The Phoenix Affair

by Paul Clark

  *****

  History has washed over and around Amman and the little kingdom that is now Jordan since at least 4000 years before the “Common Era”. In around 1300 B.C.E, the Ammonites had their kingdom, until about 600 B.C.E., with the city of Rabbath Ammon as their capital. They were a Semitic people, who had much commerce of one kind or another with the early Hebrew Kingdom. One of the sons of King Solomon is said to have had an Ammonite mother, which is the more pleasant kind of commerce; but the two kingdoms also often fought. By about 270 B.C.E. the area was conquered by the Ptolemy’s and the city was renamed Philadelphia. Around a century and a half later it fell into Roman hands, and by 324 of the Common Era , Philadelphia was the seat of a Christian Bishopric of the Byzantine Empire. In 635 C.E. the rapidly advancing Arab Muslim armies conquered the area, but by about 1300 C.E. there was no need for a large city at the site, so close to Damascus, Baghdad, and Jerusalem, and the place became all but deserted. The Ottoman Turks settled some Circassians there in 1878, but this was only a small village. Not until the modern Kingdom of Trans-Jordan was established from the spoils of WWI did Amman really come back into vibrant growth. That vibrancy has of course not erased nearly six thousand years of history: in Amman one finds the remains of a Roman amphitheater and those of Greek temples and ruined palaces of many ancient civilizations alongside the bustling modernity of a major national capital.

  Queen Alia International Airport is one modern jewel located about twenty-five kilometers south of downtown Amman. Over forty airlines transship more than five million passengers a year, a multi-variate stew of peoples from all over the world making the eons-old trek across the route that has served trade with the Far East for as long as history remembers.

  On this Friday evening it was no different. For reasons that baffle the Western traveler on every such occasion, several international flights from Europe all seem to be scheduled to arrive at nearly the same time. This introduces a mass confusion of baggage, customs and immigration queues, taxi shortages, and utter mayhem conducted in a mixture of Arabic, English, German, and even French. This is both good and bad. It is of course frustrating for the honest traveler, which is not so good but cannot be helped. It is good, however, if the traveler is not so honest, and better still if he has truly sinister intent. This precise situation had been much too common in Amman since the middle 1990s. As a result, there was always a wide array of watchers at the airport, some working for Jordanian police and intelligence services, and others working on the opposite side of the law. The latter might be there to spot potential targets or to collect fellow Brothers or smugglers of one kind or another bound for Iraq or elsewhere. The hunters and the hunted were nearly always here, in nearly equal numbers. Precisely who was who depended solely on one’s point of view.

  And so, several sets of eyes noticed the family that came off British Airways flight 6337 from London just after eight-thirty p.m. local time. The official watchers noted the faces and the time; one of them sidled over to an immigration clerk and whispered instructions to make copies of the obviously Arab passports he suspected would be Saudi. As he stepped away to resume his place he noticed that the man walked like a soldier: back straight, head up, eyes roaming the hall. He was light skinned for a Saudi, but many from the North of the Kingdom would be that way. He decided to keep an eye on this group and follow them at least out to the ground transportation area, just to see if anything happened there. Returning to the crowd mingling near the baggage claim area he noted that most of the passengers looked very British, nothing remarkable about them at all.

  Another watcher was already making a phone call from his seat at the small restaurant just outside the security cordon. He had been here all day to cover the ten flights that arrive from London every day, he would have been here all day tomorrow except for this marvelous luck. When the line picked up he spoke just two quick sentences, heard only one in return, and hung up his phone. He resumed drinking his coffee and pretending to read the newspaper.

  It happened that several sets of eyes in the throng of passengers were also unusually observant. One, a British SAS man on his way to his embassy for a security consultation, took notice of the uniformed and plainclothes security men, but was unconcerned. He had solid diplomatic cover and had nothing to hide in any case. He was very slightly offended, in the classically understated British way, by what he thought were no less than three and possibly four unofficial watchers lurking beyond the security line. He was mildly curious about two of his fellow passengers as well, one of which he’d lost track of somewhere in the crowd, but none of this was anything to worry about. He made some quiet apologies in Arabic as he shouldered his way toward the baggage carousel to find his bag. He would deal with any problem children if and when the need arose, which he half-hoped would be on his way into town. He was in a bit of a mood after the six-hour flight.

  The passenger who’d slipped out of the SAS man’s gaze wore a pair of loose khaki trousers, a light blue button-down shirt, and lightweight suede hiking shoes. A navy blue blazer slung over his left shoulder. He‘d noticed the very observant, obviously British man, but he was much more concerned by what he was sure were two men who did not really belong where they were at present. Through the crowd he was using for cover, he could see the man at the restaurant who’d been staring at the same newspaper page for far too long, unless he was illiterate, which would only make the newspaper thing worse, he thought. He’d also seen what he thought was a look of recognition that preceded the cell phone call, and that was most certainly not good. He took a quick look at the baggage carousel, saw nobody from his flight reaching for a bag yet, so he fished out his own phone and speed-dialed a number. An answer came quickly, and in whispered English he spoke a few short lines, nodded when he heard the reply. Then he ended the call.

  The other man that worried him was out of view—he’d wandered across the front of the secured area looking in, but he didn’t fit the other people waiting outside to pick up arriving passengers. He could not place just what didn’t fit, but instinctively he thought the man was not right. The government men did not worry him.

  There was yet a third man with whom the man in the blue shirt should probably have been concerned, but he’d missed him. Dark hair, brown eyes, European-looking, he blended in with the crowd but stayed back from the carousel as he waited. He, too, had seen what the others observant men on the flight had seen, but with the exception of what he though was a Brit, nobody had really noticed him. He found the blue button-down shirt curious, but Europeans were not his brief on this trip. What he wanted were the watchers outside.

  Bags began to spill onto the rotating carousel and people pushed and shoved their way to its edge to claim their bags. Soon a surging crowd was queuing for the immigration and customs booths, and into this anonymous mass the alert Europeans all blended, losing sight of each other and of the men outside. Once past their checkpoints they blended as much as possible into the milling groups that now filled the transportation lobby waiting for rides into Amman. Except for the blue button-down shirt. He walked into the restaurant and asked for a table near the back. He ordered coffee, sat back into shadow, watched, and waited.

  It took ten minutes, but the Arab family finally came through, pushing a cart with their vast luggage ahead of them. They didn’t linger. Moving fast for a large group, they went straight ahead, scattering other people as they went. Out on the concrete walk the tall Arab man looked left and then right, looked frustrated, then turned abruptly left and walked rapidly, the rest of the family in tow. As he walked he dialed another call, spoke in short, harsh sentences, then hung up. He did not stop walking.

  The watcher from the restaurant exited the same door, but forty-five seconds behind the Arabs, and turned to follow. As he did, he finished transmitting the photos he’d taken with his phone. He walked just fast enough to keep pace until he saw the Arab family reach the end of the transportation are
a and stop. Inconvenient. He himself was required to walk another twenty paces, getting closer than he’d like, but then he stopped at a waiting taxi, leaned down, and pretended to argue with the driver over the cost for the ride into town while he waited to see what would happen next.

  The man in the blue shirt came out the same exit next. He turned left, immediately saw what was happening, and turned to the first taxi in the line. He, too, began to argue with the driver in a combination of pidgin Arabic and English, with the occasional gesture in place of a missing word.

  The SAS agent stood against the concrete wall fifty yards further east, his luggage at his feet, waiting for the pickup he expected from his embassy, watching this interesting parade and wondering what the devil these people were about. One Arab following an Arab family, himself followed by this other fellow, and, by Jove, who was this interesting gentleman coming out of the terminal building door halfway between the two? It was almost comical, he thought, except the new arrival on further inspection looked like he might be a right rough old bastard, and something about the blue shirt did not seem as much a buffoon as he wanted to appear.

  He marveled at this comedy for thirty more seconds, during which the dark man did a fine job of looking innocent, and then things began to happen. A pair of black Suburban SUVs arrived at the curb in front of the Arab family, four Arab men in traditional dress piled out, and in very short order the bags and the people disappeared inside. The vehicles pulled out into traffic and accelerated away. He saw his ride arriving, a Land Rover, and flagged it down. At the same time, the Arab follower boarded his taxi and sped off in pursuit, blue shirt did the same immediately after. The SAS man piled into his car as quickly as he could manhandle his bags into the back seat, and said, “Right, follow that taxi, there’s a good lad. This will be interesting.” The driver made no reply, but stepped on the gas and roared off in pursuit.

  Last in the otherwise amusing train came the dark-eyed man in his taxi.