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

able to compromise more people in Paris or better yet, elsewhere in France. Same with the Egyptian, Salah. A foot soldier, but once he comes out of his drugged stupor,” at this Jones glanced critically at Ripley, “he’ll also keep them busy and may end up giving them and us something more than we have now. We also can keep tabs on the little guy Kisani for as long as we like.”

“Good, good. Nice touch, Ripley. Now, what’s the plan with Phoenix, and when do you expect to hear from him?”

Ripley beckoned for the phone—they could hear the boss on speaker, but only speak through the handset—“Sir, this is Ripley. Phoenix is headed for Saudi Arabia by way of Amman, Jordan. No precise timetable yet, and no clear itinerary once he gets to Saudi. I’m supposed to hear from him later this evening or perhaps tomorrow. Nobody’s had much sleep the last three days, and he’s earned some. The General, Falcon, is arranging transportation from Amman into northern Arabia, Phoenix is comfortable with that although I’m less so. However, he agreed to have Jones and Allen meet them in Amman and provide some equipment for the trip. I think they’ll accompany him into the Kingdom as well, we’re working on visas right now.”

“What’s he plan to do in Saudi?”

“Not real clear, but at least he wants to make sure his friends get back OK, and then perhaps talk some about what to do about the nephew that got wind of this whole plot in the first place. You got that brief, sir?”

“Yeah, I got it and we’ve got people working on a list of Saudis with US Passports. What have you got on this guy Ibrahim?”

“Not much yet, sir. Actually, Jones and Allen searched the guy’s apartment. We have a photo, the voice prints of course, I figure he’s dumped his cell phone by now, nothing else, but that’s a start. We’ve already sent it to the Intel guys back at Langley, they’ll know in a couple of hours whether we know him or not.”

Anderson was still thinking. “Last question. What do you guys think of Phoenix?”

Ripley still had the phone, but he looked at the other two, read their faces. “Sir, Ripley here. He’s a natural, like nobody I’ve ever heard of. Aggressive, smart, learns very quick. He can take care of himself.”

“OK, good. You guys have done well. When you talk to Phoenix today or tomorrow, pass my compliments, wish him good hunting. Jones, you and Allen make sure that boy keeps his skin and his head and the rest of his body parts where the good Lord put them. Got it?”

Ripley said, “Got it, sir” for all of them, and the line went dead.

Anderson sat at the desk, his gaze migrating from the phone to the carpets, then the whole room, which made him feel pretty good. He rocked back in the chair and risked a moment of self-congratulation on his Phoenix project, not of course for the first time in the last week. “Well”, he said aloud to the books on his left, “let’s see just where he runs this thing and what he stumbles into next.” He made a mental note to mention to the DCI, and maybe the President, that he had an agent loose in England, just in case. XVII. London

Just after seven p.m. London time, the Al-Auda family and Paul Cameron met in the lobby of the Hilton Green Park Hotel, just a block north of Piccadilly Circus on the edge of the chic Mayfair district. The women were quiet, the two men and Mohammed greeted each other with hugs and the ritual kisses on each cheek. The boy seemed to Cameron to have come out of his rebellious indignation, but there was still something dangerous behind the eyes. He would bear watching still. The little boy Aziz held his father’s hand and gazed around open-mouthed, still apparently amazed at the last several days of his life.

They left the lobby through the revolving door and walked north along the wide sidewalk, Cameron and the General leading with Aziz between them, then the ladies, and Mohammed brought up the rear. It was only a short block to Curzon Street, a turn of the corner, and then a few yards for the turn into Shepherd’s Market. Once there they took three tables upstairs at the King’s Arms, overlooking the square below.

It had been another long day. The uneventful flight across the Channel ended with a textbook landing at Luton airport outside London. Uneventful, except it completely restored the spirits of the little family, as tousled as they were by having to tumble out of two different hotels in two nights, hunted by fiends intent on their demise. The women had chattered excitedly all the way, pointing out the windows and giggling, all traces of fear gone, lost in the vistas of the clear day. Puffy cumulous clouds like widely-spaced balls of cotton had been both below and above them during the crossing, but they could see the cliffs of Dover from the French coast, and they’d watched and counted the ferry boats and other craft on the water. The airplane had been flawless, of course, Cameron had taken just a short nap, but it had been worth it. The chance to fly had visibly taken the strain out of General Fahd.

From the airport they’d booked a limo service into town around noon, so they were spared much of the notorious London traffic. Still, it was a bright Spring day, and the whole family had remained glued to the windows during the drive. Fahd had finally given in to sleep. Cameron himself chose the hotel—he’d stayed there only a year earlier when he’d come to London to speak at an Air Power conference—and he and the al-Auda parted company there. Cameron went round the corner for lunch and an internet café at a Kinkos that he knew of, and then to bed for a good long nap.

He had, of course, also taken the opportunity on his lunch jaunt to walk past the Saudi Embassy, which was just one block beyond the turnoff to Shepherd’s Market in a magnificent old marble-clad Georgian mansion. It sat there, quiet as he remembered it, not much traffic on the street around it, no cars in the wide loop of drive that wound from one gate to the other in front of the tall façade of the building. The Kinko’s was three blocks east of the Embassy on the same side of the street. He’d sent a note to his wife, sidestepping how and why he’d come to London with a vague reference to “another opportunity for the Air Force”. He felt guilty about that, but told himself he’d clear it all up on the beach in Grand Cayman in a few weeks once this mess was well and truly sorted out.

He’d also called Ripley in Paris to report their safe arrival. Ripley’d passed on the DDO’s admonition about his body parts, which got a laugh from all concerned.

Now Cameron looked through the old windows of the Arms at the yuppy crowd in the twilight square outside. To his right there was another Pub, the crowd spilled out onto the cobbled walk where young professional men and women flirted over their happy hour drinks. Across the square there was a Turkish restaurant, he’d eaten there last time he was here, and he could see that crowd was a little less British looking, but not much, and still upscale. On his left were the bakery and an ice cream parlor, mostly empty at this hour. He knew but could not see that further along on his side of the square to his left there was an Italian café with excellent pizza and pasta. The center of the square was in constant motion with trendy people going to and from dinner, drinks, or headed for their homes elsewhere in Mayfair.

The waitress arrived with a broad, flirtatious smile for Cameron and two large glasses of Pepsi, and Fahd raised his in a toast and said in English “May God give you life, Abu-Sean, and thank you for this excellent day, my friend.”

“God gives you life, Abu-Mohammed,” Cameron replied automatically in Arabic, raising his own glass. “Nothing quite like flying your own airplane to put the world back into perspective is there, General?”

“No, there is not, Paul, there is certainly not. You surprise me again, however, as I mentioned on the flight. You say you’ve been doing a lot of this sort of thing at home?”

Cameron grinned and set the glass down. “Yeah. As I started to tell you before things got busy, about a year and a half ago we decided to buy an airplane. Ours is not as big as the Saratoga we flew today, in fact it’s a Mooney and quite a bit smaller. But it goes twenty knots faster on about half the fuel per hour, and it’s big enough for me, Elizabeth and the kids. I’ve been flying it quite a bit on Air Force trips around the Eastern US, and we’ve used it for family vacations the past two summers.”

Fahd thought for a minute, looking out at the square himself. “But you said it’s an old airplane, Paul? Doesn’t your wife, how shall I say, worry about that a little?”

Cameron laughed, thinking of how it’d taken Elizabeth a while to get used to the Mooney. “Well, I’m not sure it’s the age, Fahd, but it did take her a bit of time to get comfortable in the thing. It was built in 1978, so it’s 33 years old, but it has all new electronics, a big GPS like the one we had in that Saratoga we flew today, and an engine that was overhauled just seven years ago with thirteen years or so left to fly. It’s a good, solid machine. Sometime in the next couple of years I hope to have it re-painted and get the interior re-covered in a nice leather, that’ll make it almost like new. In any case, it’s a classic and they say these little airplanes last forever. There are plenty of them still flying that were built all the way back in the 50’s, believe it or not!”

“Well, that is amazing, and may God protect you and your family, my dear friend. Now, let’s have something to eat!” He waived at the waitress and they ordered the English classic roast beef dinner for all three tables, Miriam and Fadia at one and Mohammed and Aziz at the third.

As they ate they talked about old times, and recent times. At one point Cameron asked how their shopping had gone that afternoon, and Fahd put down his fork, mumbled something in Arabic, and then made a face and gesture to indicate that he was much poorer today than he’d been yesterday. For the sake of the women and the boys, they did not talk about what had happened at the Hotel De Vue Saule the night before.

When they pushed back from the table Fahd began the business for the night.

“Paul, we need to talk about tomorrow, and then the day after that. I need to firm up the plan for