The Phoenix Affair

by Paul Clark

  *****

  Dawn would not come to Virginia for another hour. A clear cold sky of deep black swept from horizon to horizon, stars burning brightly out of it, casting faint shadows. The night creatures had gone silent, the day creatures not yet moving about. It was quiet as death, only the faint rustle of the still-bare tree limbs accompanied their ghostly starlight shadows dancing on the grass.

  The screen was bright enough that it nearly spoiled the view out the window, but Jones enjoyed it anyway. He too had once been a creature of the night, and this one was perfect for stalking and killing—moonless, but with the starlight that would show the inexperienced prey moving around in what they would think was safety. The view and the memory stirred a shot of adrenaline, and he felt alive for a moment in a way that he seldom did in this headquarters job. His shoulders drooped a little, which nobody could see, and he turned from the window to read the report again.

  Ahmed Kisani’s parents ran a small grocery market outside the Spanish colony of Ceuta. The colony was a source of some friction between Spain and its Moroccan neighbor across the Strait of Gibraltar. It had been there for over four centuries now but still the Moroccan population often chafed at the border within their own, and at the affluence in the colony. Outside, the Moroccan village wrapped around the old Spanish town, and the border between wealth and poverty was striking. Despite that, it looked like the Kisanis were doing all right. There was a sister still living at home, and two brothers believed to both still be in Morocco. Looked like a dead end, but the guys in Morocco were still working.

  Ripley had done well in Paris. He noted the two phone numbers and other information that had come from the search, the taps on the two phones, even one address from the land line. The name attached to that phone account was one Mohammed Isa, but he was sure that would be a fake. The name on the cell phone account was Khalid Dourhi, probably also false. It didn’t matter. By the end of the day Paris time, perhaps tomorrow at the latest, Ripley would surely have a picture of the guy with the phones, and perhaps Mohammed-Khalid would make some interesting calls before the day was out. Meanwhile, the geeks in Intel would also be running the voice prints from the call-tapes, they might get lucky and find a match.

  He returned to Cameron’s email, still thinking through the whole package he had before him. The concept of teams of Arabs finding their way into the US was not new, of course, but this idea of guys with US passports was a little novel. Of course the Agency had thought of it, but nobody had ever really figured what, if anything, they might do about it. It was good information to have, but it wasn’t really much when you got right down to it. There had to be several thousand Saudis with US passports; without some names it would be tough to get anything moving. And, he had no idea of what their targets might be, except Cameron’s mention of the kids’ doing some small arms training. “Well, they probably all do that,” Jones thought. He was still a little irked that he’d been unable to locate Cameron on his own. The cheeky bugger was checked into no less than four hotels, and no telling which one he was really staying at. It might be all four. No matter. The new cell phone number was on Ripley’s answering machine in Paris, and once the two hooked up he’d not lose Phoenix again.

  He fired off an email to his Homeland Security liaison, including Cameron’s text after he’d sanitized out the names. He sent a copy to his FBI liaison as well, knowing that contact would send a note to Immigration, with a warning to look for an unusual influx of Saudis with US passports entering the country. Last, he sent Cameron’s information and his own synopsis of what they knew in Paris to the Intel department right there at Langley, with a request to compile a list of all Saudi holders of US passports. They’d have to get that from State, but since 911 even the intelligence people over at Foggy Bottom had learned to play ball, and they would produce. It might be a very long list, but it was a place to start. Might as well see how deep that pond was before he wrote off the possibility of catching a few fish in it.

  What they really needed, he thought as he turned again to the window, was some names. Would this Saudi General’s nephew remember any? Almost certainly. A few names would be enough to start gathering others. How to get them? It was obvious once he thought of it. The US government could not ask the Saudi government to help, for two reasons. One, the Saudi government was probably penetrated, that was why Falcon had wanted to talk to Cameron in Europe instead of in his own country. Second, even if the Saudis would help, it was unlikely they would do so quickly enough to prevent whatever Al-Qaeda had planned with these teams. In his gut, Jones was thinking that if he was running those groups, he would probably try to move them soon, just in case they’d been compromised. And with this bunch following the General in Paris, Al-Qaeda was at least a little concerned about that. No, Cameron and his pal would have to go to Saudi to get the names, talk to the nephew, maybe stir around the country a little. He didn’t think the DDO was going to like that much, but what choice would they have? Then he remembered the Boss’ email from yesterday. “He’ll love it,” Jones mumbled. “The Boss is a player, this guy Phoenix is a player. Come to think of it, I’m still a player.” His eyes switched focus to the glass pane that separated him from the silent, deadly world outside; there his own face stared back at him, and he searched it. He was not yet forty, he was as fit as he’d been in his twenties, thick brown hair and a rugged, square jaw above broad shoulders. The dark eyes stared back at him. He smiled at himself and looked past the smile to the darkness outside and the faint line of the woods two hundred yards away across the empty lawn. “Quiet as death.”