by Paul Clark
*****
The next morning could not have been more unlike the day before. The high, clear sky had been replaced by a steel-gray sheet that seemed to hang just above the rooftops. Heavy mist fell steadily out of it, and a remarkably cold breeze blew out of the north. An awful day for April, but very English.
Colonel Cameron woke before his alarm, feeling refreshed and rested for the first time since he’d crossed the Atlantic. “Whenever that was,” he mumbled, smiling to himself. In thirty minutes he’d done two hundred pushups and six hundred abdominal crunches. Thirty minutes after that, precisely at seven, he met Fahd in the hotel lobby. They made the short walk to Shepherd’s Market in silence, each huddled against the cold and the wet in a coat that was not made for the rain.
But the little restaurant was warm and dry, and the manager was a wonderful, motherly Italian woman who clearly lived for her work. They were the first of the morning, she seated them by the window where they could watch the traffic, and put steaming, thick coffee in front of them in less than a minute. The day was getting better even if the weather looked like the Great Flood would return that very day, forty days, forty nights, the whole deal.
It was at this point that Cameron began to wonder what Fahd would have for breakfast. He himself was practically slavering for a “proper English breakfast,” but he’d felt a sudden pang of guilt at the notion of eating thick rashers of bacon and sausages with eggs with his very Muslim friend right across the small table. The wet and cold suddenly felt like it was creeping under the door and into his bones as the weight of this disappointment started to sink in. He picked up the menu, began to look for plain eggs, oatmeal, or something suitable.
“Proper English breakfast, I hope abu-Sean,” Fahd said, in high good humor as he looked over his own menu. “You know, I was here for pilot training, up in the English countryside up North? Those British lieutenants, amazing thing they’re not all dead from heart disease or hardening of the arteries or whatever it is that you people get from eating too much pork. Oh, not you, Paul, of course. Much too fit for that. Me, I’m going to have eggs, scrambled, some bread if they have some of that good, solid English stuff, or Italian looks more like, it, eh? Orange juice. I find they usually squeeze it fresh here, Paul. . . .What?”
“Nothing, abu-Mohammed, nothing at all. Mashallah.” Cameron grinned, the lines at his eyes smiling with the rest of his face and the sparkle keen in the steel-blue eyes. “By the Grace of Almighty God, abu-Mohammed, a proper English breakfast it is for me, and the orange juice, too.” He waved at the matronly Italian woman and ordered for the two of them.
Fahd was a little confused, but he could see his friend was happy. “Ah, well, yes, never mind,” he said. “By the Grace of God it is. I gather you slept well Paul?”
“Very well indeed, my friend. This is excellent coffee. And you? And the family? How is Mohammed coming along?”
“Fine, fine, they slept like camels, all of them, and Mohammed seems to have brightened up along with them. Perhaps Paris did not agree with them. Paul, I’ve been thinking. How much are these airplanes you’re flying? Say, one like what we flew, for six people? I think I may check and see if one can fly them in the Kingdom.”
“You’re not serious?” Cameron said, surprised. “You think they liked it that much?”
“Them?” Fahd looked stupefied. “Me! I loved it. Well, sure, they loved it too. You see what it did for all of them! You know I’m stationed in Dhahran, and it’s a long drive, hot, dusty, from there to al-Ha’il, and we do it often. Think of just flying there in, what, two hours, three, instead of eight or nine on the road? Now that’s freedom, Paul. Really, what do you think it would cost?”
The breakfast came, Cameron unconsciously sawed off a huge chunk of the thick bacon and began to munch, thinking. He sipped coffee, went for the eggs, came out of the reverie, looked at his friend. “For a Saratoga, probably a hundred and fifty thousand dollars for a late seventies airplane. For a new one, not that you’re thinking of that, close to five hundred thousand I would think.”
“So little?” Fahd said, drawing a quizzical look from Cameron. “What?” Fahd asked for the second time that morning. “Oh, that. Paul, it’s a matter of what they call ‘family money’ here in England. You have something similar in the States. The Al-Auda are a very old family in Arabia, older than the Al-Saud really, we go back to before the time of the Prophet, peace be upon him. We aren’t as rich as the Al-Saud, nor the Al-Rashid, they’re definitely the second family of the Kingdom. And of course there’s the bin-Laden’s; I think in the States they would be “new money.” There are others, I suppose. Who keeps track of such things? Anyway, half a million only? Hmmm.” He spread butter on his bread, heaped egg on top, and took an enormous bite.
Thus they set upon their breakfasts with the heartiness of two good sized men who had had a tough three days without enough sleep or good food. At some point Cameron remembered there was a good reason for this breakfast and he began watching the foot traffic pick up out on Curzon Street. For an hour after breakfast he saw nothing at all unusual, first sparse and then steadier streams of very English looking men and women walking to work or to their morning shopping. There was nothing at all happening down by the embassy, everything quiet, nothing to spark interest at all. The woman of the house kept the coffee full and hot. Outside it remained a dim, dull grey, the mist alternately lightening for a time and then increasing to a steady, heavy drizzle.
By nine they’d pretty much exhausted the subject of light airplanes, including the possibilities of parking, servicing, and maintaining one in the Kingdom. But neither knew if any of it was possible or even legal, it was all speculation, and so they moved on to more urgent matters in time.
“Fahd, have you thought much about what we can do once we get to Al-Ha’il?” Cameron asked at length.
“I’ve been thinking about that a little, but not a great deal,” he motioned with his coffee cup for another refill. “At a minimum, I want to talk with my nephew and see what he can tell us about the people he met in the desert. I’ve decided I’m glad your two, how shall I call them? “Colleagues” perhaps?” Well anyway, that it’s good that they’re coming. I think we can use the professional help, no offense, Paul.”
“None taken. I’m just a poor, dumb fighter pilot like any other,” followed by the smile lines at the corners of his eyes. “I was thinking along the same lines in any case. We let the professionals talk to your nephew, we debrief him as it were, and maybe the guys can feed anything they get back to Langley, get some analysis in return, maybe that points us to what we do next in Saudi, if anything? Or maybe it points to other questions and more information from your nephew. Or maybe everything just goes back to normal; maybe these guys are spooked and will leave you alone.”
“It’s not much of a plan, is it Paul?”
“Not as much as I’d like, I guess, no. At least we have you back in a safe spot, although I’m not sure how long you can stay there.” This drew a look that was neither hopeful nor despondent, but he knew Fahd would have to head back to Dhahran to run the base in a relatively short time, a month at most. “Still, my friend,” he said, brightening, “I have a gut feeling something will happen once we get you home that will point us in the right direction to go next. For now, I think we just play it as it comes.”
“I agree,” Fahd said after a short pause. Brightening himself, he glanced at his Swiss watch. “And now, I think we should begin. It’s nine-fifteen. Let me settle the bill, Paul, and I’ll make sure this lovely woman keeps you in coffee, may God bless her forever. A breakfast like that really sets you up, don’t you find, Colonel?”
Fahd was standing now and sorting through Pound notes. Cameron admired his resilience, his spirit, and he could see in the face above him the determination and confidence that seemed to be born into every fighter pilot he’d ever known. “Fahd might seem like just
a mild-mannered Saudi,” he said to himself,” but I’ll bet he flies like a tiger and I’ll bet he’d be hell in a fight on mother earth if it came to it.” He’d always liked Fahd, it was obvious why. Aloud he added, “it does that, General. You have your cell phone? Good. Take a look down that street for me as you walk past, on this side of Curzon at first, please, and if you see anyone or anything that doesn’t look right, get quickly indoors. Either back here or into the embassy, whichever is faster as you see it if it happens. Call me on that,” he indicated the phone, “before you come outside on your way back, please.”
“Right, Paul. I imagine this will take thirty minutes, maybe a little more if someone’s still asleep. I’ll call just after ten I should think.”
They shook hands and Fahd left. Cameron moved his coffee to the other side of the table and changed chairs so he could easily look West. He really didn’t expect to see anything happen, there should be nobody who knew they were here—after all, they could and might be anywhere, if they’d left Paris at all. There was no way the opposition could know that in any case. He was being overly cautious, he thought, but he was trying to keep his head in the game, and he figured he could use the practice. Besides, there was the slightest nagging of something deep in his head, like a single neuron firing a warning shot, inaudible in all the noise of the rest of his brain but adding to it in a way that seemed to stand out just a little.
He saw Fahd walk directly away from him along the sidewalk on the South side of Curzon Street. He came abreast of the side street, Queen, that ran only North from here, and he saw the head turn and look that way for a long stare, and then he just continued walking, finally looking back to his front. Twenty yards or so further on he moved between the row of cars parked at the curb and was lost from sight for a moment. He re-appeared and ran across at an easy trot at a break in the light traffic. Fahd stopped at the closed gate, and Cameron could barely see him working what must be an intercom box to announce himself and gain entrance.
That had not yet happened when something else did. The fence line around the Embassy compound ran what looked like fifty meters East of where Fahd stood, then there was another Victorian-era house, not as large, and then the corner of Queen Street. A man appeared at the corner of Queen and Curzon, holding what looked like a cell phone to his head, but looking directly at Fahd, who was too busy with the intercom to look around. Even in the dim grey morning light, despite the mist and distance and the man’s stocking cap, Cameron could guess that his hair was black, his skin browned by a desert somewhere. Arab.
“Shit,” he hissed under his breath. He calculated and then debated the distances, the possible courses of action, their likely outcomes, un-intended consequences, cleanup. None of it was pretty. He was almost out of his chair but sat back down. The man moved further out onto the sidewalk, held up his phone, and obviously took a picture of Fahd. It took another thirty seconds and Fahd was inside the gate and moving fast across the drive, the front door opened and he disappeared inside without looking back. The watcher put his phone back to his ear and walked back north on Queen Street out of Cameron’s sight.
Cameron took a sip of his coffee and sat back in the chair, his eyes focused a long way off, his breathing deep, slow, and controlled. After just a few seconds he got up, reached to the chair across the table and the inside pocket of his coat. Cell phone in hand, he returned to his chair and slowly dialed a number from memory, waiting while it rang.
“What’s up in Jolly old England, Colonel?” Ripley’s voice came over the line, crystal clear from Paris. “I suppose you slept in and have called to gloat over the English breakfast you’ve just had? Rolling in sausages and bacon, I’ll bet, and me up at the crack of dawn this morning with only a cheesy French croissant?”
“Very funny,” Cameron replied, “but you are correct, son. I forget how good English bacon is, but it’s probably too rich and fatty for a kid like you.” This brought a chuckle. “How are things there?”
“Interesting, but not too much so. The FBI guy here and the Regional Security Officer had a call today from the FNP about our caper night before last, wanted to know if we had anything to do with it. They sent a guy over to talk to them here, we got a picture, one Renee LaPlante, FNP. Jones and Allen marked him as the guy who picked them up at the airport two nights ago. We figure he’s probably the guy you avoided when you came in as well. Anyway, he’s pretty sharp, you were right about that. Eyes all over the place, I cold almost see him building a catalog in his head as he looked around the Embassy. I’ll bet he has a photographic memory. He’s got quite a reputation around town, too, A-list player according to our FBI liaison. The French are offering to share what they have on the corpses, and of course on the big guy and the guy with the knee. By the way, he’s doing fine, but he’ll need a peg leg if he ever sees the light of day again.”
“Great. You think that’s likely? That he sees the light of day again, I mean?”
“Depends, but I doubt it. The French have a somewhat, uhhh, “liberal” attitude toward this kind of thing when it happens on the home turf. They get a bad rap on toughness on account of the unfortunate problem of surrendering to the Germans twice last century, but they can be pretty nasty bastards when it comes to it and they have absolutely no rules, none, on these matters. I think the guy’s history when they’re done with him.”
“Good riddance. He shoulda known when he signed up. Listen, Patrick, I have a problem here.”
“What, again?” the other side, chuckling.
“No, a real problem.” Cameron explained quickly, trying to keep his voice low. “I think I need a little backup, at least for cleanup. Can you get the Agency guys in London on with us, three-way?”
Alert now and moving fast, Ripley said, “Right, Boss, wait one.” There was a soft click and Cameron was on hold. He turned to check the restaurant, everyone else had left and the owner was busy back in the kitchen somewhere.
It was a long hold, fully five minutes, then Ripley was back on.
“Colonel, I have London Station on the hook, I’ve given them a brief outline of who and what you are, but not your mission or name. Phoenix will do. When I bring them on, tell them what you need and when and where. I’ll interrupt if I think you need to, ahh, shut up. OK?”
“Yep, let’s go.” There was a series of clicks, and Ripley said, “London, you on?”
“Yes, we’re on, this is Johnson.”
“I’ll bet,” Cameron chimed in, and everyone laughed. “OK guys, listen up. I’m in a café in Shepherds Market, just down from the Saudi Embassy. A guy I’m with just went in to get a visa for me, and there’s this guy a block away, Arab, on Queen Street, who pops out, takes pictures with a cell phone for nearly a minute, then pops back out of my sight. I’d like for those pictures to not get where he wants to send them, so I need to move fast.”
“What do you want to do?” it was Johnson.
“Take him down,” Cameron said simply. “I’ll take him, but I need you guys to show up right away so I can stash him. Can you do it?”
There was a low whistle over the 3-way line, and Johnson said, “Pretty risky move in London. We’re tight with MI-5, but this is not exactly according to the arrangement we have worked out with them. Might cause a bit of a stink. I don’t know . . .”
“Phoenix works for the DDO, right out of Langley,” Ripley cut him off in mid-sentence. “I was on the line with Himself this morning, and he told me directly that Phoenix gets what Phoenix wants, or heads roll. I’ll vouch for him, he’ll take the guy down nice and clean. Now, can you guys be there to pick up the pieces?”
“If you say so. Do we get to keep the guy?” asked Johnson.
“You keep him,” Ripley said, “share with MI-5, should be no problem, and I get everything raw here in Paris, hourly, as you work him over. That way I can support Phoenix as he moves. Agreed?”
“Agreed. Phoenix, when and wh
ere?”
Cameron checked his watch, it was a quarter to ten. He said, “Wait just a minute.” He got up, walked to the café’s counter, and plucked a tourist map from a rack sitting near the end. With the map spread on the table as he checked the corner of Queen Street again, he saw an elbow sticking around the corner, but nothing more. Hyde Park was four blocks West, which might be perfect, but he’d never been there. It could be narrow trails lined by high hedges, perfect, or it might be wide open. No way to tell, too risky, and he could not name a place for the cavalry to meet him. Green Park was a block South of course, but he’d have to go past their hotel before taking the guy, and he knew Green Park well enough to know it was too open anyway. That left the street, but where? He looked up again at Queen. He could see about ten yards of this side of the Victorian house on the corner, no idea what lay across the street where the bad guy presumably stood, no idea what else might be there. Time was wasting, but then he thought, “No, it isn’t really,” and he said, “Johnson, can you get a van, to Queen street, about halfway between Curzon and . . .” he traced his finger on the map, “Charles Street. Be on the East side of the street, preferably with the side of the van facing a blank wall of a building, not someone’s front door or windows if you can. What color and make of van, Johnson?”
“We can be there in fifteen or twenty minutes,” the man replied. “Dark green Ford van, we’ll find a spot. Are you armed, Phoenix?”
“No, but that won’t be a problem,” Cameron said. If there had been anyone in the room, they’d have seen a dark look on his face, a cold, almost reptilian gleam in the steel blue eyes. “You guys have a cell phone, I’ll call you to make sure everything’s ready?”
They exchanged numbers, Cameron thanked Ripley, and they rang off. He glanced again at the elbow at the corner of Queen, hadn’t moved. He stowed his phone and walked to the counter, where called for the waitress back in the kitchen and asked for a large glass of grapefruit juice.
The juice came and he alternately studied the map and watched the corner and the Embassy. At ten after ten, his phone rang and he answered, “Fahd, how good to hear from you. Are you finished?”
“Yes, Paul, it’s done, and praise be to God. I’m just coming out and back to the café. Is there any coffee left?”
“Plenty, my friend, but don’t come just yet. We, err, have a small problem.” He explained quickly.
“In the name of God, who are these damned people? They’re really starting to piss me off.” Fahd said quietly. An embassy clerk sat at a reception desk only ten feet away in the hall. “What should we do, Abu-Sean? I want a piece of these people.”
“Eventually, Abu-Mohammed, but not this time I think. Here’s the plan.” And he told him.