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

what looks like a mosque in the middle at the end, opposite the front gate. The fence looks solid, probably concrete block, I guess eight feet high from the shadows. You should be secure there unless a big infantry unit takes an interest in our friends. Speaking of which, has either of them talked any more about how long they think you’ll stay?”

“Not much, but neither expects to be there more than a day or two, three at the most they said. Won’t take the first day to interview the nephew thoroughly I think, so we’ll probably just be doing the social thing after that. Once that’s done we’re on a plane from Jeddah connecting through Zurich, the Colonel back to Cincinnati and me to Langley. Ripley goes back to Paris direct from Jeddah. Any thoughts on that?”

“None,” said Jones. “That’ll wrap this thing up, although I expect the Boss will want to have Phoenix into Langley sometime soon to have a little chat about how things went. He’s pretty stoked about the take on all this. Look, I think I’m going to call it a day, hit the gym and get home for a nap, it’s been a long haul from Paris. Make sure you keep power on your GPS/Tracker so we know where you guys are, I’ll match you to the compound when I get in tomorrow—when you think you’ll be there by the way?”

“Colonel says late afternoon at best, it’s all dirt tracks from here for about a hundred of the hundred-thirty clicks to al Ha’il. We’ll be creeping along at ten or twenty clicks top speed for most of the day and be happy to be tucked into the compound before sundown he says. Anything else? Colonel’s signaling that the dinner bell is ringing.”

“No, that’s it. Keep in touch, don’t eat too much goat, Jones out.” He hung up. There actually was something bothering Jones, but he couldn’t put his finger on what it was. This was a nice, simple ending to an unusually lucky and active week he told himself, but it looked like it’d be a dull ending. That feeling was out there, though, nagging, just beyond conscious reach. He shook it off as useless worry and old age, and started to shut down. With luck he’d be home in bed by two and sleep right through to tomorrow morning.

*****

A real Saudi desert camp is something to behold, and Saudi hospitality, Bedouin hospitality, is something even more to behold, particularly when the host holds his guests in very high esteem and wishes to show this in an unforgettable way. However, there are some things about the ritual that strike the novice as inconvenient or downright odd, as Ripley and Allen were about to discover.

Emerging from their tent, they walked directly to the center of their rectangular compound where the large fire had burned down to a rosy glow of coals. Around the perimeter outside the tents flood lights shown down at the ground from atop their seven-foot stands. This gave the camp enough light to easily navigate, but it wasn’t as who should say “bright”. Quite the contrary—the light was diffuse enough, and dim enough, that it did nothing at all to diminish the cold, hard brightness of the stars in the sky that had long since lost any trace of the day.

Around the fire there were four immense carpets, but no chairs. Ripley looked most uncomfortable at this development, but Cameron and Allen sat down where the General indicated, on his right in the place of honor. He was dressed as a desert Arab, in long white thob and checkered red-and-white shamak, as were the rest of the men of his household who were standing in their places. They shook hands and lapsed into small talk, Ripley catching all the English but none of the Arabic, which was about half the conversation. Since nobody seemed inclined to translate this for him, he lost interest in the tide of babble going back and forth around the fire and started to look around as his eyes got really accustomed to the light.

There wasn’t any obvious “dinner” that he could see, although he could smell it cooking somewhere, probably behind him on the north side of the compound. Along the front edge of the carpet he was sitting on, nearest the fire, there was a series of plates, some empty, and on some there were raw vegetables: tomatoes, celery, carrots, something that looked like sliced radishes. A dish of a white creamy sauce of some kind, two dishes of some other kind of sauce or dip, he guessed, one looked like pureed vegetables a little chunky like salsa, the other looked like refried beans or bean dip or something, brownish and thick. Looking to the left of this one he saw a plate piled with what looked like flour tortillas but thicker, which he knew was the traditional flat bread that was a staple from the Turkey and the Levant right across Asia to China. But nowhere any meat, nothing that looked like a proper meal, he hoped that didn’t mean . .

“Mister, ahh, Patrick, shall I say?” General Fahd was looking at Ripley. “Yes, Mister Patrick will probably be best for you. Please have some water . . .” a bottle appeared behind Ripley’s left ear and he reached for it with his right hand. And then Fahd said, “Where do your people come from in America, and where did they come from before that? I know it is a source of interest for most Americans to know their ancestors’ country of origin.”

Ripley had to think about this a moment. As a rule, CIA people are pretty close when it comes to family details, regardless of who they’re talking to. On the other hand, he knew General Fahd and the Colonel were pretty close, so he could probably be trusted with just about anything. Then again, he wasn’t a big geneologist in any case, so that wasn’t going to be deep water where he was concerned. “Someone way back came from Ireland I guess,” he said with a shrug, “but nobody in my family talks much about those first people or where they came from specifically. There was a family farm in the mid-1800’s in the Carolinas somewhere, but I’ve never been there and it hasn’t been in the family since before I was born. Earlier in the 1900’s my grandfather was some kind of import-export merchant or broker, buying quantities of cotton and other stuff, maybe tobacco and the like, selling it in bulk to other companies overseas, and then I guess buying from the overseas people and selling their stuff on to companies in the US.”

“Oh,” said Fahd, looking very interested and with a broad smile like he was about to make a very funny joke, “so he may have been the original discover of the “B to B” concept?” He chuckled to himself and switched over to Arabic to explain the quip to the rest of his men. This took longer than expected and drew no more than polite smiles, completely unsatisfactory compared to the English version.

Ripley, however, thought it a good stroke, and he warmed to Fahd. “Yeah, General, I guess you could say that, but I think there were lots of guys doing more or less the same thing. Anyway, the trade pretty much evaporated in the Great Depression, so the business died and he died, too, in the late 30’s.”

“And what did your father do, Mr. Patrick?” Fahd asked.

“Oh, he was an Army officer, artillery, missed World War II but saw Korea, was in Vietnam very early on. Lives in . . .” Ripley stopped there on the verge of saying something he should never say.

“Well, Bless Him,” Fahd said, covering the lapse. “And now I think we will have our first treat for the night. Gentlemen, let us have some coffee.”

Two Arabs appeared, rather rougher looking men with leathery skins but good smiles. One carried a stack of small ceramic cups with no handles about an inch in diameter and about as deep. The other carried an exotic looking pitcher, roundish at the bottom but with a distinctive looking curve toward the middle ending in a narrower top. On one side was a long handle, which was how it was carried. On the other a long, narrow curved spout. The man with the cups began handing them out, beginning with Ripley on the end and moving along the lines around the fire, and behind him came the pot, which poured steaming hot liquid into the little cups. In the dim light Ripley could just tell that it was almost green, but most obvious was the smell. It was like nothing he’d ever smelt, the strangest collection of spices he could remember. He thought he smelled cloves, maybe cinnamon, but something else he could not name and had never smelled before.

When everyone had a small steaming cup, Fahd raised his and said in Arabic, “Bismallah ar-rahman, ar-rahim”, “in the name of God, the Merciful, the Compassionate, we give thanks for our friends and for a safe journey thus far.” He tipped his little cup and drank it off at a single gulp. Everyone else did likewise, and Colonel Cameron looked at Ripley with a satisfied gleam. Doubtful, Ripley tossed his down.

It didn’t taste as strongly as it smelled, but it was unusual. Not much like coffee at all. Strange. Bitter. He still couldn’t place the spice smell, but it sure didn’t taste like much. He looked back at Cameron for approval.

The guy with the pot was back, and began pouring again with Ripley, who wasn’t sure he needed another but one look at Cameron’s raised eyebrows told him there was no choice. So the whole exercise was repeated, everyone downing another full little cup, and now here came the guy with the pot again. Ripley was sure he didn’t need a third—he could already feel something that felt like a caffeine buzz—and he looked at the Colonel. Cameron was holding his cup between thumb and index finger, and wiggling it side to side by twisting his wrist. Ripley did the same just as the coffee pot was tipping over the cup, and the man stopped before pouring a drop. He moved on, getting the same signal from each man, and behind him came the other guy collecting the cups.

Cameron beamed at Ripley, Allen looked quite satisfied. When the cups were gone, the two guys came back with bowls, these turned out to contain a variety of dates.

“These are Saudi dates,” it was the General speaking again. “There are about a hundred kinds I think, all different in texture, grown in our country. They are the gift of the desert, Mr. Patrick. Gentlemen, please help yourselves while we pour the tea.”

The dates were awesome, and the tea came on metal platters in clear glass cups that reminded Ripley of miniature beer mugs. When everyone was served he lifted his cup to drink and gasped as he scalded his upper lip and tongue.

The Colonel made a loud slurping sound and turned, grinning. “Second hottest substance known to man, Saudi tea. Right behind a chicken pot pie I think. Burn yourself, Mr. Patrick?”

“Yes I did,” Ripley shot back, “but this is really good, lot of sugar. What’s that other flavor?”

“Mint,” Cameron said taking another sip. “General,” he added, getting Fahd’s attention. “I had a very good friend once in RSAF Logistics, Colonel Ali al-Asiri, perhaps you know him?”

“Alas, I do not, Paul, but I have heard of him. He retired a few years ago as a one-star I think?”

“That’s him. Anyway, back around 1998 or so he was working in Dayton as the RSAF Liaison, Colonel at the time, and he always had tea at his office. His secretary would make it from time to time, but usually he made it himself, and the gawa too. He showed me his own technique.