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

the Arab family finally came through, pushing a cart with their vast luggage ahead of them. They didn’t linger. Moving fast for a large group, they went straight ahead, scattering other people as they went. Out on the concrete walk the tall Arab man looked left and then right, looked frustrated, then turned abruptly left and walked rapidly, the rest of the family in tow. As he walked he dialed another call, spoke in short, harsh sentences, then hung up. He did not stop walking.

The watcher from the restaurant exited the same door, but forty-five seconds behind the Arabs, and turned to follow. As he did, he finished transmitting the photos he’d taken with his phone. He walked just fast enough to keep pace until he saw the Arab family reach the end of the transportation area and stop. Inconvenient. He himself was required to walk another twenty paces, getting closer than he’d like, but then he stopped at a waiting taxi, leaned down, and pretended to argue with the driver over the cost for the ride into town while he waited to see what would happen next.

The man in the blue shirt came out the same exit next. He turned left, immediately saw what was happening, and turned to the first taxi in the line. He, too, began to argue with the driver in a combination of pidgin Arabic and English, with the occasional gesture in place of a missing word.

The SAS agent stood against the concrete wall fifty yards further east, his luggage at his feet, waiting for the pickup he expected from his embassy, watching this interesting parade and wondering what the devil these people were about. One Arab following an Arab family, himself followed by this other fellow, and, by Jove, who was this interesting gentleman coming out of the terminal building door halfway between the two? It was almost comical, he thought, except the new arrival on further inspection looked like he might be a right rough old bastard, and something about the blue shirt did not seem as much a buffoon as he wanted to appear.

He marveled at this comedy for thirty more seconds, during which the dark man did a fine job of looking innocent, and then things began to happen. A pair of black Suburban SUVs arrived at the curb in front of the Arab family, four Arab men in traditional dress piled out, and in very short order the bags and the people disappeared inside. The vehicles pulled out into traffic and accelerated away. He saw his ride arriving, a Land Rover, and flagged it down. At the same time, the Arab follower boarded his taxi and sped off in pursuit, blue shirt did the same immediately after. The SAS man piled into his car as quickly as he could manhandle his bags into the back seat, and said, “Right, follow that taxi, there’s a good lad. This will be interesting.” The driver made no reply, but stepped on the gas and roared off in pursuit.

Last in the otherwise amusing train came the dark-eyed man in his taxi.

*****

At Langley it was just after two in the afternoon, and a very pissed off Brian Jones was back at his desk, “running” the Phoenix op instead of living it. The email from Paris to the DDO had done it. It had taken the Boss just about thirty minutes to decide that the right guy to keep the operation supported from headquarters was Jones. Someone had to coordinate. There had been no haggling.

His route back had been less than direct, however. He and Allen had been made by the spooky French guy LaPlante at De Gaulle airport, so there was no way they could leave Paris by air any more than Cameron could have. Instead, Ripley rented a car. Jones drove South and East across the countryside and into Switzerland. At Geneva he turned in the car, spent a lavishly comfortable night at a five-star Swiss hotel, and hopped the Delta/Air France flight direct to Washington at two in the afternoon yesterday. Remembering this, he grinned at the irony of the Air France bit. From the airport he’d made a short stop at his home in Arlington, and had been in his office by eight yesterday evening Eastern Time.

Allen took a train from Paris, South and West across the Pyrenees into Spain. From Barcelona he flew on Royal Jordanian Airlines to Amman, arriving late Wednesday night. He’d flown first class, which meant he, too had eaten and slept lavishly. Jones took some comfort in the thought that while Allen was still out there in the game and he was sidelined, the beds in the visitors quarters at US Embassy, Amman left much to be desired.

Snapping back to the present, Jones noted the time and that the British Air flight carrying Cameron and the General would be in Amman by now. He was musing about this when his secure phone rang. He picked it up with a simple “Hello?” In the window on the face of the instrument he read “AMEMB Amman, Jordan SECURE.” His face bent into a frown.

“Jones? Allen here. We have a problem.”

“Shit, what now. Did you kill someone already? Christ, Allen, can’t you . . “

“No, no, I swear. I’m at the embassy numbnuts. Listen. It’s the Colonel. He called me on my cell just now. He and the General and all are enroute here from the airport, but they’ve grown a tail already.”

“Shit. Who the hell are these fuckers? What’s he want to do?”

“That’s the problem, sort of. The plan was the whole bunch of them were going to stay at some family compound about a mile from here. Colonel says that’s not happening now, he wants us to let the whole bunch of them into the embassy compound. They’re enroute, probably get here in about fifteen minutes.”

“Okay, so let ‘em in. What’s the problem?” Jones asked.

“Uhh, well, the guys here say they can’t let Saudis into the compound. The Regional Security Officer guy’s a Nazi, the Ambassador is in Europe, Deputy Chief is at dinner other side of town with the Brits and isn’t answering her phone. The station chief here tried to get the Security guy to do it, but he’s a real shit.”

Jones thought about this. “So, you want to kill him?”

“Very funny, asshole. No, I don’t want to kill him, not yet anyway. How about you pull some big cheese headquarters act and roll this guy. Come on, we don’t have any time!”

“OK, you got the guy there?” Jones asked. “Put him on.”

The phone changed hands at the other end. Jones knew the instrument there would have a window like his did, except it would read “CIA Langley, SECURE.” Instant credibility.

“Hello? This is the RSO, Frank Capaccio. Who’s this?”

“Sounds like a pencil-neck geek,” Jones thought. “Hi, this is Mr. Jones, Langley,” he said as nicely as he could muster. “We really need your assistance. The Saudis my, err, colleague told you about are of personal interest to the DO here, as is the American citizen who will be with them. We’d really appreciate it, and I’m sure he would, too, if you’d just let these people into the compound, find them someplace nice and private for the night, and we’ll make arrangements to move them tomorrow or the next day . . .”

“Nope, no way. Who do you guys think you are anyway?” Jones held the handset away from his ear as the geek ranted for twenty seconds or so. When the noise stopped he put it back and waited in silence another full ten seconds.

Then, in a voice he calculated to be low and dangerous he said, “Listen, pal. It doesn’t matter a bit who I am—read the ident on your phone. Now, my colleague there is a pretty nasty piece of work, and he’s taken a liking to these people, as have I by the way. So, aside from the fact that the CIA Deputy Director of Operations is going to have your ass on a plane back to the US by next Monday if you screw this up, you want to think about what kind of life you’re going to have if these people don’t find a safe spot to sleep tonight. In the Embassy Compound. Do it. In less than an hour the Comm Center there will have a FLASH message direct from the DDO ordering it to be so, trust me. Meantime, you let them in and you get them set up. You keep those people waiting outside until that message gets there, or if you screw around at all, your ass belongs to us. Sooner or later. What’s it going to be?” Silence.

“Nice,” came the reply. It was Allen. “Don’t know what you said, but it worked. What a geek.”

“You think he’s got it, then?” Jones asked.

“Pretty sure,” Allen replied. “Thanks, gotta go. I want to be outside on the street when this caravan arrives, see if I can get a look at the garbage tailing the Colonel.”

“Right. Let me know if the RSO gives you any more crap. I’ll ping the Boss right now.” They both hung up. Jones’ fingers were working on the email.

*****

The two black Suburbans screeched to a halt at the concrete jersey barriers in front of the American Embassy. The Jordanian policeman at the checkpoint approached the driver’s side of the lead vehicle and asked for identification. He was immediately immersed in a rapid-fire conversation in Arabic, which alarmed him. He stepped back from the vehicle two paces, and was about to sound the alarm when three Marines in desert camouflage walked up, armed, along with an Embassy civilian. The latter said something quiet in Arabic, the policeman’s face went from alarm to understanding. He stepped aside and waived the two vehicles forward as he turned and waived for the gate to be opened.

The American civilian noted the taxi that came up the street toward the compound and then turned right before it got there. He watched it closely. About halfway down the quarter-mile length of the compound wall he saw the brake lights come on, the car stopped very briefly, then moved on. He whispered something to one of the Marines, and the three of them turned and followed the Suburbans through the gate. The civilian just stood there, waiting.

Shortly, another car approached, but this time drove right up to the checkpoint. A man got out, tugged a large rolling duffle from the backseat, paid his fare and dismissed the car. He wore a blue blazer over a blue button-down shirt, khaki slacks and those new suede hiking shoes. The civilian watched him closely as he walked forward, careful to keep his hands in plain view. The man stopped two paces in front of him. From behind he heard the policemen take a step to one side as he shifted the machine pistol that hung from a webbed strap around his neck.

The man in front of him was right at six feet, athletic-looking, dark hair, eyes that were probably blue in daylight. The face looked cold, dangerous. As he watched the man slowly raised his empty right hand, palm forward, until it was even with his ear. Then, very slowly now he moved the hand toward his chest in a large, obvious, circular motion, reaching into the inside pocket of the blue blazer. The policeman’s weapon moved again, the stranger’s cold gaze shifted to the Jordanian for a moment. Slowly again, he withdrew the hand and reached forward to pass the familiar blue booklet of an American passport.

About this time a Land Rover came up the street. Everyone looked as the car paused in the intersection for a couple of seconds, then it turned left. The Embassy man watched for a second, then looked in the book, read “Michael Callan” and noted the face matched the man in front of him. He looked up into the eyes, smiled, and said, “Mr. Callan, welcome to