by Paul Clark
*****
At Langley it was just after two in the afternoon, and a very pissed off Brian Jones was back at his desk, “running” the Phoenix op instead of living it. The email from Paris to the DDO had done it. It had taken the Boss just about thirty minutes to decide that the right guy to keep the operation supported from headquarters was Jones. Someone had to coordinate. There had been no haggling.
His route back had been less than direct, however. He and Allen had been made by the spooky French guy LaPlante at De Gaulle airport, so there was no way they could leave Paris by air any more than Cameron could have. Instead, Ripley rented a car. Jones drove South and East across the countryside and into Switzerland. At Geneva he turned in the car, spent a lavishly comfortable night at a five-star Swiss hotel, and hopped the Delta/Air France flight direct to Washington at two in the afternoon yesterday. Remembering this, he grinned at the irony of the Air France bit. From the airport he’d made a short stop at his home in Arlington, and had been in his office by eight yesterday evening Eastern Time.
Allen took a train from Paris, South and West across the Pyrenees into Spain. From Barcelona he flew on Royal Jordanian Airlines to Amman, arriving late Wednesday night. He’d flown first class, which meant he, too had eaten and slept lavishly. Jones took some comfort in the thought that while Allen was still out there in the game and he was sidelined, the beds in the visitors quarters at US Embassy, Amman left much to be desired.
Snapping back to the present, Jones noted the time and that the British Air flight carrying Cameron and the General would be in Amman by now. He was musing about this when his secure phone rang. He picked it up with a simple “Hello?” In the window on the face of the instrument he read “AMEMB Amman, Jordan SECURE.” His face bent into a frown.
“Jones? Allen here. We have a problem.”
“Shit, what now. Did you kill someone already? Christ, Allen, can’t you . . “
“No, no, I swear. I’m at the embassy numbnuts. Listen. It’s the Colonel. He called me on my cell just now. He and the General and all are enroute here from the airport, but they’ve grown a tail already.”
“Shit. Who the hell are these fuckers? What’s he want to do?”
“That’s the problem, sort of. The plan was the whole bunch of them were going to stay at some family compound about a mile from here. Colonel says that’s not happening now, he wants us to let the whole bunch of them into the embassy compound. They’re enroute, probably get here in about fifteen minutes.”
“Okay, so let ‘em in. What’s the problem?” Jones asked.
“Uhh, well, the guys here say they can’t let Saudis into the compound. The Regional Security Officer guy’s a Nazi, the Ambassador is in Europe, Deputy Chief is at dinner other side of town with the Brits and isn’t answering her phone. The station chief here tried to get the Security guy to do it, but he’s a real shit.”
Jones thought about this. “So, you want to kill him?”
“Very funny, asshole. No, I don’t want to kill him, not yet anyway. How about you pull some big cheese headquarters act and roll this guy. Come on, we don’t have any time!”
“OK, you got the guy there?” Jones asked. “Put him on.”
The phone changed hands at the other end. Jones knew the instrument there would have a window like his did, except it would read “CIA Langley, SECURE.” Instant credibility.
“Hello? This is the RSO, Frank Capaccio. Who’s this?”
“Sounds like a pencil-neck geek,” Jones thought. “Hi, this is Mr. Jones, Langley,” he said as nicely as he could muster. “We really need your assistance. The Saudis my, err, colleague told you about are of personal interest to the DO here, as is the American citizen who will be with them. We’d really appreciate it, and I’m sure he would, too, if you’d just let these people into the compound, find them someplace nice and private for the night, and we’ll make arrangements to move them tomorrow or the next day . . .”
“Nope, no way. Who do you guys think you are anyway?” Jones held the handset away from his ear as the geek ranted for twenty seconds or so. When the noise stopped he put it back and waited in silence another full ten seconds.
Then, in a voice he calculated to be low and dangerous he said, “Listen, pal. It doesn’t matter a bit who I am—read the ident on your phone. Now, my colleague there is a pretty nasty piece of work, and he’s taken a liking to these people, as have I by the way. So, aside from the fact that the CIA Deputy Director of Operations is going to have your ass on a plane back to the US by next Monday if you screw this up, you want to think about what kind of life you’re going to have if these people don’t find a safe spot to sleep tonight. In the Embassy Compound. Do it. In less than an hour the Comm Center there will have a FLASH message direct from the DDO ordering it to be so, trust me. Meantime, you let them in and you get them set up. You keep those people waiting outside until that message gets there, or if you screw around at all, your ass belongs to us. Sooner or later. What’s it going to be?” Silence.
“Nice,” came the reply. It was Allen. “Don’t know what you said, but it worked. What a geek.”
“You think he’s got it, then?” Jones asked.
“Pretty sure,” Allen replied. “Thanks, gotta go. I want to be outside on the street when this caravan arrives, see if I can get a look at the garbage tailing the Colonel.”
“Right. Let me know if the RSO gives you any more crap. I’ll ping the Boss right now.” They both hung up. Jones’ fingers were working on the email.