadists held them in a tight grip as The Panther cut their throats. A few accepted their fate quietly. Only one prayed, an elderly woman who The Panther saved for last so she could finish her prayers. It was interesting, he thought, to see how people died.
    In less than two minutes, it was over. All nine infidels and Wasim their servant lay on the floor of the temple, their life blood flowing freely onto the ancient stone.
    Bulus ibn al-Darwish, al-Numair, The Panther, watched the infidels as, one by one, they went into a final death throe, then lay still.
    One, however, the man who was the father of the young woman, suddenly stood, his wrists still bound behind his back, and began running down the stone steps. He quickly stumbled and fell face first onto the stone, then tumbled down the steep steps and came to rest at the bottom.
    The Panther said to his jihadists, “I hope he was not injured.”
    The men laughed.
    The Panther stared at his jambiyah, red with blood, then slid it into its sheath.
    He retrieved one of the tourists’ cameras and looked at the digital images on the small screen, which made him smile.
    He called to one of his men, “Nabeel,” and handed him the camera to take pictures of the slaughter.
    The Panther looked at the dead Europeans and said, “So, you came to Yemen for adventure and for knowledge. And you have found both. A great final adventure, and a great knowledge of this land. You have learned that in Yemen death comes.”

Chapter 2
    If Earth had an anus, it would be located in Yemen.
    And speaking of assholes, my boss, FBI Special Agent-in-Charge Tom Walsh, wanted to see me, John Corey, at 5:15 P.M. , and Detective Corey was now five minutes late. But not to worry–my wife, Kate Mayfield, who also works for Walsh, was on time for the meeting and had undoubtedly made excuses for me, like, “John is in a passive-aggressive mood today. He’ll be here when he feels he’s made his statement.”
    Right. Another five minutes. I logged off my computer and looked around the empty cube farm. I work on the 26 th floor of 26 Federal Plaza which is located in Lower Manhattan in the shadows of the Twin Towers. Well… not any more. The Towers, I mean. But I’m still here.
    It was Friday–what we call Federal Friday–meaning that by 4:30, my colleagues in the War on Terrorism, mostly FBI agents and NYPD detectives, had left to beat the bridge and tunnel