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

In any case, he reflected, he’d made a good beginning with only half a day’s work. His first contingent would be on its way West in only five days, he’d purchase the rest of the tickets within the next seven or so, all his men would be deployed in two weeks, safely out of Saudi Arabia.

His phone rang, not unexpectedly, and he answered, “Nam?”

“The boy is not at his apartment,” his man said from the other end.

“Odd,” Khalid said, and anyone watching would have seen his forehead wrinkle under the headdress. “What about his job? Have you checked there? Has anyone seen him?

“No, emir,” said the man. “He has not been seen for two days, but nobody knows where he is. Shall we be more. . .” there was a pause “. . .direct?”

“No, certainly not,” Khalid answered quickly, but he liked being called emir. “Go home now, stay out of trouble. Keep your phone nearby, I may need you.” He rung off and stowed the phone in his hip pocket.

“Odd,” he thought again. “Where would he go?” And then it hit him. “Ahh, now it begins to fall into place. I was right to begin this morning.” He was suddenly certain he knew where the youth had gone. He produced the phone again and dialed Mohammed.

“Yes?” came the answer, in English.

“Mohammed, it’s me Khalid. How are you my friend? It’s so long since we’ve talked.”

Driving his own car, Mohammed was entering the outskirts of Dhahran, but he caught the warning sign. They had, of course just been together this morning.

“Yes, Khalid, my friend? How are you, and what can I do for you?” he said

“Well, I thought I would tell you that my nephew, you know the one, from Riyadh, he’s come to Dhahran to visit my cousin. Isn’t that lucky? And we were just hoping to see him there in Dhahran? Will you give him my warmest regards when you see him, and say that I am sorry I missed him in Riyadh?

Mohammed smoked it at once. “Yes, yes I will, but I will not be able to call on them tonight. My brother arrives tomorrow from Taif, and I must prepare his room for him tonight. You understand?”

Khalid did understand, but the long pause told both men he was not pleased. “You cannot visit tonight, Mohammed? You are certain? I had very much hoped to send someone to pay my respects to my cousin tonight, it is his birthday, is it not, for the love of God?”

Mohammed braked to a halt at the top of an exit ramp, sweating hard despite the air conditioning in the car. “No, no, Khalid, I cannot. My brother must come first, or my own mother, may God protect her, will flay me alive.”

Another pause while Khalid thought, and both men were tense now. Finally Khalid said “Good enough then, Mohammed, but I am disappointed. It will certainly be tomorrow night, then? I count on you for that. My cousin must not be disappointed again, especially as my nephew has come all the way there for the occasion. You understand me, Mohammed?”

“I understand,” he said. The line went dead, but he sat there at the traffic light, which was green, his legs trembling so hard he could not safely drive.

Khalid snapped the phone shut and glanced again around the square. He was very angry, and the grating in the pavement only fifty yards away was suddenly more ominous than ever. He opened the phone again and dialed a number, a long number, and he waited.

*****

A phone was ringing in the third floor Paris apartment, but it rang and rang. Finally it stopped, but an answering machine had picked up. There was a pause, but no message, and then the line went dead.

Moments later the mobile in Ibrahim’s pocket vibrated. He checked the time in the LCD window on the back—three-thirty. There was no phone number in the caller ID window, and it was not time for Salah to call from his surveillance. He was not expecting a call. The phone continued to vibrate.

At length, he opened the phone and said in French “Oui?”

“Fi arabi, ana Khalid” said the voice in Arabic, and continued in that language, “I need a report.”

“Yes, emir,” Ibrahim said at once, although he did not like this at all. Since when did they talk on cell phones? “What do you need to know, my friend?”

“Has our Gen . . ahh, our friend been seen? Is our business with him concluded as we agreed?”

“No, it is not. I have my man working on it now. I am due to hear from him on his progress with, ahh, the negotiations in about thirty minutes,” Ibrahim trying to slip into what he hoped would sound like an innocent business call to anyone who, God forbid, might be listening.

“What about your other man, the one with the problem yesterday that had to be replaced? What has he to say?”

“Oh, he is with me now, and I am just discussing his view of the matter.” He paused to think for a moment. “He was unsuccessful, yesterday, as you know, but I do not think it is a problem. The interlopers were Spaniards, from a Spanish company you understand? They do not have a place in this deal, it will not be a problem.”

“Spaniards? What are Spaniards? What are they doing in Paris, and why are they attacking . . .I mean, why would they attempt to break our business deal there? I do not understand, and I am very concerned!”

“Spaniards, my dear friend. As in, from Andalusia, you understand?” Ibrahim was astounded yet again at how ignorant of the modern world some of these more ideological fellows could be. “Andalusia, he repeated, of the old Caliphate of Cordoba in the time of the Caliph Omar.”

“Ahh, I understand” he heard Khalid say with some relief. “Are they so many in Paris, or in France? Are you sure there is nothing amiss?”

“I am sure,” replied Ibrahim, feeling like he was getting his superior under control. “What an extraordinary call," he thought. And then, to Khalid, “My man here comes from Morocco, you know, just across the straits from Spain, and he speaks a little of their language, hears it often at home. He is certain our competitors were Spanish, spoke in Spanish, there can be no mistake. Their intervention was an irritating coincidence, no more. Our business is in no jeopardy.”

“Ahh, excellent,” said Khalid, and they were both relaxing a little. “But, still, I tell you this, Ibrahim. Time is not with us. I have every reason to believe that more serious competition is watching us, and may come into the, ahh, negotiations at any time. I must ask you to press hard, and to conclude this affair immediately. Immediately, do you hear?”

“I hear, my friend, and I will make it so as soon as I can. I am just expecting our man to call in at any minute now, and we will make certain that we do not lose the deal. But, I believe you do not want us to bankrupt ourselves in the process of making this deal, am I correct?”

“No, no, Ibrahim, your work there is too important. Do not, ahh, break the bank to finish speedily, but it must be concluded sooner rather than later. I rely on your judgment, but do not disappoint me. You understand?”

“I understand, Khalid. I do. I will see if we can put a larger team together, perhaps with more brains working on the problem we can conclude more quickly. Is there anything else?”

“No, that is all. Keep in touch, Ibrahim, I will hope to hear from you on the usual schedule, with some concrete results.”

“As God wills,” Ibrahim said. The line went dead, he closed the phone and placed it in his pocket in a smooth, liquid motion.

He turned to the battered Ahmed Kisani, who looked very much like he’d got the worst end of the Spanish deal. “So, Ahmed, you are certain, beyond certain, that these maniacs were Spaniards?”

“Yes, yes, Ibrahim,” the little man said through his obvious discomfort. He wished this interview could just be over so that he could go home, get into bed, and sleep for two days. He had never thought he could be so sore and not be dead. “They were Spaniards, and all of them are thugs and hoodlums, the same here, in Spain, and in my own country. Barbarians.” For ideological effect, because he so craved being recognized as a full member of the jihad, he added “May God curse them all in Hell.”

Ibrahim was unimpressed, and he gazed hard at Ahmed, the cold black eyes searching the little man’s face for any hint of doubt, any falseness in his eagerness to please. “A weak man,” he thought, “a man I may soon have to dispose of, but however, I agree this is nothing to be concerned about, for now.” To Ahmed he said, finally, “My friend, I am thoughtless, you must be very uncomfortable. Go ahead, finish your tea, I am paying . . .” he put ten euros on the table for the two of them. “But I must be getting back to work, my friend. Please, finish, and then go and rest. Come and find me at the kebab restaurant when you are feeling better and can work again, I think I will have something for you in a day or two.”

Satisfied for now, Ibrahim made his departure, gliding down the aisle and out the door in that way that never ceased to awe Ahmed. When he was gone, Ahmed took another sip from his tea with an inward groan, wondering if he would sleep at all with this pain in his ribs. Giving up on the tea, he stood awkwardly and left, slowly, not an ounce of grace in his walk.

*****

Wan afternoon daylight shone through the two walls of windows that made the dojo’s west and south sides, but it added no warmth. True to form, the aikido school tended to skimp on heat in the winter and cooling in the summer, letting the temperature vary as it apparently did at dojo in Japan. Somehow it must be thought that primitive is better, austerity aids in learning, enduring hardship in the form of extremes of temperature was just part of the training. All very Japanese.

Cameron reflected on all this as he came into the room and took it in, the mat had to have a surface temperature of about sixty degrees, very cold on the bottom of the feet. But it was much the same in his home dojo; even in the dead of Ohio winter with baseboard heaters going, sensei’s mats would also be cold, at least at the beginning of class. Once things got moving he would not notice it, and if the class was vigorous he’d soon be glad of the low temperature as it would cut down on his sweat.

The room was bigger than many he’d been in, about forty feet square. He counted the one-meter mats, confirmed there were thirteen one way and fourteen another. A big dojo, and a lot of mats. The surface was firm, but it gave, and the old building’s wood floor could be felt to flex a little, so much better than the ground floor which might be concrete underneath. He dropped smoothly to the mat in a motion like water, rolled across shoulder and back with barely a sound, coming up to his feet in one unbroken flow, facing the opposite direction now, toward the kamiza, at the front of the dojo, where a small shrine stood. On the fourth wall, to his left, there were three wooden racks on which lay assorted wooden staffs and swords, practice weapons, a comforting, familiar sight, and looking up he saw the ceiling was high enough to practice with them unhindered. He relaxed, five minutes before class was to start, and sat on the mat