The Phoenix Affair - Dave Moyer (smart ebook reader TXT) 📗
- Author: Dave Moyer
Book online «The Phoenix Affair - Dave Moyer (smart ebook reader TXT) 📗». Author Dave Moyer
slowed them down, then got them shooting which woke everyone up…well, let’s just say it would not have been pretty, completely different outcome.”
“He had a feeling apparently, and a very good Sergeant way back that taught him not to ignore one in a situation like that,” Cameron mused. “He and Ripley talked about it before they went to bed, but couldn’t pin it down. Allen couldn’t sleep, so he just went up on the roof, set up his weapon, and dozed off there. Uncanny really—the first grappling hook hitting the top of the concrete wall 75 yards away apparently woke him up, next thing he knows is he’s looking through the starlight scope at all these guys coming over the wall, and then Jones calls, and the fight is on. And after it was all over, he figured it out. He’d seen one of the guys the previous evening at the shwarma shop he and Ripley went to in town. The guy had “the look” is what he and Ripley both said, but they couldn’t place the feeling. Later they said it was like “what’s a guy like that doing in a place like this?” We were lucky, but they were also really, really good.”
“Amazing,” was all Anderson said.
Cameron went on: “And back to the subject at hand, allow me to point out that Mrs. Cameron happens to outrank the President, and if you ask him, he’ll say he knows it just like you and I do.”
Both of them laughed again at this, both knew it was true, and Anderson knew the President would know it, too. Cameron was too damned smart for anyone’s good, that much was clear to him. “Well, here’s the deal, and this is the beautiful part. We want you to go into business with General Fahd, build the hotel, the whole thing . . .”
“How the hell did you already know about that?” Cameron blushed, slightly embarrassed.
“Ripley, of course, how else? You told him the story at some camp in the desert, right?”
“Well, yeah, but I didn’t know it was gonna happen. Turns out my friend Fahd is kinda filthy rich, and his family is so grateful for what we did, well, the rest is pretty straightforward. It’s just a loan, though, we’re gonna be partners, sort of.”
“Right, well, there you are. Anyway, you build it, run it, make money at it, enjoy it. You’ll be a pillar of the local community I’m sure. There’ll need to be some security systems, the Company will take care of that and the costs for it, and we’ll have some other unique requirements I’ll want built in while you’re at it. We’ll be a minor investor, sort of, but not on the record anywhere. I’ll have a contractor work with whoever builds this thing to get the design right. Meantime, I’ve looked into this Brigadier’s list deal, and I believe that there are very often jobs where the name is listed, with the job title as “Commander, Data Masked” or something like that, and the location is “Classified?” Well, that’s what yours will say. You’ll be Commander of a small, special unit, seconded to us at the Company. Not unique by the way, we always have an Air Force 3 star at Langley as Liaison. Bet you didn’t know that, eh? Meanwhile you draw 1-star pay for three years, then retire if you’re ready. During that time we send you some business, guests at the new place when we need someplace quiet and secure, and we pay the premium rate, just to make things get off to a profitable start. Plus, you’re working for us, so you and your staff do the things you’ve already shown you’re good at, an easy operation here and there when we need you, studies, analysis, some site observation, recon, planning, that kind of thing. NO shooting, at least no planned shooting. As for all those Air Force guys that might be pissed off at you—well, you’ll be out of circulation, as good as retired as far as they know, you probably never see them and they never see you, so no problem. Some of the things we might send your way will be a little easier if you’re a Brigadier is all: working with foreign services of one kind or another, for example.”
The bells were still ringing and getting louder for Cameron. “Staff? What Staff? What do I do with them, how many?”
“That’s for us to decide here today so I can get the ball rolling. You tell me how many you think you need to run the hotel, but be generous, ‘cause it might be less than what you need to run the Unit. But that’s really up to you too, just don’t skimp. You get to pick the guys, or we can pick ‘em if you like. They all live and work with you at the hotel, run it for you as their “cover”, and run the other part of the Company business from a secure spot inside or on the grounds. Speaking of which, I’d like you to pick a spot reasonably close to an airport, medium sized, you still fly, right?”
“Yes, I’ve got my own airplane, a Mooney, it’s . . .”
“Yeah, I know all about it. Big surprise, right? Sell it, I’m buying you a new one, or the Company is. We’ll title it in the name of your company, whatever that’s going to be. I need you in something new, reliable, fast, and well maintained, and we’ll take care of that part, too. You’re going to have to be available when I need you, I assume you’re not going to build this thing in Washington or close by, so I need you mobile and in one piece. We’ll depreciate the airplane using the new laws passed after 9-11, and when you retire from the service in 3 years we’ll sell it to you for a song and a whistle, another of the President’s suggestions, although I might have put the idea in his head.”
Anderson half-turned toward the front window, looked at the guy with the dark-haired semi-date, and snapped his fingers. The guy reached into a messenger bag, removed an 8x10 envelope, brought it to Anderson, and returned to the girl
“Shit, you kidding? That’s gonna cost someone nearly six hundred thousand bucks. Is this legal? It sounds fishy as hell. I don’t go in for that kind of thing, Mr Anderson, and I’m not ever going to be as Teflon coated as Oliver . . .”
Anderson held up both hands to ward off the assault, he couldn’t stand the name. “Don’t say his name, I know the Lieutenant Colonel well, as you can imagine, but yes, this is legal. I have a signed Presidential finding that says so, and you get a copy, for the safe, at this palace you’re building, did I mention that?”
He opened the envelope, and said “there are a few people I want you to meet in here.” He produced an 8x10 photo, color, poor resolution, probably a blow up of a passport photo. “Not very good, but have you seen him before?”
Cameron looked hard. Arab, that was clear. “Nope”.
“Good. Ibrahim bin Sultan al-Otaibi, Saudi national, a real hard guy, dangerous as hell. It was his network you literally destroyed in 3 days in Paris. Current whereabouts unknown, but possibly in Germany, we think Hamburg or Berlin, maybe Cologne. Next…”
Another photo, also grainy, clearly a Saudi passport photo.
“Nope” again from Cameron.
“Good again. Khalid al-Shahrani, Saudi national also. We’re a little less sure of what he is, but we very strongly suspect it was his network in Saudi, his guys at the compound, and more importantly, his guys who are now somewhere in the United States. For sure we know he was in Afghanistan in the old days, and at least twice in 2000 and early 2001. We think he caught a flight to Sudan the morning after the firefight at the compound. No sightings since, but he’ll be back. Next…”
Another photo. This one Cameron recognized. “The little guy, from that night in Paris?”
“Correct. Ahmed Al-Kisani, Moroccan but with Syrian ancestry, hence the names. Recovered from his recent mugging in Paris, and back to being a small time hood. Nice touch by the way. We’re watching him, tapping his phones etc, but we think he’s off the net until Ibrahim resurfaces in Paris. One more…
A fourth photo, bigger guy. “The Pharoah, Paris again. Ripley and I took him down a little way up the sidewalk from the General’s second hotel the night we moved him.”
“Correct again. Salah Razick, Egyptian. Now a resident at one of our more discrete locations in Eastern Europe. He gave us quite a lot on the Paris network, actually. Nice guy as long as he’s tied up. Probably will never see the light of day again.” He gazed into the emptiness past Cameron’s head for a second or two.
The he continued, “the point is there are a lot of guys on ice, but there are some nasty characters who aren’t. All in all, as usual, the nastiest aren’t. And while none of them has ever laid eyes on you, either, you caused them all some truly serious discomfort, and they’ll be looking for payback. It will take them some time, hopefully more time to find you than for us to find them, but they’ll be looking. So…I need you to take a concealed-carry course, and start practicing and keep practicing, and I need you to carry ALL the time. And, if you ever see these first two guys, ever…” he patted the shots of Ibrahim and Khalid, “you shoot ‘em right then, two in the chest and one in the head, no questions. Because if you see them, it’s because they’ve come for you.” Anderson collected the photos and put them back in the envelope.
“Therefore, you’re not flying commercial, at least not very often, since you’re carrying, and therefore you need an airplane that gets you where I need you and quick.”
Then he brightened up. “Anyway, this is not even close to being across the line, you’ll just need a little help preparing your taxes for a few years, but we’ve got people for that, too.” Anderson looked at his watch. “Shit, time flies. I have to get moving in a few minutes, and we’re not done. Think, now, Colonel, what do you need for the business and the unit, for starters at least? We can adjust some as we go, I figure the thing’s gotta take a year to build right?”
“Two years probably, maybe more,” Cameron answered, but he was thinking about the other problem. He was silent for a minute or more, sipping the last of his Estrella, then a swig of iced tea when that was gone. Finally he said, “OK here’s what I think. I need a guy who can be the “manager” of sorts, handle bookings, service management, subcontracting for maid service, horses, stables, groundskeeping, that kind of thing. It’d be best if this was an officer, Captain maybe, Air Force or Navy, Lieutenant in the latter case, not Army if we can help it. Seal or a PJ if we have the choice, just in case we need muscle. See if you can find a guy who’s interested in this kind of thing anyway so that he likes it to begin with, send him to a good college for hotel management while we build the place. He’s also the lead guy to coordinate support inter-agency when we do—well, whatever it is you have in mind for us to do. Next, someone to cook. This guy can be enlisted, especially if he’s a Seal, Warrant Officer maybe, but come to think of it either guy can be either rank, as long as there’s one of each. Send him to chef’s school, takes about a year, I have a brother in law that’s done that. Next, a junior enlisted guy, probably Air Force but not
“He had a feeling apparently, and a very good Sergeant way back that taught him not to ignore one in a situation like that,” Cameron mused. “He and Ripley talked about it before they went to bed, but couldn’t pin it down. Allen couldn’t sleep, so he just went up on the roof, set up his weapon, and dozed off there. Uncanny really—the first grappling hook hitting the top of the concrete wall 75 yards away apparently woke him up, next thing he knows is he’s looking through the starlight scope at all these guys coming over the wall, and then Jones calls, and the fight is on. And after it was all over, he figured it out. He’d seen one of the guys the previous evening at the shwarma shop he and Ripley went to in town. The guy had “the look” is what he and Ripley both said, but they couldn’t place the feeling. Later they said it was like “what’s a guy like that doing in a place like this?” We were lucky, but they were also really, really good.”
“Amazing,” was all Anderson said.
Cameron went on: “And back to the subject at hand, allow me to point out that Mrs. Cameron happens to outrank the President, and if you ask him, he’ll say he knows it just like you and I do.”
Both of them laughed again at this, both knew it was true, and Anderson knew the President would know it, too. Cameron was too damned smart for anyone’s good, that much was clear to him. “Well, here’s the deal, and this is the beautiful part. We want you to go into business with General Fahd, build the hotel, the whole thing . . .”
“How the hell did you already know about that?” Cameron blushed, slightly embarrassed.
“Ripley, of course, how else? You told him the story at some camp in the desert, right?”
“Well, yeah, but I didn’t know it was gonna happen. Turns out my friend Fahd is kinda filthy rich, and his family is so grateful for what we did, well, the rest is pretty straightforward. It’s just a loan, though, we’re gonna be partners, sort of.”
“Right, well, there you are. Anyway, you build it, run it, make money at it, enjoy it. You’ll be a pillar of the local community I’m sure. There’ll need to be some security systems, the Company will take care of that and the costs for it, and we’ll have some other unique requirements I’ll want built in while you’re at it. We’ll be a minor investor, sort of, but not on the record anywhere. I’ll have a contractor work with whoever builds this thing to get the design right. Meantime, I’ve looked into this Brigadier’s list deal, and I believe that there are very often jobs where the name is listed, with the job title as “Commander, Data Masked” or something like that, and the location is “Classified?” Well, that’s what yours will say. You’ll be Commander of a small, special unit, seconded to us at the Company. Not unique by the way, we always have an Air Force 3 star at Langley as Liaison. Bet you didn’t know that, eh? Meanwhile you draw 1-star pay for three years, then retire if you’re ready. During that time we send you some business, guests at the new place when we need someplace quiet and secure, and we pay the premium rate, just to make things get off to a profitable start. Plus, you’re working for us, so you and your staff do the things you’ve already shown you’re good at, an easy operation here and there when we need you, studies, analysis, some site observation, recon, planning, that kind of thing. NO shooting, at least no planned shooting. As for all those Air Force guys that might be pissed off at you—well, you’ll be out of circulation, as good as retired as far as they know, you probably never see them and they never see you, so no problem. Some of the things we might send your way will be a little easier if you’re a Brigadier is all: working with foreign services of one kind or another, for example.”
The bells were still ringing and getting louder for Cameron. “Staff? What Staff? What do I do with them, how many?”
“That’s for us to decide here today so I can get the ball rolling. You tell me how many you think you need to run the hotel, but be generous, ‘cause it might be less than what you need to run the Unit. But that’s really up to you too, just don’t skimp. You get to pick the guys, or we can pick ‘em if you like. They all live and work with you at the hotel, run it for you as their “cover”, and run the other part of the Company business from a secure spot inside or on the grounds. Speaking of which, I’d like you to pick a spot reasonably close to an airport, medium sized, you still fly, right?”
“Yes, I’ve got my own airplane, a Mooney, it’s . . .”
“Yeah, I know all about it. Big surprise, right? Sell it, I’m buying you a new one, or the Company is. We’ll title it in the name of your company, whatever that’s going to be. I need you in something new, reliable, fast, and well maintained, and we’ll take care of that part, too. You’re going to have to be available when I need you, I assume you’re not going to build this thing in Washington or close by, so I need you mobile and in one piece. We’ll depreciate the airplane using the new laws passed after 9-11, and when you retire from the service in 3 years we’ll sell it to you for a song and a whistle, another of the President’s suggestions, although I might have put the idea in his head.”
Anderson half-turned toward the front window, looked at the guy with the dark-haired semi-date, and snapped his fingers. The guy reached into a messenger bag, removed an 8x10 envelope, brought it to Anderson, and returned to the girl
“Shit, you kidding? That’s gonna cost someone nearly six hundred thousand bucks. Is this legal? It sounds fishy as hell. I don’t go in for that kind of thing, Mr Anderson, and I’m not ever going to be as Teflon coated as Oliver . . .”
Anderson held up both hands to ward off the assault, he couldn’t stand the name. “Don’t say his name, I know the Lieutenant Colonel well, as you can imagine, but yes, this is legal. I have a signed Presidential finding that says so, and you get a copy, for the safe, at this palace you’re building, did I mention that?”
He opened the envelope, and said “there are a few people I want you to meet in here.” He produced an 8x10 photo, color, poor resolution, probably a blow up of a passport photo. “Not very good, but have you seen him before?”
Cameron looked hard. Arab, that was clear. “Nope”.
“Good. Ibrahim bin Sultan al-Otaibi, Saudi national, a real hard guy, dangerous as hell. It was his network you literally destroyed in 3 days in Paris. Current whereabouts unknown, but possibly in Germany, we think Hamburg or Berlin, maybe Cologne. Next…”
Another photo, also grainy, clearly a Saudi passport photo.
“Nope” again from Cameron.
“Good again. Khalid al-Shahrani, Saudi national also. We’re a little less sure of what he is, but we very strongly suspect it was his network in Saudi, his guys at the compound, and more importantly, his guys who are now somewhere in the United States. For sure we know he was in Afghanistan in the old days, and at least twice in 2000 and early 2001. We think he caught a flight to Sudan the morning after the firefight at the compound. No sightings since, but he’ll be back. Next…”
Another photo. This one Cameron recognized. “The little guy, from that night in Paris?”
“Correct. Ahmed Al-Kisani, Moroccan but with Syrian ancestry, hence the names. Recovered from his recent mugging in Paris, and back to being a small time hood. Nice touch by the way. We’re watching him, tapping his phones etc, but we think he’s off the net until Ibrahim resurfaces in Paris. One more…
A fourth photo, bigger guy. “The Pharoah, Paris again. Ripley and I took him down a little way up the sidewalk from the General’s second hotel the night we moved him.”
“Correct again. Salah Razick, Egyptian. Now a resident at one of our more discrete locations in Eastern Europe. He gave us quite a lot on the Paris network, actually. Nice guy as long as he’s tied up. Probably will never see the light of day again.” He gazed into the emptiness past Cameron’s head for a second or two.
The he continued, “the point is there are a lot of guys on ice, but there are some nasty characters who aren’t. All in all, as usual, the nastiest aren’t. And while none of them has ever laid eyes on you, either, you caused them all some truly serious discomfort, and they’ll be looking for payback. It will take them some time, hopefully more time to find you than for us to find them, but they’ll be looking. So…I need you to take a concealed-carry course, and start practicing and keep practicing, and I need you to carry ALL the time. And, if you ever see these first two guys, ever…” he patted the shots of Ibrahim and Khalid, “you shoot ‘em right then, two in the chest and one in the head, no questions. Because if you see them, it’s because they’ve come for you.” Anderson collected the photos and put them back in the envelope.
“Therefore, you’re not flying commercial, at least not very often, since you’re carrying, and therefore you need an airplane that gets you where I need you and quick.”
Then he brightened up. “Anyway, this is not even close to being across the line, you’ll just need a little help preparing your taxes for a few years, but we’ve got people for that, too.” Anderson looked at his watch. “Shit, time flies. I have to get moving in a few minutes, and we’re not done. Think, now, Colonel, what do you need for the business and the unit, for starters at least? We can adjust some as we go, I figure the thing’s gotta take a year to build right?”
“Two years probably, maybe more,” Cameron answered, but he was thinking about the other problem. He was silent for a minute or more, sipping the last of his Estrella, then a swig of iced tea when that was gone. Finally he said, “OK here’s what I think. I need a guy who can be the “manager” of sorts, handle bookings, service management, subcontracting for maid service, horses, stables, groundskeeping, that kind of thing. It’d be best if this was an officer, Captain maybe, Air Force or Navy, Lieutenant in the latter case, not Army if we can help it. Seal or a PJ if we have the choice, just in case we need muscle. See if you can find a guy who’s interested in this kind of thing anyway so that he likes it to begin with, send him to a good college for hotel management while we build the place. He’s also the lead guy to coordinate support inter-agency when we do—well, whatever it is you have in mind for us to do. Next, someone to cook. This guy can be enlisted, especially if he’s a Seal, Warrant Officer maybe, but come to think of it either guy can be either rank, as long as there’s one of each. Send him to chef’s school, takes about a year, I have a brother in law that’s done that. Next, a junior enlisted guy, probably Air Force but not
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