The Phoenix Affair, Dave Moyer [best ebook reader for surface pro TXT] 📗

me all the way back home, and that would not be good, no way. Use the government card and the trail probably stops with some front company the Agency has set up, I’m protected. OK, government card it is.

In the end he decided to use the hotel card, reasoning that it would confuse the Agency if they saw he was checked into two hotels at the same time, maybe they could not cover both here in Paris. “Hmm, maybe even three hotels, or four? They did say “don’t be cheap,” didn’t they?” They used the card, booked and prepaid online. The hotel did not have the suite Fahd wanted, but there were two adjoining rooms with enough beds and bathrooms. It would have to do.

They checked the mail, nothing. It had been twenty minutes. Cameron was starting to think of heading back to the alley and following Kisani himself—he could always hand off to the Agency when they got their act in gear, pity to waste the chance. The guy was almost certainly a small fish, but he could lead to a bigger fish right here in Paris, and that might be valuable.

Still nothing at twenty-five minutes, and Cameron went to the bar, bringing back two bottles of water and a couple of Mars bars. It had been a long day after a long trip from the States. “Is it really still Tuesday? He wondered. The confusion that always accompanied his jet-lag was setting in, and he was starting to feel groggy. “Too much to do still,” he told himself—the chocolate would have to work its magic.

When the email came, both of them had lost all hope of catching Kisani still napping, it had been over two hours since they left him unconscious in the alley. If Miguel and his pals hadn’t killed him, he was sure to be up and around by now, they agreed. The were eager to see what Smith had to say anyway

Where are you now? We are very concerned about the opposition, and would like to bring you in where we know you and your friends will be safe. Give me an address and we will have someone come and pick you up.

Cameron sat back in his chair, thinking. Fahd noticed, and asked, “what is it, Paul? Why not answer, we’re wasting time. What about this Ahmed?”

Cameron was still thinking. “Something’s not quite right with that reply. What is it? What’s missing?”

That was the key, he thought suddenly. Smith had not asked about Kisani at all, and that was the urgent part. Hadn’t said whether they were moving to pick him up, nothing. Just “where are you?” Why’s that the most important thing right now? Then it came to him. “You were supposed to be following me, weren’t you Smith, and I lost you and now your shit’s in the street, so you’re trying to save your own bacon?” It felt right. He wasn’t worried about his own side, really, but he was pissed that they’d tried to follow him, even if it was for his own good, and he was more pissed that he’d just wasted, what, thirty minutes, and this guy was just trying to cover his own ass.

Quit screwing around. We are safe for the moment, nothing to worry about at all. You go pick up this Kisani guy, let me know when you do and what you know about him, then I’ll come in. Meantime, I’ve got stuff to do. Anything else you’d like to know about the guy off his ID or the credit card?

If not, I’ve got things to do, and I’ll check in again in an hour or so to see what you have.

As expected, the reply was as immediate as he figured the guy could type, wherever he was.

Cute. Ok, give me the ID stuff, any numbers, date of birth, place of birth if it’s on there, address, telephone, everything. Can you fax an image? Credit card number, name, expiration date, and the 4-digit code off the back of the card. Please.

Calling Paris station now to get things moving.

Can’t hold it against me for trying, right?

“Wrong, but I’ll probably forgive you” Cameron said aloud. He fired off an email with the information on the cards, answered “Maybe, maybe not” to the question, and said he’d be back online in two hours and they better have something to tell him about Ahmed. He killed the screen and turned to Fahd.

“Cheeky guys. Well, let’s get moving, abu Mohammed.” Just for fun, he decided to try to use Ahmed’s card, but he gave it to Fahd for this first try. “You look more like an “Ahmed” my friend” he said with a shrug, and Fahd smiled.

The card worked, and the clerk didn’t ask for ID. “Well, it was only ten euros, but this has all kinds of possibilities for mischief” Cameron grinned, and they stepped outside to hail some taxis.

*****

At Langley, Jones aka Smith was on the phone trying to do damage control. “Damned amateurs trying to play spooks” he mumbled while the ringing started at the other end. But that wasn’t what was causing his foul mood. He knew the DDO had a thing for this guy, he’d already screwed up once today, and he didn’t want Cameron to report to “the Boss” that he’d been too clever by half while not supporting an agent in the field.

“Hello,” was the answer on the other end of the line.

“Ripley? Jones, calling from the Farm. I have a Flash tasking for you.”

“Fire away.” Patrick Ripley sat in his office, the desk officer for the night at Paris station. He was covered as a commercial attaché, and so was a “legal” in the country, with full diplomatic immunity. As in all such cases, the fact that he was actually Agency was a very closely guarded secret. He’d worked with Jones before and recognized the voice, and the caller ID on the encrypted phone showed that the call came from Langley. Otherwise, he’d have had to authenticate the caller.

“OK,” came Jones across the scrambled line, “I have an asset working in Paris, more about that later if I can clear you. He was followed, but he paid some guys to mug the tail in the third alley north of the Tower on the east side of Ave. Gustave Eiffel. Do you know the place?”

“Sure, I know it,” and Ripley was out of his chair making ready to leave the office. “How long ago, and what’s this guy’s name? What’s he look like?”

“Two hours ago.” Jones passed all the information he’d gotten from Cameron. “Follow him if you find him, certainly try to run his drivers license there, we’re doing the same here. He’s Moroccan, that we know for sure already. Can’t find any employment in Paris for him, but you may have better luck there. In any case, we want to know where this guy goes home, who he sees, what else he does. You got it?”

“I’m on it, let me get out of here, call you in a few hours.” Ripley hung up, struggling into his jacket, locked his safe, and flew out the door, making sure it latched behind him. He looked at his watch. “Two hours,” he thought. “Probably not going to find him in the alley still, unless they’ve mostly killed the guy. Worth a try though. If he’s not there, I’ll try the nearest hospital, if not that, I’ll go find this address and see if Mr. Kisani is a bad guy.” VII. Paris

Ibrahim sipped the scalding, sweet tea and munched on the dates from the plate in the middle of the table, watching the door. The lamb had been excellent as usual, and now he waited for Salah to come. The restaurant was quiet, also as usual, two men smoked a hookah at the far end of the room, others talked quietly, waving their hands madly about as is usual in the Middle East.

Salah came through the door, a great hulking man. He was dressed well enough, but cut an intimidating figure. He was a dark-skinned Egyptian, which spoke of some near or distant lineage from upper Egypt, which meant south Egypt, which always hurt Ibrahim’s head to think about, but never mind. Salah was broad shouldered and muscular, a large head, thick black hair, a matching mustache and a nose that would have made the Pharaoh himself proud. He had jet-black eyes that were not overly intelligent, and indeed, Salah was not Ibrahim’s brightest light. Still, it was difficult to recruit people here in Paris that were willing, able, and discrete, and Salah was all three. In truth, Ibrahim always thought of him as his muscle in reserve, although he had had no occasion to use such talent since he’d been these two years in Paris.

“Salaam alaykum, ya Salah’ he said, as he rose to greet the man, “Peace be upon you, oh Salah.”

“And upon you be peace” the other answered, and the two made the pair of mostly-air kisses on the cheeks with which Arab friends often greeted one another. “Hayyak allah” he added “May God give you life.”

“God gives you life” Ibrahim rendered the required reply, “sit, my friend, have some tea and dates, and then we will talk.”

This they did, making small talk for several minutes, Ibrahim inquiring after Salah’s family in Egypt, the other knowing better than to inquire after anything to do with Ibrahim. Salah was obedient, and discrete to a fault, and to be candid he was awed and often a little frightened by Ibrahim. He was a quiet man in any case, and now he waited for his sometime employer to come to the point.

“Salah, brother,” Ibrahim finally began. “Here is the address of a hotel in the Saint Germaine district. There is a man there that you must follow.” He laid a slip of paper with the address on the table, then produced a small photograph of the man. “As you see, he is early fifties, bald. You cannot tell from this, but he is tall, perhaps 1.8 meters, six feet two inches or so. He is a Saudi general, and we do not know why he has come to Paris. I need you to follow him, and report to me where he goes, who he sees, what he does.” He thought for a moment, and remembered his new bit of tradecraft. “You have a cell phone, my friend?” Salah nodded. “Excellent. You will call me every two hours and make a report. This is very important, Salah, the work of God. You must not fail, do you hear?”

Salah tried his best to look serious and confident, inside he was unsettled. “And what if I do fail, I wonder?” he thought. But he said, “Yes, Ibrahim, I can do it easily. I will follow this Saudi scum, and I will telephone you as you say. But, when shall I go, tonight?” The last he asked only half heartedly, hoping to seem eager to begin but that Ibrahim did not really expect him to spend the whole night on a cold Paris street.

“No, my friend, tomorrow will be better. But be early, perhaps not later than eight o’clock in the morning. I do not know