by Paul Clark
*****
Across the street and half a block west Ahmed Al-Kisani appeared to be staring through the front window of a trendy suit shop. It was a bright day, the interior of the shop was dimly lit, and the plate glass of the window made an excellent mirror in which to watch the café into which the two men had gone. He did not know either man, not even the names, but had been told to follow this one and report on his movements. He’d had a long boring day—first, the long wait in front of this man’s hotel in St. Germaine, then the long walk to a metro station that was unnecessary, then almost losing the man on the metro itself, and then the brisk walk from the Arc de Triomphe station. “At least the last was downhill,” he thought, “but I wish there was somewhere I could sit down, and I have not prayed since dawn, God help me.” He glanced in his mirror at the door of the café, then turned slightly to look in another part of the window for a moment. A cold breeze blew downhill from the Arch as a cloud scudded across the sun, and Ahmed turned up the collar of his wool car coat and dug his hands deep into the pockets.
Kisani was a small man, which never ceased to bother him. He tried to stand and walk just a little on his toes most of the time as this put him just a shade over five feet six inches tall. He was thin as well, and while he was trim and fit and never likely to be fat like many of the soft Arabs, he would never be muscular or powerful. This also bothered him. His greatest asset, and that of which he was most proud, was the light-skinned, mostly European-looking face that his parents attributed to a great grandfather who had been a Spaniard. Nobody ever talked much about the great grandmother, and he did not ask. What mattered to him now was that he could speak French well, and in most places he could pass for a Frenchman. “Best to be one who blends in if you are going to do the work of God” he remembered being told by his mentor in Morocco.
As far as his parents knew, Ahmed was in France studying business at a small occupational school. It was all they could afford, but the family had great hopes for him. They sent him a small allowance each month to help cover his expenses, and of course they paid his tuition. For the rest of his upkeep he was required to work. For this purpose he’d concocted a job cataloguing books at a suburban Parisian library—an honorable job, not manual labor or restaurant service, but something respectable and learned. Ahmed’s father was very proud and told all the neighbors in the hometown outside of Ceuta.
Ahmed made far more money than his father imagined, however, and this had nothing whatever to do with libraries. He’d met a new friend his first week in town, in the small restaurant next to the cheap hotel where he’d taken a room and still lived. An unusual man, Ibrahim. “Unusual” was the word that came to Ahmed’s mind every time he saw or thought of Ibrahim. Tall, stout for an Arab, lean and strong looking. Strong Arab features, the hawkish nose, wavy black hair and close cropped stubble of a beard, and eyes that seemed to be completely black. It was the eyes that were unusual, and the way he moved. The eyes seemed to be on fire, even though black as coal, and yet somehow they were cold, distant, detached. Ibrahim moved like the tigers Ahmed had seen at the Paris zoo. Fluid, but with purpose, soundless, but firm. There was power in the man, that much Ahmed could see and appreciate. Ibrahim was how Ahmed pictured himself. He had agreed instantly to the proposal that he work for Ibrahim, “to do errands I cannot do, go places I cannot go, and hide in plain sight as I cannot, my friend” Ibrahim had said. And so, Ahmed was a surveillance man working for a group he believed to be associated with Al-Qaeda, although he was not certain of this. Ibrahim had never given a name to his “company,” and Ahmed did not ask. He was afraid to. He hoped it was Al-Qaeda—it would be good to be working in company with the great ones.
He turned again to look at the sleek English shoes to his left, the ones he was beginning to think he might come back and buy tomorrow. Just then a man came out of the café, and Ahmed stiffened. It was the man who had come after his target. “What does he look like?” Ahmed asked himself? “Arab? Not sure. A nice suit, rich guy walk.” Ahmed divided his time between watching Majid walk West toward the Arch and the door to the café. He saw Majid reach the corner and turn hard to the right, in the direction he knew the Saudi Embassy lay. “So, perhaps this guy works at the embassy, and perhaps this other guy has met him?” He made a mental note to report this theory to Ibrahim.
Ahmed walked a few steps to the east to stare at another shop’s window, and tried to think of the warmth of his home south of Gibraltar. “God curse this cold” he thought. Then he saw his target emerge from the café moving fast to the east. “At least he’s going downhill again, thanks be to God,” and Ahmed set off to follow, on his own side of the street, staying back a hundred paces and glancing in an occasional shop window as he passed. The man did not seem to be looking for a follower. “Good,” thought Ahmed, “no games.”
General Fahd had no idea he was being followed, but made his way at his usual brisk pace toward the Metro station. Fahd was fit for a man of fifty years, and proud of it. He came from good Bedouin stock, hard men and beautiful women, tall for Arabs and usually thin rather than paunchy. Fahd kept in shape on purpose to keep up with the younger fighter pilots he led. Too many of them could not pull the G’s they needed to be really good, but Fahd could, and that was why he’d risen so far and so fast. He wore glasses now most of the time, and he was bald on top. Still, he was a handsome man, and big enough, and with his very business-like pace the crowd instinctively made way for him.
He reached the Metro and plunged down the stairs, and across the Champs Elyse Ahmed panicked. The Moroccan ran hard for the Metro entrance a hundred paces ahead on his own side. “By the grace of God, let him have to stop to buy a ticket” was all he could hope if he wanted to catch up before the man disappeared down an escalator in the station and caught a train to who-knew-where.
At full speed, Ahmed reached the bottom of the stairs and clipped the wall with his left shoulder as he turned the corner to enter the station, hoping to see the man at a ticket machine or at least just going through a turnstile. Instead, what he saw was a deep gray blur, and then a heavy impact with something that felt too solid, and then he was down on his back. He’d run into someone. Still panicked, he muttered “excuse me” in Arabic as he tried to get up and see around the big coat into the station, looking for his quarry. “Excuse me” he said again, this time in French, and then he saw—he’d run into the man he was following.
General Fahd helped the little man up, ignoring the Arabic words and replying in easy French. “Excuse me, sir, it was my fault entirely. Are you hurt? Can I help in any way?” He noted a look of panic on the man’s face, indecision and—something else? Desperation? “Caught at something you wished not to be caught at, my little friend?” he thought. He kept up a look of friendly, and he hoped, very French concern and waited for the man to say something else.
“No, no monsieur, it was my fault” Ahmed finally spat in French. “I must catch the next train, monsieur, so sorry,” and turning, he dug in his pocket for his Metro pass and dashed through the nearest turnstile.
Fahd, tossed a “good day” after the little man, watched long enough to see him get on an escalator down to the trains, and for 10 other passengers to head down behind him, then climbed the stairs to the street. “Enough time?” he wondered. Reaching the street, he turned downhill and saw the internet café only a hundred paces or so away. “Enough” he decided, and ran in that direction. “The little bastard will be on the escalator for at least half a minute, then another half to get back up: I can make it.” He slowed just before the door and stepped inside.
It was a space about twenty feet wide and thirty deep. Close to the storefront the first table ran from just to the right of the door all the way to the wall, and three people sat at computers with their backs to the street. The rest of the place was similar, but in the middle of the space the tables were grouped in a square, two machines on a table, abo
ut half occupied. “No good” he thought. The counter and attendant were near the back, so he walked quickly in that direction. “I need to use a machine for a while” he said in French.
“Of course, monsieur” said the pretty girl. “Pick whichever one you like, it’s three Euros every ten minutes, here is your ticket, bring it back to me when you’ve finished.”
“Thank you, mademoiselle,” Fahd said, and went for the empty machine farthest from the door, where he could sit with his back to the wall. He removed his overcoat and suit coat, loosened his tie, and rolled up his sleeves. He removed his glasses, and sat, slumping down behind the monitor to watch and wait.
Right about on schedule, the little man ran past the window without looking inside. “So, you were following me, little man?” Fahd thought. He was angry. Who would follow me? What do they know? How did they find me here? He thought for a moment. “The embassy? No, only Majid knows I’m here, this guy was waiting for me. Could it be Majid? No, he is not the type. Someone else then. He did not like what that meant. This was getting dangerous, and he was exposed. He thought of his family back at the hotel and a shiver went through him. “Madmen” he thought. “Well, now I am here, I had best do what I came for. If he’s following me, no doubt I’ll find the little man at my hotel when I return there.”
A hundred yards down the street Ahmed stopped running, breathing heavily. “I was out of sight of him for, what, two minutes?” he thought. He could be anywhere. Maybe he caught a cab? He considered stopping in, or peering in, all the shops between where he now stood and the Metro stairs, but dismissed it. “If I find him anywhere, he will recognize me, and if he’s not a complete fool he will wonder how I came to be here so quickly after running so fast to catch a train. Too obvious. Better to go and wait back at his hotel, perhaps he will come back there, and go back out again today or tonight before I go home to see Ibrahim.” He shivered despite his run and turned dejectedly down the street toward the great mass of the Louvre.