The Phoenix Affair - Dave Moyer (smart ebook reader TXT) 📗

what he has planned, and you must not miss him leaving the hotel.”

Inside Salah was relieved. He could sleep with the Lebanese whore again tonight, and still pray at the mosque in the morning for fajr. “God is Great” he said, half to himself and half to Ibrahim, as he thought of the girl and then of the forgiveness of prayer. How wise, he thought, and again he said aloud, “Allahu akhbar”.

Ibrahim consulted his watch, and swallowed the last of the now-lukewarm tea. “Excellent, brother” he said, as he rose to leave and laid ten euros on the table. “Mind, now, call me every two hours. It is important, my friend.”

“It will be done, sheik Ibrahim,” he added the desert Arab’s honorific, hoping to flatter his boss. He remained seated, though, and Ibrahim said goodbye and disappeared out the restaurant door.

*****

Patrick Ripley sat a final five minutes in his car, parked on the west side of the Rue Gustave Eiffel two blocks south of the alley Jones had described. It was dark here, the perfect place for a mugging, despite the nearness of the Eiffel Tower and the lights that shone up from ground level to illuminate it. Here, only half a block east, the gloom was heavy, the dark almost oppressive, the weak light of the Paris street lamps so feeble they almost helped the dark seem darker.

He reached up to the roof of the car and confirmed again that the interior light was off. His eyes finally adjusted as well as they likely would to the darkness, he opened the door and got out, closing it as quietly as was possible. He stood motionless on the walk, listening, feeling the darkness as he’d learned so long ago.

It’d begun in the Army, first his being picked as a recon scout, later as a squad sergeant in the “Night Stalkers” of the 10th Mountain Division. Then Ranger school, and then finally the Green Berets. He’d been good, one of the best they’d said when they asked him to join and train for Delta. But he was ready for something else, something a little more cerebral, and the CIA was waiting. An evil grin split his handsome face there in the dark. “We own the night” he thought to himself, the mantra of the old division and his unit that had, indeed, been masters of warfare-after-dark. “Now, here I am, doing battle with some Moroccan dwarf half dead in Paris, and me half killer and half thief in the night.” The smile disappeared, invisible as it’d been anyway in the dark. He could see down the street now, on both sides, and the alley he wanted was there, an even heavier dark spilling out of it onto the walk that crossed in front. He took a last look all around in a wide arc, and set off quickly but soundlessly down the walk on his side of the street.

The night was ordinary, his keen senses told him. There was the sound of the distant traffic, the fluttering of some bats overhead leaving their daytime roosts in the old buildings to his right to hunt the night insects. Nothing moved on the ground that he could see. A hundred yards ahead, nearly directly across from the alley, there was some foliage the other side of the iron fence that bordered the park of the Tower to his left. Another block beyond this, and the alley, the cross street was lighter, but there also nothing seemed to be moving.

He came even with the foliage, completely alert and on the balls of his soft shoes, this was a good place to get mugged and he did not want to make a mess here that someone might find. But there was nothing. He slid back into the shadow of the overhanging bush, leaned against the iron rail, and looked across the street into the maw of the alley. Nothing. He closed his eyes and listened, again feeling the dark, still nothing. He reached into the right coat pocket, and drew out the lightweight night vision goggles, fixed them in place and flicked the power switch. The night turned the familiar but always eerie green on green in starlight mode, and he began another sweep. Nothing along the far side of the street, left or right of the alley, nothing moving inside, but no sign of Kisani, either. His spirits dropped a notch, but he forced himself back to focus. He turned right and looked through the goggles back toward his car, again nothing, now left, north toward the lighter cross street, nothing again. He turned back to the alley to his front, and flicked another switch, the goggles now in infrared mode. He made another quick scan outside, but returned quickly to the alley. There. Something warm, about the right size, slightly right of center and perhaps forty feet back from the entrance. Not moving. “Warm enough, must be alive, but he must really be out of it to have been there this long” he thought.

He waited another minute, and when he was satisfied he was completely alone and secure, he moved quickly, silently, across the street, coming to a halt against the right hand wall just inside the opening. He switched again to starlight mode, listening, and moved forward.

The man was there, breathing evenly as though asleep, clearly not conscious. Ripley stooped, careful to stay behind the man who was laying on his right side, and began his examination. He listened with the practiced ear of the Special Forces, listening for the telltale signs of internal injury. “Hmm, perhaps a broken rib or two” he decided, and touched the exposed left side gently through the man’s coat. This produced a quiet groan. “Yep, broken rib.” He gave the belly a gentle poke, no response. “He’ll live, but not going home tonight and he can’t stay here or he’ll probably be dead by morning from shock and exposure.”

Now he began his search, feeling quickly and lightly in each of Kisani’s pockets, looking for anything useful. In the coat pocket he found a slip of paper, small, and this he put in his own coat pocket. Inside pocket, a card, again into his own matching pocket. Nothing in the other coat pocket, no weapon, no empty holster, no sheath for a knife and no knife anywhere. “Not armed, at least he was not intending any rough stuff” he catalogued this to think about later. Front left pants pocket, a larger piece of paper, thin, into his own pocket it went. There was nothing else, no wallet, but that he expected.

He froze automatically. “Something?” His hands opened and slowly, silently spread wider in an arc in front of him and then to the sides. He listened, now motionless, stooped over the inert shape on ground. There it was again. What? Ahh, a cat, he decided, what he’d heard was the nearly imperceptible click click of its claws on the asphalt surface in the alley. He relaxed a little, shifted his weight, and gently turned toward the far wall of the alley, staring through the goggles directly at the cat fifteen feet away, which stared right back, not quite sure if it saw something or not. Ripley did not move. The cat took two tentative steps toward him, thought better of it, and turned and retreated back toward the end of the alley.

He was almost finished. He stood silently, reached in another of his pockets and brought out a small flashlight in his left hand. He switched this on, but it gave very little light, only enough to augment the goggles. It could not be seen ten feet away. He began a search in a spiral, beginning with Kisani on the ground and working outward, looking for anything interesting that might have been dropped in the scuffle of the mugging. There was nothing. He switched off the light and stowed it, then removed the goggles and placed them in his coat pocket. He stood listening once more, the cat was making a little noise in the trash at the back of the alley, the man at his feet still breathing evenly, nothing else. He turned and walked quickly to the opening of the alley, and turned south along the wall of the first building, moving at a casual pace back toward his car.

“Almost home” he said silently to himself as he drew even with the car on the opposite side of the street, now silhouetted to his completely adjusted vision with the lights of the Tower beyond it. He stood in what shadow there was looking at the car, then crossed and got in. He produced his phone from an inside pocket and speed dialed a number, then waited.

“Hello” a voice answered.

“Viper” Ripley said, his voice even. “I need a pay phone line, St. Germaine, Paris. I’ll wait.”

“Right, hold one” the voice replied. Thirty seconds passed. Then, a Paris dial tone came through strongly.

He dialed 911 and waited, until the French voice answered.

“Paris Emergency” the woman said.

“Hello, I want to report a mugging. A man is hurt, in an alley just north and east of the Eiffel Tower. You must send an ambulance.” He abruptly hung up. Patrick Ripley then sat back to wait for the authorities to arrive.

*****

It was nearing five thirty in the afternoon at Langley, and Brian Jones was working on an email to the DDO to summarize what he knew so far.

DDO,

Phoenix and Falcon have met and are working together in Paris. However, there is some opposition in play there; Falcon was followed by a Moroccan national, one Ahmed Kisani.

Amazingly enough, Phoenix arranged to have Kisani mugged, and he and Falcon have shaken the tail. They took his ID and a credit card, we have that information and are working on it here and locally in Paris. I have Viper working Paris, he has gone to pick up Kisani’s trail if he can, we should have something there tomorrow.

Phoenix is checked into two hotels, one near Chatelet and another in Les Halles, don’t know which he’s actually staying at, or if he’s at either. Working on that, too.

Both our parties are “in” for the night, so there should be no more action today. We will have more info on Kisani, and perhaps the ID of the opposition, sometime tomorrow.

He sat back and read it again. “This is a little iffy,” he thought aloud. “Things are not what one would call ‘under control,’ and the boss may wig out a little with this new guy out there solo. But, we have a lot going on, good prospects, and this thing may lead us to much more than anyone hoped for.” He sat another moment, thinking. “Well, he didn’t send this guy out there to be a tourist, and the guy clearly can take care of himself, at least so far. Can’t be too pissed at me, the man’s doing his job.”

He stabbed the “Send” button with the mouse, switched to the browser, and began a search for Kisani’s family ties in Morocco.

The computer chimed, and Randy Anderson looked up from the file folder from which he’d been reading, then returned to it. There was trouble brewing on the Hill, he’d been called to testify again at the end of next week. Terrorists were playing Old Harry in Indonesia, Malaysia, and the Philippines, and the Committee was pissed that more was not being done. “Well, more is being done,” he said to the empty office, “but we sure don’t want to tell those leaky bastards about it, now do we old boy?” He finished reading the report, made two short notes, and closed the file, turning to the computer.

He read Jones’ email, amazed. “What the hell is Cameron doing over there? Had some guy mugged, did he? I wonder how he did that. You never cease to amaze my boy. And who the hell is following our Saudi friend? Only one obvious answer to that, I’m