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

in Paris. He’d emailed Ibrahim as well, however, and now there was nothing to do but wait for the reply that should come within the next fifteen minutes.

In the meantime he sipped a glass of orange juice and let his mind drift onto other things. Perhaps it was time he left Saudi Arabia himself? He found he had mixed feelings about this. On the one hand, his family was here of course, his parents getting old and they would need taking care of. He was the eldest son, so it was his responsibility, and this nagged him. He still had hopes that once he’d helped win the Kingdom away from the Al-Saud he would be powerful and wealthy enough to take his pick of any young girl in the kingdom, perhaps even a former princess? On the other hand he had an icy feeling that he was running great risks. He did not know why he felt this way: nothing untoward had really happened, had it? And where would he go? He’d had enough of caves and rough living out in the wildernesses of Afghanistan. He did not like the idea of Chechnya, too cold, and the Russians were very dangerous people to screw around with. He swallowed involuntarily. His worst nightmare was to end his life like the Hezbollah man in Beirut. And, he had heard that the Russians had taken to burying his colleagues with pig entrails stuffed in their orifices, making them unclean and therefore inadmissible to Paradise. No, not Chechnya, not ever. Not Africa, either. He found he’d grown used to creature comforts. No, there was no place better than Saudi Arabia for him, not now, maybe not ever. It was not so risky here, the ruling elites were incompetent, lazy and corrupt. His side would win, it would be soon, and then he would have a wife and one of the palaces that would be reserved for the top Al-Qaeda commanders like him.

Khalid checked his watch; it was after ten in Paris. Ibrahim should be online anytime now. He signaled the waiter and ordered a Danish pastry and a cup of European coffee. Working the browser, he returned to one of the Pakistan websites. There he found the message he was waiting for. It was nearly one o’clock in Islamabad, and the network had apparently come to a quick decision. He read:

In the name of God, the Merciful, the Compassionate,

You are requested to take all necessary measures to protect the assets and it is agreed that they may be transferred if you desire it to be so. It is also agreed that action shall be taken against the family in question so that security shall be assured.

However, no action shall be taken once your assets reach their destination without orders from H.E. the director of operations. You are requested and directed to inform us when they are in place and what state of readiness they achieve.

God is Great

“Well, that is another relief,” Khalid thought. And he was a little excited as well. To be moving the teams was excellent. He would perhaps be able to strike a great blow against the Enemy in only a few short months. “But there is much to do still.”

Now he worked the browser back to the inbox and refreshed the window. There was the expected email from Ibrahim, “the man is reliable, and thorough,” he mused. Ibrahim had been one of the most promising recruits he’d seen in the last glorious years in Afghanistan. They’d been able to train at will, as much as they needed, at least in the South where the swine-eating Northern Alliance could not reach and the dog Ismail Khan dared not reach from his stronghold in Herat. Ibrahim was his prize student, if he had one. He learned quickly how to use the standard weapons, the AK, pistols, knives. He was physically strong, swift of movement, well balanced. He’d been excellent even at the home-grown hand-to-hand combat techniques taught in the camps. He could use explosives if needed, but this was not his strength. Best of all, he was a thinker, he was committed, he was charismatic, and he could lead. That much had been evident by the third day he’d been in the camp southeast of Kandahar. He would sometimes teach what he knew of the Holy Quran when there was no mullah to do so. It was clear the other new men looked up to him. As Khalid clicked the link to read, he relaxed in the knowledge that everything in Paris would be well in hand, Ibrahim would have seen to it.

God is most Great.

I have had a report from my man. Our subject met only one person yesterday, most likely one of his own countrymen. The meeting lasted perhaps thirty minutes in a café near the embassy. Regrettably, we have not penetrated the embassy, but as God wills we shall in the near future.

However, after the meeting the subject did some sightseeing around Paris for perhaps an hour or two. He was out of surveillance for thirty minutes or so, in small shops which my man could not enter without being noticed.

Later, as he followed the subject back to his hotel, my man was apparently attacked at random by hoodlums of the kind one only finds in the infidel countries, and he spent the night in a hospital, beaten, robbed, and left for dead. Thanks be to God, he has phoned me this morning with his report, and I shall see him in person in a few hours.

We have the subject’s hotel under constant watch, and I have had a report only fifteen minutes ago that the subject has not left the hotel. God is with us. The man I have there is perfect for dealing with the problem, and he will do so quickly and efficiently if that is what you desire. But what of the rest of them?

I will wait for your reply.

Got is most Great.

Khalid scowled. “The decadent, uncivilized, French swine.” He hated petty criminals, men who robbed and stole only for their own greed, and who killed without reason, without a glorious Cause. “When we have taken Arabia and the Holy Places, we will take France next, and we will civilize the vermin or put them to the sword as the Prophet did, Peace be upon Him.” Khalid had only once been to Europe, and other than that never to anywhere west of Lebanon. Street crime was largely unknown in the Gulf, not counting the shootings and kidnappings his own men were trying with mixed success to make commonplace in the Kingdom. But that was not crime, it was war, “and we are winning.” He grinned. He’d known he could rely on Ibrahim, the man was gifted.

Deal with both problems immediately, or as soon as may be done.

Khalid killed the browser windows he had open, then re-booted the computer to wipe away all traces his communications. In truth, he knew, a computer expert could extract much of his traffic from the machine, but that would never happen, at least not before the traces were hopelessly muddled with the thousands of others that would be put there this very day by others using the machine. Now he had things to do back west on the Saudi end of the causeway. He paid his bill and walked out to the street to the waiting car which would take him to Riyadh, there he’d put his other pieces in motion.

*****

At Paris West hospital Ahmed Kisani was making ready to leave. His head still hurt, and he looked like he’d been run over by a truck. A long, ugly bruise purpled the left side of his head and his left ear where he’d been hit with something last night. He was thankful the lights had gone out when the blow came; up to then they’d been punching his abdomen with such ferocity he thought the pain would kill him. How he’d ended up here he had no idea, but he was determined to go to the mosque for midday prayers today if he could just get moving and get out of this place.

Transportation, however, was going to be a problem. His wallet was gone, with them his transport pass for this month, all his cash, credit cards, everything. “Curse the French and all Spaniards,” he spat into the Spartan silence of his hospital room. His ribs ached despite the tight bandages around his middle, and the prospect of walking all the way back to the BatoBus stop to retrieve his scooter was unthinkable. He could not even bend over to tie his own shoes.

He sat there, miserable and helpless, waiting. In a few moments the door opened and a lively middle-aged nurse entered the room. She saw his plight immediately, and stooped to tie the shoes. Ahmed thanked her profusely. Painfully, he stood up, and she helped him on with his coat, which was dirty from his time on the alley floor, frayed at one point on the lower hem where he must have been scuffed about on the ground. He was embarrassed by the coat. Now, however, he was ready, and the nurse led the way out through the door with Ahmed right behind, walking delicately.

Had he not been so slow he would have missed the phone, but it rang when he was no more than two steps down the hall with the door still slowly swinging shut behind him. He stopped and debated for a moment, and then turned back. “Perhaps it is Ibrahim,” he said to himself. In the room he answered the phone, “Yes?”

“Ahmed, brother, it is Ibrahim. Do you need any help getting home? I need you here quickly.”

“Ah, Ibrahim,” Kisani sighed, relieved. “In truth, brother, I have no money for a taxi or anything else, and I cannot walk very far. Can you help?”

“I do not know, but perhaps. Can you get me the number for someone there, perhaps they will advance you some cash on one of my credit cards.”

This took twenty minutes to arrange. Ahmed first had to retrieve his nurse, and to ascertain what telephone number might suffice for such a transaction. The nurse had not known, and it took her five minutes just to get to her station and find the number. Meanwhile, Ibrahim held the line, Ahmed sat heavily on the bed trying to ease his pain. In the end, Ahmed had twenty euros in his otherwise empty pockets as he stood at the administration window signing documents that would allow the hospital to send the bills for his treatment to his home address.

Out on the street, half a block from the hospital entrance, Patrick Ripley sat at a café trying to slow his breathing. He’d run three blocks from the metro stop to get here, stopping only briefly at an ATM to withdraw cash on his VISA card. He sipped the iced mineral water and focused on breathing deeply through his nose, then slowly out his mouth, uttering a barely audible “aaaaahhhhhhhh” sound with each exhalation, the out rush of air incredibly long and controlled. His heart began to slow almost immediately, the perspiration that had started on his brow quickly ceased. He returned, he thought, “to a centered, harmonious state.”

The mobile phone vibrated on his belt. He opened it and spoke, “Yes?”

“Hello, identify.” It was the usual deadpan voice.

“Viper,” he replied.

“There has been another call at your number, incoming this time, from a mobile phone. Here is the number.” The voice read it, Ripley fumbled for his notebook and pen, and wrote it down. “The phone is in North Paris, a couple of blocks away from the landline from the earlier call. Here’s that address.” Again Ripley wrote without speaking. “Do you want to hear the call?” the voice asked.

“Not if it’s anything but French or English,” Ripley said, then added a moment later, reconsidering: “How long ago?”

“Five minutes ago, it was a long call, nearly ten