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

In any case, it’s all turned out fine in the end, you’ve come to work for me after all in a way, and things worked out pretty well I think, wouldn’t you say?”

“Well, I guess that depends on whether you’ve just had thirty stitches removed from your abdomen, and more important, whether your wife is about to throw you out of the house for being a reckless, thoughtless, idiot, numbskull sonofabitch.”

“Your wife said that? How is the, umm, wound doing? OK I trust?”

“It was just a nasty gash is what the surgeon said, 7.62mm round dug a 1/16 inch trench about 3 inches long across the right side of my abdomen. Messy but lucky. Someone said it may have glanced off one of the spare magazines in the vest I was wearing. The bullet came about as close to missing me as it could, without actually missing, was what the doc said. Great sense of humor, right? And Yes, she did say exactly that, and some other things I won’t repeat as I’m a gentleman and she a lady whose reputation I value even more than my own skin.”

Anderson smiled broadly at that, then began to chuckle, and Cameron followed suit, both of them laughing deep and hearty, pausing only to take up their beers when the hostess brought them. After each had taken a long drag, Anderson resumed “Well, sounds like my Amelia, actually, God rest her soul, I’ll probably love her. Elizabeth, right?”

Cameron was briefly stunned, but of course, he reckoned, the Boss would know everything about him. “Of course, Sir, of course. By the way, do you move around Washington un-escorted all the time?”

“Certainly not,” Anderson answered, a little put off himself, but recovering. “It’s not like the bad old days when my Soviet number would have given his family jewels for a fair crack at me, and God knows a few times they tried with my predecessors you know, but still, there are bad people who know who and what I am, so I take precautions. You see . . .”

“The old woman in the car at the curb across the street?” Cameron cut in, “and the driver, and I suspect that guy at the front of the restaurant at the table with the really striking woman with the black hair?”

Anderson chuckled, “Damn, son. We gotta find you honest work. All mine of course, except the black haired girl, I think my guy there is just having a date on my nickel, but nothing wrong with that in our business.” The waiter approached and he switched quickly to Arabic, saying, “aquid, do you know the food of the Caliphate of Andalusia? I recommend the jamon Serrano, it is quick, and I cannot afford much time with you, perhaps an hour, no more.”

“Aiwa, ya mushir”, which is “yes, Marshall,” Cameron using the highest military rank he knew in Arabic, which drew a smile from Anderson. Then, looking at the waiter and switching to Spanish, Cameron ordered four different plates of tapas, the Spanish appetizers that everyone who has ever been to Madrid has tried, and if they didn’t die of ecstasy on the spot, are in love with for the rest of their lives. The ham, blood sausage, salami, sautéed mushrooms with garlic, onion, and oyster, deep fried prawns wrapped in the cured ham, and spinach and cheese turnovers in filo dough.

“Perfecto, and two more Estrellas, por favor,” Anderson added. The waiter nodded and left. “So, you’ve done very well, Paul, for your first time out. Very, very well, actually, for any number of times out. The dominoes are still falling, but for now your take stands at fifteen operatives in France, nearly all dead now but some still singing. In England, Her Majesty is grateful for the thirty heads that she would have on pikes at her Fortress and Tower of London if it was fashionable to do so these days, according to my opposite number at MI6, and that in addition to the numerous others that are simply under surveillance. In Jordan, the French are very obliged to us, indirectly and quietly of course, for the privilege of rounding up another ten in Amman, with several more good prospects in Syria, of all places. And of course, there are the twenty-odd bodies at the compound in al-Ha’il in Saudi. We have some weak leads on a group of Saudis who seem to have begun to arrive in various places in Canada as well. You are, my friend, quite a train wreck where al-Qaeda is concerned this month.”

Cameron wasn’t sure where this was going, but he simply shrugged. “Had a friend in trouble, the rest was luck, and the top-notch services of Ripley, Jones, and Allen of course. Great guys, by the way. Do you guys, ummm, give medals or anything at the Company?”

“Not like you do in the Air Force, no, but we do give rewards where they’re needed, and the guys are being taken care of.” Anderson paused, not certain for a moment how to proceed, but then chose a direct tack. “What are your plans, Colonel? What will you do now?”

“To be honest, I’ve thought of that, and I think I’ll probably retire from the Air Force. I’m not going to be a general anyway, my current command is due to end in four months or so, and after that it’s nothing more than a staff job for me, I think, but I’m not that kind of guy. I’m ready—funny, they tell you in counseling at all our senior schools that ‘you’ll know when it’s time’, I never thought I’d know, but I do. It’s time to go.”

“Then what?”

Cameron paused. “I have a few ideas, nothing definite. General Fahd and I are thinking of a little business venture together, a boutique hotel, bed-and-breakfast kind of thing, maybe somewhere in the North Carolina mountains. Sounds crazy, I know, but I think I could use the independence and the challenge of doing something completely different, if you know what I mean. Plus, I’m thinking it might be good to sort of “disappear” a little bit.” He looked across the table with an eyebrow raised in silent question.

“I do, I do know what you mean, believe me, and yes you should. Honestly, I think the idea is perfect, but don’t you think that might be a little quiet for you?” Anderson said. A mercurial look crossed his face. “But . . .”

“You sure you’re a life-long spook?” Cameron interrupted. “Your face is easier to read than a six-year-old’s bedtime book, and you’ve got something sinister in mind.”

“Damned youngsters, don’t respect your elders anymore,” was the first thing that came to Anderson’s mind. “Well, where was I? Oh . . .” the food arrived. They arranged it and starting picking at the various dishes, sipping beer and enjoying the rich flavors of Spain, and then Anderson continued. “I was going to suggest that perhaps you could continue to serve, do what you want to do, and still, how shall we say, dabble a bit here and there, for the Company you understand. Just so things don’t get too quiet in the hills down there.”

Cameron chewed slowly on the slice of ham in his mouth, slowly enough to make it last while he considered a response. This was starting to feel like deep water, and he wasn't up for drowning today. He took a long pull of the beer, and said, “What do you have in mind, exactly? Elizabeth might not like it, and I’m not sure I’ll survive another tirade like this last one.”

“Well, I think she’ll like this. First, I have arranged a, how shall I put this? Oh hell, well, a promotion for you. Now, now, don’t look like that. It was the President’s idea, not mine, and who are you or I to deny Himself a bit of gracious thanks? His exact words were, “Randy, I want that sonofabitch promoted, least we can do, he’s a one man train wreck.” See, I’m not that original, I think he said that before I did. Anyway, it’s all arranged, your name will be on the next promotion list. It happens that the Air Force promotion board is meeting in just under a month, list will be released in three months or so after that, you’ll be on it.”

“You gotta be shitting me! But how? That’s ridiculous, My boss . . . the Air Force . . . I have that Promotion Form already, and it doesn't say. . .I’m not . . .the process doesn’t…”

“Yes, you are,” Anderson interrupted, “and the form has been, err, let’s just say "adjusted" by the President. It’s all above board. Sure, there’s a lot of guys whose records might look better to the Air Force brass than yours, but none of them is going to have a personal, hand-written note on a Promotion Recomendation Form, if that’s the right phrase, from the President himself, saying precisely what I just repeated to you. No shit, Cameron.” Anderson’s face turned completely serious. “You guys all serve at the pleasure of the President, you know. Himself knows it, too, and he’s made it perfectly clear to the gents that will sit on that board, all generals who want to stay that way, that his pleasure is that you’re promoted, or his pleasure will sort of “lapse” in their cases. You’ll be on the list.”

“Jesus. Well, I’ll be damned,” was all Cameron could say for a moment, and he sat there, fork in hand, a large piece of sausage perched on the tines, staring past Anderson out the window at the busy street life passing by. Anderson could see him thinking of other reasons why it wasn’t possible, then discovering quickly why it was, moving to the next objection, and the next, finally giving up as he exhausted them all. “If you do that, I’m going to be very unpopular with a bunch of people. It’s really, really cheesy. Guys will think I cheated somehow. That’s how it feels to me, anyway. But, you know, sir, there’s another problem,” he finally said. “Shortly after that list comes out, there’ll be a “draft” of sorts by the 4-stars around the Air Force where all the new Brigadiers will get farmed out to new jobs. What the hell will I get? Nothing I want, we’ve already covered that ground, and all the 4-stars will be pissed that I somehow jumped the line and got them a finger in the chest from the President of the United States. I’ll be PNG, ‘persona non grata’ with everyone in the Service above the rank of Colonel, and some more below that. No, thanks, sir, really. Like I said, it’s time for me to go, I’m ready for something new. You’re gonna have to tell the Boss . . .”

“Well, not really, you’re not ready, not until the great man says you are. Pleasure of the President, again. Truth be told, he has to approve your retirement anyway, starting at Colonel. True, such a thing is usually signed off by a General somewhere, or the service Secretary at most, but in your case I’m sure he’ll insist, and he ain’t gonna sign. Not yet. He’s bound and determined you’re going to serve at least the three years’ time-in-grade so you can retire as a one-star, coincidentally the same amount of time remaining in his term. But don’t worry about the job, I think we have something you’ll be OK with.”

Alarm bells were still going off in Cameron’s head, and now they got even louder and higher-pitched. He wondered if this would get him closer to killed than he’d been a month ago. “And what, pray tell, might that be?” Cameron asked, skeptically.

“By the way,” Anderson interrupted, changing the subject. “Why was Allen up on the roof to begin with? Very lucky he was, mind you. Our guys have done a simulation of the attack, and if he hadn’t started shooting,