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

was,” Cameron’s spirits sunk. “He registered, but I paid. Dumb. Is that going to be a problem?”

“Maybe, but maybe not if you move quickly enough. I’ll keep an ear to the ground and will have more for you when I get there. Six o’clock.”

“Fine,” Cameron said, and the line went dead. He closed the phone. The ceiling was still there, sleep was not, at least for the time being.

*****

It was still quite dark at four when David Allen strolled into the tiny café where Jones had been waiting for the better part of two hours. The latter had napped, head in hands, for perhaps a total of fifteen minutes, he thought. Allen looked way too fresh for four in the morning, and Jones snarled at him as he reached the table and sat down.

“Never know when you’ll get to sleep again,” the eyes were alight still, the joke hit home, Jones regretted every minute he’d been awake on the flight from Washington, and he snarled yet again.

Allen waved at the man behind the counter, a greasy-looking type, and said simply “Two coffees,” in sloppy French. Then to Ripley: “what did you find on your quest, my leader?” The smile just made Jones madder.

“Nothing, you shit, and quit the damned smile thing. I think our big fish has swum away.”

“Well, Ripley has provided the tools of the trade, as it were,” and at this he patted his jacked under his left arm. “When we’ve shocked you back into semi-consciousness we’ll go and see whether he has or not.”

This perked Jones up just a little, and the coffees came a moment later. Allen slid his across the table without even looking at it. “Both for you, my liege,” he said, still with the casual smirk. “Drink up, quick now, and we’ll let the caffeine do its work while we walk back to this guy’s apartment.”

Jones was annoyed, he was supposed to be the boss, after all. But Allen was right, he needed the jolt, and he needed to accomplish something tonight if he didn’t want this whole trip to have been a waste of his time. No fun going back to Langley without a notch of some kind in his . . .what? “Well, never mind what,” he said to himself. He loaded sugar and cream into the first cup and drank the strong Parisian brew as quickly as he could get it down. Ten minutes later both men were out on the street walking briskly north to the apartment building they wanted.

Almost there, and at a dark place along the sidewalk Allen reached into his now-open coat and produced one of the big, silenced, 10 mm automatics, handing it to Jones. Cold and professional now, Jones, cleared the chamber, slipped the magazine out to check it was full, drew the slide back again and let if slide forward again, slow and quiet, chambering a round. He left the safety off.

As luck would have it, the two rounded the corner onto the correct block just a few seconds before Ibrahim, a hundred yards east, almost did the same coming in the opposite direction. The few seconds made all the difference.

It was dark behind the Arab, lighter to the south and west, so Ibrahim, not completely exposed, saw the two Americans first and quickly retreated the two steps back around his corner, into the lee of the last building on the block. His heart was pounding, there was a dry, coppery taste in his mouth, and adrenalin shot through him as an involuntary impulse that said “run” made his legs tremble. He would note later with some disgust that the “run” command seemed to have been in French rather than Arabic. He mastered himself, breathing deep and quiet, resolved to wait just a moment before he would have to flee for his life, or not. He listened for the sound of running footsteps, but heard none. The night was quiet, dawn just an hour away. He chanced a quick look around the corner, stooping to near the street level so whatever showed of him would not be where someone would expect to see. The two were there, but they were walking slowly to the apartment building, not hurrying to catch him. He retreated around the corner to think for a moment.

It gave him pleasure that his instincts and training had been right. He’d left the apartment with his bag just before 1 a.m., headed for Germany as a first stop, perhaps further once he was clear of France. Whatever was going on, he was not going to risk his own neck, not yet, not until he understood the problem and could weigh in his own mind whether it was time to spend himself or not. It was at the train station that he’d finally relaxed enough to think. He bought the ticket, Paris to Cologne, but for the ten o’clock train instead of the earlier one at five. He had time, he reasoned. Out of his apartment, with his papers all in his possession, everything ready for a quick and anonymous leave-taking, he could still be useful gathering information. If anything happened at all. It was still possible that his team would deal with the General cleanly, that nothing really strange was happening to his network. In that case he could quietly resume his work. In the other case, well, the ticket would be there in his pocket and he could be well away in good time.

He cursed himself again as he stood there now for not having been prepared enough for this defeat. It was dark, but he’d seen enough of the two men to be pretty sure of what they were. As a matter of operational security he’d never kept a weapon or any explosive of any kind at the apartment, and he’d come back with a small packet of plastique, hoping to booby trap the apartment, just in case, a parting gesture at his adversary whoever that was. As it was the device he’d quickly fashioned with it lay useless in his bag. He would not be able to kill the men. He knew what he needed to know now: his network was blown, it was time to leave. He lowered himself to a prone position against the edge of the building for one last look, and gingerly crept forward far enough to look around the corner.

Jones and Allen were at the door, Jones to the right while Allen worked the lock. They swarmed through the door in what Ibrahim could clearly recognize as a sound tactical formation, weapons up, covering the rooms. He could imagine them clearing the bedroom now, closets, bathroom, finding nothing. He was pleased at their failure, glad that they’d be frustrated. He lay still and watched.

In the apartment both Americans lowered their weapons and exchanged a look that said “Shit.” Jones inclined his head toward the door and Allen walked over to close it quietly, locking it from the inside. They drew the inner drapes and turned on the lights. With a wave they started searching, Jones in the bedroom, Allen in the living room and kitchen.

The signs of a hasty departure were easy to see. The question was whether there was anything left of value. What Jones wanted, he thought, was a picture. They had two aliases, he figured all he’d get from anything in print was a repeat of those or a third one. But a picture to go with any name, now that would be useful. He quickly sorted through the drawers of a small desk, nothing at all, empty. He went next to the dresser, clothes, a junk drawer with odd change. He pocketed a business card in Arabic, a dry cleaning receipt, nothing else. Next the bed, which he turned over gently, not disturbing the sheets, and searched the underside of the mattress and top of the box spring. Nothing, and he replaced the mattress. Looking under the bed, he saw that the underlining of the springs was intact, no cuts or anything else that would indicate something had been hidden inside. He checked his watch—four-thirty. Time running short. He stood and returned to the middle of the small room, thinking. Clearly, this guy was smart enough, “clean” enough, that he would not have deliberately hidden anything here and then forgotten to take it with him. So if there was anything, it’d be something he left by accident, lost maybe, and forgot about long ago. Where? He scanned the room again, his gaze coming back to the dresser. Moving quickly now he opened the bottom drawer, found some jeans, two other pairs of pants. He quickly searched all the pockets, nothing. Running out of options. He went back to the closet; there was not much left hanging, on the floor was a laundry basket with dirty clothes inside. He started searching pockets again, shirts, pants, everything. The fifth garment yielded it up—a photo, man and woman, both Middle Eastern-looking, in color. It was small, and he was amazed at the carelessness of having your photo taken with a woman in one of those novelty booths like at a carnival. Had to be recent. “Well, everybody messes up sometime,” Jones reflected. He checked the rest of the pockets, finding nothing, and he turned as Allen came into the bedroom.

“Anything?” both asked at once?

“Photo,” Jones said as the other shook his head. “OK, let’s get out of here. This guy’s long gone, but we can see if we match a name to this face.”

The lights went off, they opened the door and closed it again quietly, and walked quickly back in the direction they’d come.

Ibrahim watched, wondering “am I blown, or am I not?” He could not, of course, return to the apartment. So he was at least a little blown. But what to do next? Run, or try to see what else might happen? He had only a moment to decide in the growing grayness of a Paris dawn. He chose, and rising to his feet in a nimble, liquid movement, he looked around the corner, verified that the two men were nearly two blocks ahead of him, and stepped out to follow them. He would stay far enough behind to insure he had an un-winnable head start if they turned and gave chase. He hoped it would be close enough to see where they went, perhaps who had ruined his Paris operation, and if he was lucky, who he would kill in retribution. XV. Paris/London

His eyes hurt, dry and red from lack of sleep, but at least the light in the office was not the harsh fluorescent to be found in most of the headquarters building. He sipped the lukewarm coffee again, nearly spat in disgust before turning again to the papers on the desk.

He had three dead Middle Eastern men and one who would lose his right leg at the knee, all armed, in a Paris hotel at two o’clock in the morning. He presumed they’d been killed by the American agent he’d followed from the airport, but what were they doing there? The room was registered in the name of one Fahd al-Auda, Saudi passport, and family, but had been paid for with the