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

really knew, he only had a suspicion. And, it was only the sudden departure and flight to Paris that had sent up the warning flag in his mind.

“Could be completely innocent” he tried to work it out.

“He took the small one, the mother, two of the older kids. He left the rest at home didn’t he? Would he have done that if he was worried? Lots of people go to Europe, medical treatment often, a vacation maybe. But it's an odd time of year for that.”

Khalid was not married, did not have children in school, so he wasn’t sure. He was thirty-five and unmarried, old for a Saudi, but his family could not afford the dowry. True enough, lots of respectable families these days did not want their daughters married to a man who had been a mujihadeen in the Afghan jihad. “Nobody appreciates our sacrifice, or our piety” he grumbled to himself as he sipped the last of the beer. “Well, Ibrahim is good, God willing he will find out what the man is doing in Paris, thank God we have him there.” He looked at his watch, saw that it was nearly eight o’clock. “Six o’clock in Paris,” he calculated. His schedule did not require him to check for email again until ten tonight, and then not again until noon tomorrow. Isha, last prayer, had ended five minutes ago.

He got up to pay his tab, planning to stop in at the Mexican restaurant two blocks away for fajitas and a margarita, possibly to find a Russian girl for tonight. V. Paris

“Falcon one, Contact.”

General Fahd stared at the single line for a moment, then pushed the “Send” button on the Yahoo email screen. “I wonder how long this will take? Better not be too long, Fadia will wonder what’s become of me, and the kids will be getting hungry and bored.” He bought a bottle of water and a bar of chocolate from the counter girl, and settled back into the chair to wait, keeping an occasional eye on the window and door. He was looking for Arabs now. “Strange I can’t trust my own people” he thought. “Madness.”

He stared at the screen for five minutes, pressing the “Refresh” button twice hoping to see a reply. Nothing. “This is boring” he thought. He opened another window and began to surf. New York stocks up a little. Oil futures steady. Football scores. Good deal on air fares to Tahiti. “Not with a dozen kids,” and he smiled to himself. Another ten minutes had gone by. He hit the “Refresh” button again.

One new message. “Well, tallyho, my friends. God bless you Captain Davidson.” He opened the message and read:

General,

Greetings. We have arranged a meeting with the party you requested, but the exact details have been left to you and him. Email this address: 77070@hotmail.com. In the body, simply say “Do you have a question for me?” The question should be “What was the title of T.E. Lawrence’s book about his times with the Arab resistance in WWI?” If the question is correct, your reply should be “Seven Pillars of Freedom”. Exactly that, General, no changes please. Once you have both authenticated with these exchanges, you will know that you have connected with the party you asked to meet. He does not know to expect you, however. You should identify yourself, once you are sure of the other party’s identity. Set up the meeting however you like.

If you must, you may contact me again at this address.

“Hmmm. What do they call these people in America? Spooks? I think that’s it.” He copied the new email address with two mouse clicks and opened a new message window. He then typed:

“Do you have a question for me?”

in the message body, pasted the address in the correct block, and pressed “Send”. He sat back to drink his water and think.

Colonel Paul Cameron, showered, shaved, lunched, and well exercised by a long walk across town had been in the internet café down the street from the Cluny Museum for nearly an hour. He’d made his contact with Mr. Smith as well, using the address he’d made up this morning. “Funny how when you need something like that, it’s hard to think them up,” he’d thought for ten minutes. Ultimately he’d used the tail numbers from the F-15s in his old squadron. “No pattern to speak of, and nobody who wasn’t there will remember, so they shouldn’t be predictable. All ’77 models though.” The nice looking twenty-something girl behind the counter caught his eye and smiled at him. He smiled back and held up his empty glass to signal for another Coke.

To the girl, as to most people, Cameron was an interesting man. He was only moderately handsome to be sure. He had a sharp jaw line, a defined chin, high cheekbones, but a nose that was too long and drooped at the end. Not good in profile.. He had thick, brown hair that was graying on the sides and receding a little at the forehead. Just turned forty-five, he was not a big man, but he was nearly six feet tall and clearly fit. “No bulge around the middle like most men his age,” the girl observed. Indeed, he still had a “V” shape from solid shoulders to a waist that was not much bigger than when he was twenty-five. He was wearing a loose-fitting long-sleeved shirt, but when he moved in his chair and the fabric stretched tight across his back she could see the lines of muscle in the shoulders and arms. When he’d come in she’d thought he moved like a dancer—her boyfriend was a dancer—fluid, graceful, light, yet seeming to be anchored to the earth with every step. His eyes were a deep, steel blue, alive and probing, with lines at the corners that spoke of age, mirth, wisdom, guile, or something—she could not tell what. He seemed to radiate an unconscious confidence, she thought, like he doesn’t know or doesn’t care that he looks interesting. Or, that he doesn’t care what the world thinks. “Mon dieu, what an interesting fellow.” She drew another Coke from her tap in response to the summons.

Cameron offered another unconscious smile when the Coke came, as with his other hand he pushed the “Refresh” button on the web browser. “Bingo” he thought when he saw that he had a new message. He opened it and read the simple line:

Do you have a question for me?

“What the heck is this?” he wondered, staring at the line. He checked the address, it was not the one he’d used to contact Mr. Smith. On the other hand, he had not yet used the line about T. E. Lawrence, that had to be it. He wrote in response:

“What was the title of T.E. Lawrence’s book about his times with the Arab resistance in WWI?”

And read the almost immediate reply:

“Seven Pillars of Freedom. What seminar were you in at War College?"

“What?” Cameron asked aloud. He looked up and saw the girl smiling again, a little startled. He smiled back, mouthed “Sorry”, and went back to his screen. He thought for a moment about that year at School in Alabama. “Who’s on the other end of this?” Another moment and he was nearly sure he had it. He sent

"Five. What is the name of your 11 year old son?"

On the Champs Elyse General Fahd sat back abruptly and hard against his chair. He ran both hands over his forehead and back across his bare crown, locking his fingers behind his head and leaning back farther until he stared straight up at the ceiling. “It must be him,” he thought. “So quick, it must be him.” Deciding, he leaned back to the keyboard and sent:

"Aziz.

We need to meet, I must speak with you. But, I was followed, probably from my hotel. I found him and lost him by luck, but am nearly certain he is gone now. Do you have any suggestions?

The girl saw another smile on the face of the man at the computer, but she was not sure what it meant. The man was happy about something, but the look was also, somehow, dangerous. What an interesting fellow indeed, she thought.

Cameron re-read the email three times. “Fahd,” he said to himself quietly. “What have you got yourself into, my friend, and what is it you have to tell me?” He thought for a few minutes, knowing the other man was waiting, but he wanted to be sure about his reply. He could not afford a mistake. What he needed was a public place, but with only a few ways to enter, so he could watch and see if Fahd was followed, without a potential tail seeing him in return. And then, what to do about the tail if there was one? He sorted the options for another minute, and chose.

Good to hear from you. Here is what I want you to do:

Do not go back to your hotel yet.

In one hour there will be a boat called “BatoBus” on the Seine going West from the dock just under the bridge at the Place de la Concorde. Buy a ticket and take a seat in the middle of the boat. I will be at the back, but if you recognize me, make no sign. Sit and watch the other passengers board. If the man who was following you gets on the boat, pass your right hand across the bald part of your head from front to back.

If you do not see the man, sit tight and wait for me to come to you, which I’ll do once we’re away from the dock and out of sight of anyone who might have followed you to the shore.

If the man does get on the boat, we have a problem. Just past the Eiffel Tower the boat will turn and head back east, then it will stop in front of the Tower. At that stop, I’ll get off the boat. I’ll trip on the stairs to make sure you know it’s me. Follow me, about 50 meters behind once we clear the boat. Wherever I go, you follow, 50 meters. If I stop, keep walking, and go right past me.

Understand?

Fahd read the words, a little astounded. “Paul, my old friend,” he wondered. “What have you been doing, and where, for whom, and how did you learn to play like a spook so well?” He grinned for the first time since he’d come into the café, some of the tension draining out of him. “Well, thanks be to God, at least he seems to know how to play this game, whatever it is, and I don’t, so that’s a blessing.” He sent:

Understand. I will be there. The man was small, about five feet five or six inches, European looking but he spoke Arabic. Dark coat about mid-thigh length.

See you in 1 hour, I have to get moving to make it there.

And he did. Fahd rose from his seat. He considered straightening his clothes and making himself look presentable, but now that he’d almost talked with his old friend he remembered something. Cameron was often bored at school, and would sometimes read novels in the longer lectures. Once, he had given