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

Jordan.” Colonel Paul Cameron smiled back and walked forward through the checkpoint, onto American soil.

David Allen watched all this from his position in the doorway of a small shop across the street from the embassy wall and perhaps a hundred meters from where the first taxi had dropped its passenger. He could still just see the man. He was wondering about the Land Rover and about what the man would do next when a third taxi appeared in the intersection in front of the embassy gate. After a second’s pause, it turned right and came slowly up the street. Allen was just getting uncomfortable with this development when it happened.

As the car came abreast of where his soon-to-be-quarry was standing it abruptly stopped. The passenger-side door flung open, and faster than Allen thought a human being could move a dark figure leapt out. The man on the street just started to turn and run, but he had no chance. The dark man was on him, there was a quick scuffle. Allen’s feet started of their own accord, he wanted this guy. But it was too far. As he ran, he watched in horror as the limp figure was literally tossed into the open back door of the taxi. He hadn’t covered half the distance when the engine roared, tires spun. Allen pressed himself into the nearest doorway, but there was no need. The car found the middle of the road and accelerated rapidly away.

In the car, the dark man breathed twice, deeply. Without turning he said in a reptilian voice and beautiful French, “l’ambassade, rapidement.”

*****

“Allahu akhabaaaarrrr, alllaaaaahhhhh u-akhbarrr . . .” a man’s tenor voice was singing somewhere, in Arabic, with a loudspeaker to boost the volume.

Paul Cameron came fully awake with this realization, struggling to take stock of where he was and what was happening. A glance out the window revealed just a faint tinge of light to the clear night sky, in his room it was still quite dark except for the light from the digital alarm clock on the bedside table. Four-forty-seven. His mind still swimming, he lay back again and blinked. The voice outside continued to sing, “God is Great, prayer is good, come to prayer” he translated, and this done, he sorted out where he was and what was happening. “God is Great” he said softly aloud. “Morning prayer call, Amman, Jordan.” He’d slept very soundly. Still, the noise would be over in a few minutes, the faithful would pray, or not if they were not so devout, and then most of the city would go back to sleep for another three or four hours.

He lay there enjoying the haunting singing. The man had an excellent voice, after all, the minor key was striking, the words simple, the command powerful. He thought for what must have been the thousandth time that it was no wonder there were so many of the faithful the world over. It had been nearly six years since he’d traveled in this part of the world and heard it, but it struck him deep as it always did. “Too bad so many of them have gone nuts,” he mumbled. “Otherwise I’d bring Elizabeth out here, maybe the kids as well, lots to see, so much history . . .”

He sat up in bed and took stock of the room. The American Embassy in Amman is large, with VIP quarters on the compound to ensure a secure place for senior US visitors, often the Secretary of State, rarely the President or one of his close advisors or personal envoys. None of them were here today, and none expected anytime soon, so he’d been given a very nice suite. He wasn’t sure if that was because he was a full Colonel in the Air Force, or because of his connection with the DDO. There were several large carpets on the wide tiled floor, most of them Persian he noted with interest and admiration, but three were Turkoman tribal rugs from Afghanistan and the surrounding “stans” where the vast Turkic tribes roamed or now lived in villages and towns. These carpets were his favorites, each one unique but still similar in their simple color schemes of madder red, indigo, white, cream, black, and occasionally just a little bit of green wool. Rolling off the bed, he walked over to the nearest of these and sat down, examining the stiff, short pile and the intricate design. This one had a large, octagonal-shaped figure repeated regularly in two lines running the length of the rug, gold-colored wool woven into the borders, with geometric figures in red woven through the indigo background, and an occasional diamond or triangle of white for accent. “Kizil ayak,” he said to the empty suite. He owned one of these himself, it decorated his office floor back in Ohio. “And that one is Sarouk, this one is Salor, very nice,” rounded out the appraisal of the other two Afghan rugs.

The call to prayer had ended, and quiet had returned to the world for the moment, but the sky outside was lightening. It would be a clear day, probably hot, but fine for travel. A long day. Changing his mind about going back to sleep, he rose, padded over to the bathroom. When he emerged he found a clear space of tile between two exquisite Persian rugs, and began his ritual calisthenics.

Fahd would be at prayer, he thought, as the pushups piled up. Likely the older kids, too, but they would go back to sleep until at least eight. He’d meet the men, including his new traveling companions, for breakfast in the cafeteria a bit after that. Not much time to get to know them last night, just introductions and then off to bedrooms for everyone. The new men were sharp-eyed, sharp-featured, light-ish skinned like Fahd, with quick smiles and easy laughs. They’d greeted him with considerable respect, called him “Aqid” which is “Colonel”. Fahd must have briefed them. Cameron smiled.

Switching to sit-ups, he wondered whether Allen had learned anything more overnight about the guy in the last car. He’d missed that show of course, already inside the compound, but there’d been a quick debrief last night. Good that whoever was following “someone” was off the street, but there was clearly more than one “side” in the game now, followers following followers, very strange, things getting complicated. They’d have to sort that out somehow before setting off today, maybe even set up some kind of diversion to slip away out of town without growing a tail. It’d be awkward if someone set upon them in the desert between Amman and Ha’il, probably messy, too with Allen along. That was not a guy people wanted to screw with if they knew what was good for them.

This also made Cameron smile, but while the thought was amusing, the less diabolical part of his brain interjected that the idea was to be stealthy, not leave a trail of bodies halfway across the Middle East. “Did enough of that across Europe” he mumbled aloud, but the smile was still there. “Six hundred,” for the last situp. He lay on his back now on the Persian Kashan carpet, staring at the ceiling as he caught his breath and let the stomach muscles relax a bit. After two minutes he got up and turned on the shower, maybe the last he’d have for a few dusty, hot days until they reached al-Ha’il. After the shower, he was going to find Allen and the Chief of Station, see what they knew, and sort out some kind of plan for the day.

*****

The other “sides” were also up and about as morning prayer ended.

Ten blocks away, in a stone-lined room in the lowest cellar of the French embassy, the Arab hung limp by the shackles around his hands. A small camera near the ceiling in one corner fed this image to a much more comfortable room down the hall, where two Frenchmen were reviewing what they knew with their boss in Paris. They were tense—the “Boss” on the other end of the phone was their Director, Henri Broussard, and this was not a usual thing.

The dark man finished reviewing what they’d been able to extract from the Arab, which was not much. He was Jordanian, his name was, in fact, on “the list”, but he was a small player. Had spent some time in a camp in Afghanistan in the nineties, but that was it. No active ops anyone knew about, apparently he was used solely to watch the airport, report on the movements of people of interest, shuttle fellow brothers from there into Amman, facilitate their movement onward to wherever they were intent on going—Iraq or Afghanistan, most likely, but often in the other direction, toward Europe.

They’d already sent the list of all the numbers from his cell phone to Paris, and had already put a listening watch on several of them. The watch would rotate through the list throughout the day until they heard something that would key them to the most interesting numbers. The photos the man had taken with the phone’s camera were also in Paris for analysis.

“Good,” Broussard said, shuffling through the file on his desk where he found the three 8 X 10 glossy color shots. “Who are these Arabs he was photographing?” he asked the speakerphone on his desk.

In Amman, the two men looked at each other, each gave a Gallic shrug, and the chief of Amman station answered, “we do not know, director. Jean saw them, of course, but there were many Arabs on the flights that arrived about then. Nothing unusual about this family, except perhaps that the man, the tall one, is probably military. The walk, you understand, Director?”

“Ah, yes, I understand,” Broussard replied, thinking. “And they are at the American Embassy now, yes? Well, I hope I don’t need to suggest that we need to know more about these people, gentlemen. Anything else for me just now?”

Jean spoke then, a low, liquid voice that was both calm and menacing. “Only this, sir. There were a number of odd players in the game last night. I believe there was another American on the flight that arrived with the Arabs, although they were not obviously together. He is probably at the embassy also, but it was dark so I cannot be certain. Then there was another operative watching the street along the wall across from the compound when I arrived to take our man—I barely beat him to it and he nearly interfered with me. Very fast, very discreet, very professional. Last, I believe there was a British agent involved somehow. A Land Rover drove between me and the Arabs along the same route from the airport, and turned off in front of the American embassy in the direction the British mission, several blocks away. I do not think it stopped, nor do I think they observed me. That is all.”

There was a long pause as Broussard thought in Paris and the two men in Amman squirmed uncomfortably, waiting. Finally the Boss said, “Very good, gentlemen, very good. Jean, my particular compliments on your work last night, it is very helpful. Now, I have much to do so I will go. But do what you can to keep an eye on this interesting caravan of people, and please keep me informed. We’ll send you anything we have here that comes from the data you’ve provided today. Any questions?”

The Chief said, “No, Director,” raising his eyebrow at his companion in both a question and a plea. He wanted this to be over. The other shook his head very slightly.

“Goodbye then, gentlemen” came Broussard’s voice, and the secure phone went silent.

The two men looked at each other for a long minute, each keeping his own thoughts. Jean looked at his Amman counterpart, then glanced with emphasis at the TV image of the Arab down the hall.

The Chief gave the Gallic shrug again, both eyebrows raised