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

the wrong number, I was trying to call New York,” a voice said, and the line went dead.

Ripley was instantly awake, the covers went flying across the bed as he leapt out, running for the kitchen where he’d left his encrypted sat-phone charging on its stand. He grabbed it, cursing as it went through its power-up cycle and verified the encryption keys for the day in a two-way exchange with the satellite twenty-six thousand miles overhead. A minute later the power indicator turned green. He was back in the game, and he speed dialed the number he needed.

“Hello,” the usual deadpan voice again.

“Viper,” Ripley replied. “Do you have something for me?”

“Yes. Activity on the phone we tapped for you, hospital room. There was an outgoing call five minutes ago, do you want to hear it?”

“Play it,” Ripley said.

“Coming at you,” the voice returned.

There was a pause, a few electronic beeps, then a voice. Ripley closed his eyes and tried to picture the faces. He did not understand the language, but he was certain now that it was Arabic. The first voice was a little high, weaker. That would be Kisani, the small man he’d found in the alley. The second voice was strong, deep, commanding. He was asking questions, quickly. Kisani did not seem to have good answers, but he was doing his best. Another question from the other man, another answer. Did the voices change a little? The stronger man seemed to accept what Kisani was saying now. They reached some kind of understanding, then the call ended. It had lasted about a minute.

“Do you have the number, and a location?” Ripley asked.

“We have the number, the location is North Paris, nothing more specific. The call was too short, but we can trace it through the directory in another hour or so. It’s a land line.” The voice read off the number.

“Can you tap this number?” Ripley asked?

“Already done” said the voice. “And, before you ask, we’ve got people working on a translation and transcript now. Should be ready in about an hour. Where do you want it?”

“Paris Station, make it an hour.” Ripley said, and rang off. He looked at his watch: just after eight thirty. Kisani’d had a good, long sleep. Only two -thirty in the morning at Langley, too early for Jones. “Well, I was right about these guys at least. Kisani phoned home to what’s going to turn out to be little-Arabia up toward the airport.” He was thinking now, trying to decide how aggressive to be. Should he call the number himself, listen to the guy, maybe see if he speaks English? “No, too soon, he might tie his call from Kisani to mine, and that might get both of us killed. But what about Kisani? Wonder if he’s going to leave the hospital today?” That would be an opportunity: he’d definitely head straight for home.

He speed dialed again.

“Hello.”

“Viper. I need the Paris West Hospital, Emergency Department.”

Clicks again, a beep, then the phone was ringing. “Hello, Paris West Emergency, how may I help you?”

“Hello,” Ripley said in French, “good morning Madame. This is inspector Cluseau of the Paris Police, I’m looking for a Mr. Kisani, he was brought there last night by the police. Can you tell me if he’s still there?”

“Oui monsieur, but he only just woke up half an hour ago. We only just learned his name. Would you like to speak with him?”

“No, no, don’t trouble him. We are just calling to see if he is all right. Have the doctors decided when he can leave the hospital? Today, perhaps?”

“Oui, monsieur. They are doing his release examination now, and the paperwork will take about an hour, perhaps a little more . . .”

Ripley stabbed the “End” button on the phone. “Shit!” he yelled, running for the shower. He’d have to move fast.

In ten minutes he emerged on the street and ran half a block to the Metro station where he took the steps down two at a time. Inside he swiped his pass card, passed through the turnstiles, ran down the escalator, crossed over to the Northbound platform and waited two minutes for his train to arrive. He boarded the RER C train, he’d decide at Javel station what to do next. He wanted the transcript from the Embassy first, but he was not sure he’d get there in time, and Kisani was the best link he had to finding a bigger target in North Paris, that would have to come first. He looked at his watch again. Forty five minutes until Kisani might be released. He’d probably make the hospital, barely. But without his car, he might lose him if the man had ground transport. “Well, no way I’d have made it in my car anyway, in rush hour traffic it’s almost ninety minutes to the Embassy.” He checked his wallet, there was enough for a short taxi ride, and if he was early at the hospital he could find an ATM and get more cash. He settled in for the train ride, already decided on the direction he would take. Direct to the hospital it would have to be.

*****

“Nine o’clock, time to move,” Cameron said to himself. He signaled the pretty waitress for his check and began to collect his things. The paper went into his briefcase, he stood and put on the leather jacket, turning up the collar in back. Might as well look really French, or Spanish. The bill came and he paid it, then left.

Out on the sidewalk he turned right and walked East, spotting the big Egyptian immediately, standing at the far corner looking uncomfortable and obvious, leaning against a lamppost. “OK, not exactly professional help, that’s a promising sign,” Cameron observed. He reached into his pocket and brought out a pair of dark sunglasses. At the corner he turned right without appearing to notice the Egyptian, it was two blocks south to where the phone kiosk was supposed to be.

Paris was waking up. Shops were opening, tables and chairs were being wiped down on the sidewalk in front of the many al-fresco cafes of Ste. Germaine. There were all kinds of people in Paris, from everywhere around Europe, North Africa, sometimes he heard an accent that was without a doubt English Caribbean or Bermuda, it never ceased to fascinate him. He walked easily, smiling at the working people getting ready for another business day, taking in all the faces, clothes, shoes, making sure they all fit in at the places they were. There was nothing unusual that he could see. “Except for that lump back there” he reminded himself. “Sheesh, what a yokel, but I would not want to meet him in a dark place where there is no help. Nasty piece of work, that.”

He found the phone store, just opened, with a professional young man behind the counter. Cameron walked in side removing his glasses, and opened in Spanish, “Hello, good morning. Do you speak Spanish by any chance? Or English?”

“Oh, English, please monsieur, I have a little Spanish from school, but my English is very good.” At this the young man smiled proudly. “What can I help you with, monsieur?”

“Ah, English. Excellent” It was tempting to be too cute and try a Spanish accent with the English, but there was almost certainly going to be some showing of ID here, and all of his were American, so that might prove a little odd. Better to play it straight up, nice and simple.

He said, “Good morning, Robert,” reading the name tag above the cash register. “I have just arrived from the US yesterday, on business, and I find that the people I’ll be working with need to find me often while I am here, and I hoped to do some sightseeing with my wife this week. So, I’d like to buy two phones, please, one for each of us, and some kind of calling plan or whatever you use here in Paris.”

“Excellent, sir,” Robert replied. “All our phones use GSM, you know, which until recently you could not use in the US. But a year or two ago ago that changed, and now our “World Phone” will work anywhere. This way, you can still use it back in America when you get home. Now, this model . . .”

The transaction took thirty minutes, but he’d convinced Robert to toss in his own fully charged battery in trade for the fresh one from the new phone, so he was ready to go when he walked outside. As he’d fidgeted around the shop he’d also spied a café across the street and what looked like an internet bar next door. He walked out with his phones at nine-thirty-five, the chargers and other hardware in a plastic bag in the briefcase. He glanced left, right, then left again before crossing the street, giving him two good looks at “Pharaoh”, as he’d decided to call him, still leaning awkwardly against the lamppost down on the corner. He crossed at a gap in the light traffic and took a seat on the sidewalk at the café, intent on watching his man for a while to get a feel for what he might do.

Nothing much happened. The street was up to full speed, and there were tourists everywhere enjoying their Parisian breakfasts. Cameron finished his third cup of coffee of the morning with great satisfaction, although it would have to be his last. The caffeine was beginning to make him light headed. He was reading the paper again, facing toward the windows of the café rather than north toward Pharaoh away there on the corner. But the windows were very clean, the morning sun shining strongly on them, and they made a perfect mirror in which to watch the Egyptian, who’d been checking his watch every five minutes or so.

At precisely ten o’clock Pharaoh reached in a pocket and out came a cell phone. It was clear to Cameron that he’d dialed, rather than answered the call, and he listened more than he spoke. After only two minutes he closed the phone and stashed it back in his pocket. “Surveillance report,” Cameron guessed. Pharaoh looked his way momentarily, then crossed to his side of the street and began shopping in the corner windows. “Not great, but a little better,” Cameron thought of the man, “But I think I’d have checked into the Agora, sat down in the bakery if they have one and had a cup of coffee and read the paper. At least that way I could watch for a sneaky bugger like me.”

It was time, and he collected his things for another move, this time two storefronts further south, where he entered the internet bar.

*****

It was a fine day in Bahrain, all across the Gulf for that matter. Cool for late April, but welcome, and a light breeze just ruffled the shallow Gulf water so that there was an occasional whitecap out on the sea, but not many. Dhows and other craft were plying the waters between Bahrain and the coast of Saudi Arabia, scouring the depths for the seafood that sold so well in both Manama and the coastal Saudi cities of Dammam, Dhahran, and al-Jubail away to the north.

In his usual internet café Khalid al-Shahrani was feeling better now that he had put things in train. He was confident that his man Mohammed would have the Saudi end of things under control shortly, and he would be rid of the troublesome General’s family. He had sent emails to his chiefs via websites hosted in Pakistan and Iran, he needed approval to accelerate the deployment of his teams to the United States as soon as he could get them moving. That would take several days to accomplish, but to have it approved was the biggest step, then all that remained was to organize the move and they would be safely out of the Kingdom. The only loose end was the General himself and the family members