The Phoenix Affair

by Paul Clark

  *****

  Anderson sipped the excellent coffee and munched on fried bacon as he read the morning paper. That was the thing about his housekeeper. Sure, she was from Guatemala, but she could fry bacon better than his mamma and damn sure she could make coffee like a pro. “Must be that whole Juan Valdez thing,” he mused.

  The phone rang precisely at 0700; he heard his security guy answer in the study, and was up from his chair and headed that way with coffee cup in hand when he heard “For you, sir,” from the other room. Anderson ran a pretty loose ship here at home.

  The study was an enormous room, nearly forty by twenty feet, with a row of four arched windows from floor to just below the top of the ten foot wall. The walls were paneled in a rich pecan, each window was dressed with heavy draperies in deep blue velvet. The cathedral ceiling soared eighteen feet overhead, with beams that spanned the space and from which hung a series of antique flags, US, the flag of the house of Bourbon with its three fleurs de lis on a blue field, the royal flag of the house of Windsor, the Cross of Saint Andrew, and another with quartered arms that nobody but Anderson’s family would recognize. On the wall opposite the windows stood a massive fireplace, above it was a portrait of George Washington in military uniform. The remainder of the walls were covered mostly in pecan bookcases filled with books, but these spaces were punctuated by hung swords of various sizes and shapes, as well as elaborate silk carpets and the occasional oil painting, all dark colored. The floor was of pecan to match the paneling, but it was mostly covered by two enormous Persian carpets from the region of Heriz. There were two burgundy leather sofas and two chairs in front of the fire place, and at the end of the room, facing the door and the sitting area, stood a massive desk, behind and above which hung a spectacular Isfahan carpet from Iran.

  The DDO dismissed the security man with a wave and “Thanks, Chuck,” and the man left, closing the French doors behind him. Anderson picked up the phone, noted the green lights, and began.

  “Anderson, who’s on the other end?”

  “Jones, sir, and Allen is with me from Langley and Ripley, the station chief in Paris.”

  “Right, well, you guys have been busy, and I’ve got a long day, so let’s have the short version quick as you like. Who’d you take, what do you know, and where’s Phoenix?”

  Jones took it from there, talking for about eight minutes with occasional interjections by Ripley. Allen remained completely silent, and the Boss did not interrupt. When Jones finished everyone was quiet for a quarter of a minute.

  “Very good, very nice,” Anderson finally said, still mulling things over in his own mind. “Is the guy with the leg talking to anyone yet as far as we know?”

  “No sir, not as far as we know. We left him alive primarily to give the French something to work with. They may get something out of him, and hopefully we can get it from them when the time comes. He may be able to compromise more people in Paris or better yet, elsewhere in France. Same with the Egyptian, Salah. A foot soldier, but once he comes out of his drugged stupor,” at this Jones glanced critically at Ripley, “he’ll also keep them busy and may end up giving them and us something more than we have now. We also can keep tabs on the little guy Kisani for as long as we like.”

  “Good, good. Nice touch, Ripley. Now, what’s the plan with Phoenix, and when do you expect to hear from him?”

  Ripley beckoned for the phone—they could hear the boss on speaker, but only speak through the handset—“Sir, this is Ripley. Phoenix is headed for Saudi Arabia by way of Amman, Jordan. No precise timetable yet, and no clear itinerary once he gets to Saudi. I’m supposed to hear from him later this evening or perhaps tomorrow. Nobody’s had much sleep the last three days, and he’s earned some. The General, Falcon, is arranging transportation from Amman into northern Arabia, Phoenix is comfortable with that although I’m less so. However, he agreed to have Jones and Allen meet them in Amman and provide some equipment for the trip. I think they’ll accompany him into the Kingdom as well, we’re working on visas right now.”

  “What’s he plan to do in Saudi?”

  “Not real clear, but at least he wants to make sure his friends get back OK, and then perhaps talk some about what to do about the nephew that got wind of this whole plot in the first place. You got that brief, sir?”

  “Yeah, I got it and we’ve got people working on a list of Saudis with US Passports. What have you got on this guy Ibrahim?”

  “Not much yet, sir. Actually, Jones and Allen searched the guy’s apartment. We have a photo, the voice prints of course, I figure he’s dumped his cell phone by now, nothing else, but that’s a start. We’ve already sent it to the Intel guys back at Langley, they’ll know in a couple of hours whether we know him or not.”

  Anderson was still thinking. “Last question. What do you guys think of Phoenix?”

  Ripley still had the phone, but he looked at the other two, read their faces. “Sir, Ripley here. He’s a natural, like nobody I’ve ever heard of. Aggressive, smart, learns very quick. He can take care of himself.”

  “OK, good. You guys have done well. When you talk to Phoenix today or tomorrow, pass my compliments, wish him good hunting. Jones, you and Allen make sure that boy keeps his skin and his head and the rest of his body parts where the good Lord put them. Got it?”

  Ripley said, “Got it, sir” for all of them, and the line went dead.

  Anderson sat at the desk, his gaze migrating from the phone to the carpets, then the whole room, which made him feel pretty good. He rocked back in the chair and risked a moment of self-congratulation on his Phoenix project, not of course for the first time in the last week. “Well”, he said aloud to the books on his left, “let’s see just where he runs this thing and what he stumbles into next.” He made a mental note to mention to the DCI, and maybe the President, that he had an agent loose in England, just in case.

  XVII. London

  Just after seven p.m. London time, the Al-Auda family and Paul Cameron met in the lobby of the Hilton Green Park Hotel, just a block north of Piccadilly Circus on the edge of the chic Mayfair district. The women were quiet, the two men and Mohammed greeted each other with hugs and the ritual kisses on each cheek. The boy seemed to Cameron to have come out of his rebellious indignation, but there was still something dangerous behind the eyes. He would bear watching still. The little boy Aziz held his father’s hand and gazed around open-mouthed, still apparently amazed at the last several days of his life.

  They left the lobby through the revolving door and walked north along the wide sidewalk, Cameron and the General leading with Aziz between them, then the ladies, and Mohammed brought up the rear. It was only a short block to Curzon Street, a turn of the corner, and then a few yards for the turn into Shepherd’s Market. Once there they took three tables upstairs at the King’s Arms, overlooking the square below.

  It had been another long day. The uneventful flight across the Channel ended with a textbook landing at Luton airport outside London. Uneventful, except it completely restored the spirits of the little family, as tousled as they were by having to tumble out of two different hotels in two nights, hunted by fiends intent on their demise. The women had chattered excitedly all the way, pointing out the windows and giggling, all traces of fear gone, lost in the vistas of the clear day. Puffy cumulous clouds like widely-spaced balls of cotton had been both below and above them during the crossing, but they could see the cliffs of Dover from the French coast, and they’d watched and counted the ferry boats and other craft on the water. The airplane had been flawless, of course, Cameron had taken just a short nap, but it had been worth it. The chance to fly had visibly taken the strain out of General Fahd.

  From the airport they’d booked a limo service into town around noon, so they were spared much of the notorious London traffic. Still, it was a bright Spring day, and the whole family had remained glued to the windows during the drive. Fahd had finally given in to slee
p. Cameron himself chose the hotel—he’d stayed there only a year earlier when he’d come to London to speak at an Air Power conference—and he and the al-Auda parted company there. Cameron went round the corner for lunch and an internet café at a Kinkos that he knew of, and then to bed for a good long nap.

  He had, of course, also taken the opportunity on his lunch jaunt to walk past the Saudi Embassy, which was just one block beyond the turnoff to Shepherd’s Market in a magnificent old marble-clad Georgian mansion. It sat there, quiet as he remembered it, not much traffic on the street around it, no cars in the wide loop of drive that wound from one gate to the other in front of the tall façade of the building. The Kinko’s was three blocks east of the Embassy on the same side of the street. He’d sent a note to his wife, sidestepping how and why he’d come to London with a vague reference to “another opportunity for the Air Force”. He felt guilty about that, but told himself he’d clear it all up on the beach in Grand Cayman in a few weeks once this mess was well and truly sorted out.

  He’d also called Ripley in Paris to report their safe arrival. Ripley’d passed on the DDO’s admonition about his body parts, which got a laugh from all concerned.

  Now Cameron looked through the old windows of the Arms at the yuppy crowd in the twilight square outside. To his right there was another Pub, the crowd spilled out onto the cobbled walk where young professional men and women flirted over their happy hour drinks. Across the square there was a Turkish restaurant, he’d eaten there last time he was here, and he could see that crowd was a little less British looking, but not much, and still upscale. On his left were the bakery and an ice cream parlor, mostly empty at this hour. He knew but could not see that further along on his side of the square to his left there was an Italian café with excellent pizza and pasta. The center of the square was in constant motion with trendy people going to and from dinner, drinks, or headed for their homes elsewhere in Mayfair.

  The waitress arrived with a broad, flirtatious smile for Cameron and two large glasses of Pepsi, and Fahd raised his in a toast and said in English “May God give you life, Abu-Sean, and thank you for this excellent day, my friend.”

  “God gives you life, Abu-Mohammed,” Cameron replied automatically in Arabic, raising his own glass. “Nothing quite like flying your own airplane to put the world back into perspective is there, General?”

  “No, there is not, Paul, there is certainly not. You surprise me again, however, as I mentioned on the flight. You say you’ve been doing a lot of this sort of thing at home?”

  Cameron grinned and set the glass down. “Yeah. As I started to tell you before things got busy, about a year and a half ago we decided to buy an airplane. Ours is not as big as the Saratoga we flew today, in fact it’s a Mooney and quite a bit smaller. But it goes twenty knots faster on about half the fuel per hour, and it’s big enough for me, Elizabeth and the kids. I’ve been flying it quite a bit on Air Force trips around the Eastern US, and we’ve used it for family vacations the past two summers.”

  Fahd thought for a minute, looking out at the square himself. “But you said it’s an old airplane, Paul? Doesn’t your wife, how shall I say, worry about that a little?”

  Cameron laughed, thinking of how it’d taken Elizabeth a while to get used to the Mooney. “Well, I’m not sure it’s the age, Fahd, but it did take her a bit of time to get comfortable in the thing. It was built in 1978, so it’s 33 years old, but it has all new electronics, a big GPS like the one we had in that Saratoga we flew today, and an engine that was overhauled just seven years ago with thirteen years or so left to fly. It’s a good, solid machine. Sometime in the next couple of years I hope to have it re-painted and get the interior re-covered in a nice leather, that’ll make it almost like new. In any case, it’s a classic and they say these little airplanes last forever. There are plenty of them still flying that were built all the way back in the 50’s, believe it or not!”

  “Well, that is amazing, and may God protect you and your family, my dear friend. Now, let’s have something to eat!” He waived at the waitress and they ordered the English classic roast beef dinner for all three tables, Miriam and Fadia at one and Mohammed and Aziz at the third.

  As they ate they talked about old times, and recent times. At one point Cameron asked how their shopping had gone that afternoon, and Fahd put down his fork, mumbled something in Arabic, and then made a face and gesture to indicate that he was much poorer today than he’d been yesterday. For the sake of the women and the boys, they did not talk about what had happened at the Hotel De Vue Saule the night before.

  When they pushed back from the table Fahd began the business for the night.

  “Paul, we need to talk about tomorrow, and then the day after that. I need to firm up the plan for our transport on the Amman end, and it will take at least a day to get it in place.”

  “Yes, I know. How do you want to handle tomorrow?”

  “I think we should start early. The Embassy is just there,” Fahd gestured, and then his face showed recognition, “but I’m sure you knew that, now that I think of it. By God, you are like a jinn, Paul. Anyway, I believe they will be open by nine-thirty, I would like to be there at that time. I can take your passport with me to get a visa put into it.”

  “You can do that without me there? What about the family’s documents?” Cameron looked incredulous.

  “It’s not a problem,” the General shrugged. “In Saudi Arabia, it means a great deal to be an Air Force Brigadier. I’ll march right in, make my introductions, and the consular staff will be more than happy to put a visa in your passport on my recommendation. As to the family, there is no need for any of us to do anything new—we can use our own passports to leave England, our trouble was with France, was it not?”

  Cameron thought and then his face showed recognition. “Of course, not sure why I didn’t think of that. May I suggest that I watch the embassy for a while before you come, Fahd, just in case? I’d hate for anything unlucky to happen at this point?”

  “That’s fine Paul, fine. Suppose you and I meet for breakfast, at about seven? We can go to that little place on the corner, just at the turning into this charming little square. It has a window that looks out onto the street with a likely view of the embassy. When the time comes I can walk down the street, and you can watch me go to make sure I don’t get into any trouble. Will that work?”

  “It’ll work, General, it’ll work just fine.” Cameron looked at his watch, time had gone quickly and it was nearing nine o’clock. He signaled the waitress to bring the check, and Fahd produced his wallet with a flourish.

  “This one is mine, Colonel, I insist. Gift of the Kingdom if you need an excuse.”

  “I don’t,” Cameron surrendered. “I’m tired, I imagine they are too,” he waved at the other tables, “the thrill of the flight has to be wearing off by now and nobody’s had much sleep for the last three nights.”

  Fahd yawned. “I am too, and yes, we all are. It’s bed for all of us. You are not up to anything strange still tonight are you, Paul? If you are, I insist on coming along!”

  “No, no, no, Abu-Mohammed,” Cameron was waving both hands. “No more spy games for me. I need sleep, ten hours of sleep with no interruptions, and if we hurry I may just get it before our breakfast tomorrow. How will we join up with our transport in Amman?”

  “I almost forgot about that. When we’re done at the embassy, we’ll use the concierge at the Hilton to book flights, something will be available I’m sure. Once we have that information, I have only to make a call to al-Ha’il and things will get moving pretty quickly. It’ll take them a day to get to Amman, another for us to make the return trip.”

  “Hmmm. Fahd, can you ask them to come with room for two more? I sort of asked for some “help” to accompany us from Paris, the guys who helped us with, uhh, things there. I think it’d be a good idea. They’re handling their own visas and stuff like that.”

/>   “It’ll mean another vehicle, probably, but maybe not. Yes, Paul, we can handle that. Their visas will be correct, though? I don’t know for sure what influence we’ll have at the border crossing, and you know how our immigration police are about visas.”

  “They’ll be correct, Fahd. I suspect our Embassy in Paris worked it out today, tomorrow at the latest.”

  “Fine then, it will be done,” the General declared, as if it was already so.

  The waitress returned, Fahd signed, and they left. Turning right onto Curzon street Cameron glanced at the small bistro where they would breakfast, at present stuffed with people eating elegant dinners by candlelight. There was a good view of the front of the embassy compound a block to the West, and only one side street in between, running North. “Queen Street,” he read. They turned right again and walked back down Half Moon Street to the Hilton and sleep.