by Paul Clark
*****
The two black Suburbans screeched to a halt at the concrete jersey barriers in front of the American Embassy. The Jordanian policeman at the checkpoint approached the driver’s side of the lead vehicle and asked for identification. He was immediately immersed in a rapid-fire conversation in Arabic, which alarmed him. He stepped back from the vehicle two paces, and was about to sound the alarm when three Marines in desert camouflage walked up, armed, along with an Embassy civilian. The latter said something quiet in Arabic, the policeman’s face went from alarm to understanding. He stepped aside and waived the two vehicles forward as he turned and waived for the gate to be opened.
The American civilian noted the taxi that came up the street toward the compound and then turned right before it got there. He watched it closely. About halfway down the quarter-mile length of the compound wall he saw the brake lights come on, the car stopped very briefly, then moved on. He whispered something to one of the Marines, and the three of them turned and followed the Suburbans through the gate. The civilian just stood there, waiting.
Shortly, another car approached, but this time drove right up to the checkpoint. A man got out, tugged a large rolling duffle from the backseat, paid his fare and dismissed the car. He wore a blue blazer over a blue button-down shirt, khaki slacks and those new suede hiking shoes. The civilian watched him closely as he walked forward, careful to keep his hands in plain view. The man stopped two paces in front of him. From behind he heard the policemen take a step to one side as he shifted the machine pistol that hung from a webbed strap around his neck.
The man in front of him was right at six feet, athletic-looking, dark hair, eyes that were probably blue in daylight. The face looked cold, dangerous. As he watched the man slowly raised his empty right hand, palm forward, until it was even with his ear. Then, very slowly now he moved the hand toward his chest in a large, obvious, circular motion, reaching into the inside pocket of the blue blazer. The policeman’s weapon moved again, the stranger’s cold gaze shifted to the Jordanian for a moment. Slowly again, he withdrew the hand and reached forward to pass the familiar blue booklet of an American passport.
About this time a Land Rover came up the street. Everyone looked as the car paused in the intersection for a couple of seconds, then it turned left. The Embassy man watched for a second, then looked in the book, read “Michael Callan” and noted the face matched the man in front of him. He looked up into the eyes, smiled, and said, “Mr. Callan, welcome to Jordan.” Colonel Paul Cameron smiled back and walked forward through the checkpoint, onto American soil.
David Allen watched all this from his position in the doorway of a small shop across the street from the embassy wall and perhaps a hundred meters from where the first taxi had dropped its passenger. He could still just see the man. He was wondering about the Land Rover and about what the man would do next when a third taxi appeared in the intersection in front of the embassy gate. After a second’s pause, it turned right and came slowly up the street. Allen was just getting uncomfortable with this development when it happened.
As the car came abreast of where his soon-to-be-quarry was standing it abruptly stopped. The passenger-side door flung open, and faster than Allen thought a human being could move a dark figure leapt out. The man on the street just started to turn and run, but he had no chance. The dark man was on him, there was a quick scuffle. Allen’s feet started of their own accord, he wanted this guy. But it was too far. As he ran, he watched in horror as the limp figure was literally tossed into the open back door of the taxi. He hadn’t covered half the distance when the engine roared, tires spun. Allen pressed himself into the nearest doorway, but there was no need. The car found the middle of the road and accelerated rapidly away.
In the car, the dark man breathed twice, deeply. Without turning he said in a reptilian voice and beautiful French, “l’ambassade, rapidement.”