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

a coincidence? That was the trouble with this feeling—it would bother him no end, and he might never sort out what it meant. There was something there, though, he knew it, and this time he was sure it would come to him in its own time. He could feel this one coming closer, bubbling up to fit with what he already knew, all he needed to do was keep looking at the evidence he had, keep digging for more, and his memory would eventually put it all together. He made a private bet with himself, looked at his watch, and said quietly, “by noon, I will have it.” He walked back down the hall to his office to place his Foreign Ministry call. After that, he would take a taxi home to his apartment for a change of clothes, a real cup of coffee, and a shower. Perhaps a call and visit to Vivienne before he returned to the office would clear his thinking. He sighed. It would be another long day.

*****

It was fine, high, clear Spring day at Versailles, if a little crisp still. The museum of the Palace made famous by the negotiations of the Armistice that ended World War I stood at the end of a long park-like alee, elaborate knot-gardens punctuating an immaculate lawn that was already a deep, lush green despite the earliness of the season. A beautiful, expansive, opulent thing to behold and a fine day on which to behold it. Tourists were already starting to queue for admission, impromptu and official guides competing for customers who would pay to hear the inside story on the decadence of the French nobility that had built the place.

It was a place for lovers as well as for aging tourists. Angela Morris, an American who had just acquired the “Morris” by marriage three days before and had to keep repeating it to herself still, walked arm in arm with her new husband through the gate and onto the paved walk for the long stroll to the buildings. Randy was looking at the scale of the place, his mouth agape, and occasionally he remarked on something, but she was overawed herself, and barely heard. She was a gardener, or at least hoped to be. Right now she had just a few plants on the small balcony of her tiny apartment in Manhattan, but one could hope, right? She was looking intently at the plants, their rich variety and thinking of all the work that an army of gardeners must have to do here all year long to keep it from running wild. It was as she was taking in these wonders that she saw the man and nearly tripped on the edge of a stone laid into the pavement of the walk.

He sat on a bench, just under a tree and behind the tree a thick hedge. He wore olive slacks and glossy black shoes, a black polo sweater buttoned all the way to the collar, and a dark wool coat that hung open and spilled onto the bench either side of him. He had dark hair with just a sprinkling of gray, an angular, rugged face, skin that was tanned but smooth, and eyes that flashed something that simply held her attention like nothing she’d ever seen before. He was not especially handsome, she would remember thinking later and to her dismay, somewhat often. There was just something intensely sensual, or maybe “powerful” was the word, or maybe he was just interesting. He had immaculate nails, elegant hands, the lines of his shoulders were broad and his waist slim, his clothes perfect. “Interesting? Captivating,” she thought, and the latter word prompted a brief flash of fantasy that made her feel very warm in the chill air. She found herself staring at him, the eyes smiled back and tiny lines formed at their corners. Embarrassed, she looked at the rest of his face, saw the perfect white teeth smiling at her, and she turned quickly away, toward Randy. “Stupid girl,” she scolded herself, “probably a real jerk French guy.” She squeezed her new husband’s arm harder to reassure herself. She walked along for thirty paces trying to listen to Randy’s observations on the architecture of the garden, but in the end, she turned back for a final look, unable to resist. He was there, and the image would haunt her for the rest of her honeymoon.

David Allen had also spotted the man, but he didn’t stare. He leaned against the back side of a tree on the far side of the lawn, out of sight but keeping a watch nonetheless. The man was definitely something interesting, in a professional way, of course. Allen had seen him walk to the bench and sit down. Only one kind of man with that walk, if you knew what to look for. He opened his phone, made a quick call, and replaced it in the pocket.

Moments later he saw Patrick Ripley round the corner and walk straight toward the man he’d just been warned about. At the same time Jones emerged from a walkway to Allen’s right and took up a position on a nearby bench, flashing a camera and unfolding a map of the site. He looked like a tourist to Allen, who was shocked as he turned back to Ripley only to see that he’d stopped to talk to the man on the bench. “What the . . .” he mumbled, and then Ripley sat down.

“Well, Colonel, you’ve been busy since I saw you last.”

“As have you Patrick, as have you. By the way we’ve got company I think. Big guy over there across the lawn, trying to hide behind a tree. And another one, I think, just sat down on a bench about another twenty yards south of him. Should we move?”

Ripley gave a casual glance, and returned his gaze to his new friend. “Nothing to worry about Colonel. The guy by the tree is Allen, the guy on the bench is the mysterious Mr. Jones from Langley. I’m sure you’re anxious to meet them both, but I expect you to give them some serious razzing for being picked up so easily by a relative, err, amateur, if that doesn’t offend you too much.”

“Not at all. I’m just a poor, dumb fighter pilot trying to get along in a strange game. Amateur suits me just fine. But the day wears on Mr. Ripley, the day wears on, and I have places to be. Did you have any luck getting what I need?

“I did indeed, although I still think it’s a little strange.”

Ripley reached into his coat pocket and passed an envelope across. Inside Cameron found a new US passport, a driver’s license, three Visa cards, and an FAA Airline Transport Pilot’s license, all in the name of Michael Joseph Callan, age 45, of Louisville, Kentucky USA.

“Excellent,” Cameron said, looking up, “this’ll do just fine. Is there an APB out on me yet, or whatever the French would call such a thing?”

“Sort of.” Ripley leaned back on the bench and looked up at the crystal-blue sky, closing his eyes. “I couldn’t do much about the credit card stuff, so those are busted and you can’t use them again without being tracked. I’ll take them off your hands and get rid of them at the embassy shredder later today. I was, however, able to make some mischief,” which provoked a broad smile and a pause as Ripley continued to let the morning sun warm his face. “I hacked the French Immigration agency’s database and replaced your passport photo with that of some old guy’s face. Managed to get into the systems at three of your hotels as well, gave them a retouch with the same face. Last hotel didn’t have a computer system that we could locate, so that’s a wildcard. I meant to ask you: “did you have to show your passport at all of them?”

“I never actually checked in at one of them, just booked it over the phone when I noticed someone following me into town the other day.” Cameron stopped and looked confused, finally looking at his watch and then back at Ripley. “Christ Ripley. What day is it anyway? What’s it been, three nights or four?”

“Four. No, wait, three. I guess I’m a little lost, too. Anyway, tell me again what happens next.”

“We’re going to Amman, Jordan, and from there by road into Saudi Arabia from the North. But first, today, I fly Fahd and family from this little airport to England. Tomorrow or the next day we hop to Amman on something, British Airways or Air Jordan, whatever’s convenient. Fahd has transportation set up once we get there.”

“And you can just do that? Fly to England?”

Cameron smiled. “Fighter pilots are not really dumb, Ripley. I just say that so people will think I’m dumb.”

“I didn’t mean . . .”

“I’m just kidding, kid. It’s easy, really. Most military pilots have an FAA license of some kind, I have the airline thing from back in 1990 when I was thinking of getting out and going to fly for one of the big guys. Didn’t though, obviously. Anyway, I’ve flown these single engine airplanes with clubs and stuff for years. Rented one here in Europe about four years ago for a quick hop with my wife, wasn’t sure how that would work with a US license here, but it was no problem. Even better, everybody owns American light airplanes, Pipers, Cessnas, even some Mooneys, so it’s no big deal with the airplane and being familiar enough to fly it. I own a Mooney myself, outright, a 1978, a real classic. Anyway, the trick in our case is finding a big enough airplane, a six seater, which is not all that common for single engine airplanes. Only Bonanzas and Saratogas out there, really. Bonanzas are faster, that’s what I wanted . . .” Cameron noticed Ripley was starting to look a little bored with this. “Okay, getting to the point since I can see you’re not an airplane kind of guy, the airport here has a Piper Saratoga for rent, Fahd’s cousin from the Saudi Embassy has rented it, I’m the embassy pilot, and I’m flying this VIP family to England for a few days’ shopping.” Cameron sat back to wait for the reply, very satisfied with himself.

Ripley looked a little sick. He was thinking of his first parachute jump, cooped up in the back of a loud, bucking, pitching, dark hulk of a C-130, about to puke his guts out. He never really liked the flying part. The parachuting, though, now that was safety. Nothing to break, and if it did, well, you had your reserve chute right there. The idea of Cameron and the Saudis in some teeny weenie airplane with a lawnmower engine and a prop chugging across the English Channel turned him green.

“And since it’s within the EU, the General and his wife and all won’t need to show anything in the way of papers, either leaving here or entering the UK . . .not bad for a fighter pilot, Colonel, not bad at all.”

“Exactly. You don’t look so good, Patrick. At any rate, Fahd’s cousin has already phoned ahead to his consular counterpart in London, they’ll have new papers ready when we get there, day after tomorrow at the latest.”

“Who the hell are you, anyway, Colonel?” Ripley said from nowhere. “How’d you get mixed up in all this, and how the hell did you get so good at it? Gives me the creeps.”

Cameron threw his head back and laughed, a deep, rolling belly laugh that lasted the better part of half a minute. When he finally regained himself, he turned his gaze to Ripley again, the broad, perfect smile was there, the smile lines at the corner of the eyes were there, but the eyes themselves were bright, hard, dangerous. It was a look Ripley knew well from long experience, a look he respected,