The Phoenix Affair by Dave Moyer (e book reader pc TXT) 📖

seemed to have wrestled with daily for the past month, and it was starting to annoy him.

He rolled to his right and consulted the clock: five minutes after eight. Had he heard the call to fajr prayers? He could not remember, so he must not have heard. He lay on his back thinking about his problem, the immediate one of the general, and what to do about it.

There had been nothing to report last night at ten when Ibrahim had emailed for the last time from Paris. His man was still out, following the general. He did appreciate the suggestion about calling every few hours to report, but that was a more practical thing in Europe than it was here, or in many places in the Middle East. “The government of the French cannot monitor every phone in the country,” he frowned, “but these vile swine the al-Saud can, and they do.” He did not like to use the phone on this side of the causeway to call anyone in his organization, except for completely and ordinary calls. Too risky, very dangerous.

He had been to Paris once himself, years ago in the early summer of 2001. He liked it, but it intimidated him. Too much going on, too many cars, women, sounds. It was too complex. He had to admit he was not a very devout Muslim, but the simplicity and security that he thought of when he thought of a state run according to Sharia appealed to him. He returned to the problem at hand, annoyed that he’d strayed off course. What was it that bothered him about this man? Was he not an ordinary Saudi? Maybe that was it. In his mind, the ordinary Saudi was content to maintain things as they were, rather than work continuously to improve. He was one of these himself. Perhaps he was uncomfortable because this General Fahd seemed to be the other kind of Saudi, the kind that had profited for thousands of years on the trade across the desert by camel caravan, or led the raiding of a large band of badawiyya? This man had a reputation around Dhahran: he was a mover, a man who made things happen. He’d risen fast in the Air Force, even though he had no royal connections. True, he came from a prominent family in an ancient tribe out west, and he was rumored to be wealthy enough. He wondered for the hundredth time why men already wealthy would want to work at all.

The more he thought along these lines, the more uncomfortable Khalid became. Laying there, covered by the sheets, the air conditioner droning in the window in the next room, he became more and more certain that this general bothered him because he was a man who made things happen. An alarming thought finally broke its way into his consciousness, having beat on the door of his mind for many days without being admitted. “The man has not gone to France for the health of his son at all! He has fled, or he has gone to do something. That fool of a boy, his nephew, must somehow have got here, or got a message to the General, and the General has set about doing something about it!”

He sat straight up in bed, very worried now. The lack of reporting from Ibrahim’s man was suddenly an ominous development in his mind. This General running around with the knowledge of his recruiting—what would he be doing? Who might he tell, there, that he could not tell here? He found he was beginning to sweat despite the air conditioning, his mind reeling off an endless stream of potential disasters that might include his being dead at the edge of a sword.

Khalid forced himself to calm down, to think. He swung his legs off the bed and walked into the living room to be nearer the air conditioner, sat down on the sofa and tried to focus. Why go to Paris? Why not just use the Air Police, or something in the Air Force, they must have something like that, why not use it? Ahh, perhaps he believes it may be penetrated? It was, which was good, but it was not good that this General was careful enough to assume that it was. Why not go to someone else high up in the Ministry of Defense and Aviation, MODA—surely he could do that? But he had not, he had gone to Paris. So, if he is on to us, he does not trust anyone here well enough to talk here in Saudi. He smiled at this. “At least, that is a comfort, a sign of our success.” This made him feel a little better.

“Who would he approach in France? The French government? What could they do, or what would they do? Nothing. The French are weak, as long as we play by certain rules.” The rules were you did not threaten the basic stability of France. If you did, the French were not nice at all. He had seen a member of Hezbollah in Lebanon who was found hanged from a street light with his genitals shoved in his mouth not long after a French tourist had been kidnapped and killed. Message: “We don’t care what you do with anyone else, but don’t fuck with us.” Message received and understood. He liked that about the French, and the Russians: they were direct, easy to understand. No, the French will do nothing. They do not care who they buy their oil from, and we can do business with them when we are in control. If not the French then who? The Americans, or the British, it had to be. But why Paris? It did not matter, really. What mattered was only that if he was right, then the General had to be eliminated quickly, before he could do any harm. “Any more harm,” he corrected himself. “I do not know what this man has already done, and hasn’t he been gone more than a week already, by the Grace of God?”

He looked at the clock again through the open doorway of the bedroom, still only eight-twenty. It would be only six-twenty in Paris, too early to get anything to Ibrahim, and he did not want to send anything from this side of the causeway, anyway. Action in Paris would have to wait for later today, or tonight, when he could get a message out, but the time difference would work in his favor. There were things he could do immediately here, though, with fair certainty of success and little risk. He reached for the phone and dialed a number.

“Na’am,” the voice answered, “Yes?”

“Mohammed, this is Khalid. How are you this morning my friend? I wondered if we could have breakfast, if you are available on such short notice?”

“Khalid, my friend. I would be happy. What time do you suggest, and where?”

“Meet me at the usual place, and we’ll walk together until we find something. It is a good morning for a walk,” Khalid said, careful to avoid any mention of any particular place. “ See you in twenty minutes?”

“Yes, in twenty minutes. Salaam.” The line went dead.

“Salaam” Khalid repeated to the empty phone. “But peace is not what I have in mind.”

Twenty minutes later he was approaching the usual corner, and he could see Mohammed coming toward him from the other direction. Both men were wearing the long white shirt, the thob, that men always wore in Saudi Arabia, and the red and white checkered shamak with the black, rope-like igaal to help hold it on their heads.

At the corner he waited for Mohammed to cross the street. They shook hands, exchanged a brief hug with pats on back, and set off down the side street to their left. Khalid knew a small kiosk two blocks this way that would be open already. He was quite hungry, and he wanted bread, hummus, cheese, and perhaps some oranges.

There was little foot traffic on the street at this time of morning, so it was best to talk as they walked. “Mohammed,” he began, “we have a problem. I now believe this Air Force man may have guessed what we are up to, and we must act quickly. How soon could you organize something for the nephew in Riyadh, and for the General’s home here in Dhahran?”

“Khalid,” the other replied, looking nervously around, front, right, and briefly behind. “Is that wise? What have you heard? I thought we did not know if he knew anything, perhaps he has only gone to Paris for the medical treatment of the little boy?”

“It may be so, Mohammed, but I do not think we should take the chance. We have too much invested in the other plan . . .” he was deliberately vague on this; Mohammed did not know about the broader operation. “No, I think at least I would like for him to have an accident and be killed before he can return to Saudi Arabia, and I will attempt to arrange that later today. But also I would like this nephew to disappear, as soon as may be done. If we can do anything with the rest of the General’s family here in Dhahran, that would put the entire Air Force on notice that we are to be respected.”

Mohammed was not an Afghani, had never been in the jihad in the old days. He’d been recruited three years ago, and was a veteran of three attacks here in the Kingdom, but he was the patient type rather than aggressive. He understood the military line of things well enough, but he was very careful. This sounded dangerous. He tried another line. “Khalid, but if we kill this General’s family, won’t the rest of the Air Force go crazy? Won’t that make it harder for our cause? I do not think we are ready . . .”

“We are ready,” Khalid interrupted. He knew it was a gamble, but he chafed at the lack of resolve he often found in these new men. What they needed was some action to temper them, these who had not been in the Afghan jihad. “The Air Force will do nothing, trust me. Now, we know where the nephew lives in Riyadh, do we not, and the General’s address here in Dhahran?”

“Yes, brother, we know. What shall we do?”

“It would be best to take the nephew someplace quiet, in his car out on one of the big roads in Riyadh perhaps, not at his home or wherever he lives. Put four men on it there, follow him, wait for an opportunity so that they can get quickly away. But kill him, Mohammed, do you hear?”

“Yes, I hear. And the General’s family?”

“How long to make a car bomb for his house?” Khalid asked?

Mohammed thought for a moment. “I should guess at least a week, Khalid. Saleem was taken three weeks ago, remember, and our only bomb maker in this province is not as efficient. And, we have not received any new plastique in over a month. It will take time.”

Khalid cursed under his breath. A week was too long. He wanted something quick, his hope was that word of a catastrophe would bring the General back to Dhahran on the run, where he might be more easily dealt with than in Paris. “What can we do, then, Mohammed? It must be soon, tonight, tomorrow night at the latest.”

“It will be risky, Khalid, but we could send five, perhaps six men to the house at night. I do not think there is an alarm. We can kill the two older sons quietly in the middle of the night, and take the women and children after with no trouble. The risk is if they raise any alarm, or if any of them struggles, or if they are armed. We might have to start shooting, the noise will rouse the neighborhood. We have no friends in that part of the city,” Mohammed