The Phoenix Affair

by Paul Clark

  *****

  “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.