The Phoenix Affair by Dave Moyer (best ebook pdf reader android txt) đź“•
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Twenty years after he declined an invitation to join the CIA, Air Force Colonel Paul Cameron finds he’s a part of the secret Phoenix Group and takes on an innocent-sounding CIA mission to help an old friend. Al-Qaeda hunts the pair from Europe to the Middle East, Cameron must rely on his wits to survive relentless attacks designed to silence his Saudi friend and preserve a plan to attack America.
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from front to back across the bald pate of his head with his right hand, and then the small man disappeared forward; apparently he chose to sit out on the deck and then to follow when Fahd emerged from the cabin. “He is not stupid” the general thought. Someone sneezed loudly behind him. He thought nothing about that for a moment, then he wondered. “Cameron?” he thought hopefully. “Perhaps he is telling me that he saw? Let us hope so.”
It took another seven minutes before everyone was seated, and the same deckhand cast off the line at the bow and bounded aboard. The pilot in his cubicle jockeyed the throttles and moved the boat away from the dock, slowly at first then gathering speed as she cleared it and made her way into the central channel of the Seine. The view was spectacular, cirrus clouds slid across a high, Spring sky; the sun was going down casting a faint orange pale on the ragged, torn edges. Back to the east the sky had already turned a deep purple, creeping west through a blur of hues to the still bright blue due west. The river bent left about half a mile ahead, and on the south side, around the corner, Fahd could see the Eiffel tower in silhouette against the multicolored sky. It was time for maghrib, but there would clearly be no mosque and no prayer anytime soon; it looked like it would be at least a twenty minute trip to the tower, and Cameron had said the boat would first pass it and then turn back before it stopped there on the opposite side of the river. “No matter,” he thought. He had his Koran in hand anyway, he knew the prayers and the right verses to recite. “Allahu akhbar, Allahu akhbar, Allahu akhbar” he began repeating in his head, “God is most great, God is most great, God is most great . . .” In a moment, he was lost in the mystery of prayer, and forgot everything about his troubles and this worrisome follower.
Up in the bow Ahmed Kisani was uncomfortable and cold, the boat was making something like five knots that drove a frigid breeze over the prow and right through his coat. He cursed France again and thought of home, which reminded him that it was time for evening prayer. According to his habit he cast about for an excuse not to pray, and decided that since he was doing God’s work following this man, and since he was on this wretched boat in the middle of this wretched river in wretched, cold France, God must intend for him to miss this prayer. He omitted the thought that followed it just at the edge of his conscience, that it had been days since he had prayed even once let alone the five times a day that was his duty. He could not even turn his back to the wind for fear that, facing the cabin, his quarry might see him, and know that he was being followed. He cursed again under his breath and drew his arms across his lap, deep in his pockets, and tried to tuck his chin and face behind the collar of his coat.
Ahmed thus passed a truly miserable twenty minutes in the bow of the BatoBus boat, and Fahd a blissful twenty minutes of prayer in the comfortable cabin. Each stirred back to the here and now only when they felt the boat making it’s wide turn back toward the tower, and each returned to his duty, one from heaven, and the other from hell. It occurred to Fahd as he recalled his nemesis there forward that perhaps it had been very cold, and perhaps the man had been in hell up there. “How appropriate” he hoped.
Five minutes later the deckhand once again swung across the short gap and onto the dock, making the line fast at the bow. Passengers all along the boat stood up to collect themselves. A queue formed in the aisle. Fahd stood but did not move into line; he would wait as he’d been told. He buttoned his coat to the top button and turned up his collar against the cold he expected outside. There was no sign of his follower forward.
People were moving up the aisle and onto the dock, there was a sneeze again just to his right. He did not look, but saw in the corner of his eye a figure pass along the aisle. The walk did not look right, there was a slight limp and the figure was stooped and old-looking. Fahd dismissed this man and waited, nearly missing the man’s stumble as he reached the stairs. “Cameron?” He was amazed. What had happened to the vigorous young man he knew? The man wore a black wool coat, turned up at the collar, a black hat not unlike the one Fahd had bought two hours ago for his disguise, black slacks and shoes. He was over the gunwale now and moving off at his crippled pace. Fahd moved now, fearing he would lose his way. He stepped into line and was off the boat in a moment, looking for the slumped man. He saw him crossing the square, about seventy-five meters ahead, toward the Tower and the park beyond. “Fifty meters” he remembered. He began to walk at a brisk pace to catch up. Through his concern for his friend’s health he thought of the difficult time the small man would be having keeping up with his long gait.
A casual observer could not have guessed that the trio were together in any way. There was an old man making his way under the arches of the Eiffel and into the park, probably aiming toward his home somewhere in the dark warren of century-old buildings east and north of the great monument. Then there was a distinguished looking man of above-average height, walking with a purpose, perhaps to meet someone for dinner at one of the trendy restaurants in that same quarter of the city. Another wanderer hurried along toward his own destination some way behind. It was growing quite dark, only a thin sliver of blue bordered by yellow, orange, scarlet, and then the deep black of approaching night showed on the horizon. The nearly-useless street lamps of Paris were just beginning to come on.
At the edge of the park all three men turned north along the Avenue Gustave Eiffel and continued their slow advance. A block went by, was interrupted by a narrow street, and another began. Another minute and a second alley passed on the right. Up ahead Fahd saw a third alley yawning darkness that seemed to spill into the dimly lit street, and the elderly man limping along passed it and kept going. He was nearly sure now that he must be following the wrong man. If this went on for another block, he would find the next public place, a restaurant perhaps on a busier street a few blocks ahead, and there he would try to find a taxi. He’d go back to his hotel, sleep, and tomorrow he would find another internet café and try again. He was passing the third alley himself now, and the man up ahead turned a corner and vanished from sight. Concerned, Fahd increased his pace slightly, just in case.
Several things happened at once as he reached the corner and turned. A strong grip took him and heaved him around the corner. There was a confused explosion of sound behind him, the way they’d just come. Adrenaline fired through his limbs and he started to struggle with this unexpected assailant, but the grip was like iron and he was swept in a semicircle to his left until his back came to rest against the wall of the building. He looked at his attacker in the dim light, preparing some strike in return, then relaxing. Under the hat the bent old man now stood ramrod straight at six feet, his legs slightly apart in a strong stance, and the face of Colonel Paul Cameron grinned out of the darkness. The grip on his coat relaxed and an index finger pressed to Cameron’s smile. “Quiet for a moment, abu-Mohammed” he whispered, barely audible.
Away around the corner the odd noise continued for another thirty seconds, then the night was quiet once again except for the sounds of distant traffic. Cameron looked satisfied, listening with his head cocked slightly to one side. He thought for a moment, then smiled again, a queer smile that was at once both pleased and something else. “Shall we go and have a look at your little friend?” Cameron asked.
“What do you mean?” Fahd was still recovering.
“I think he has had an accident, and as people of God we should go and see if he needs assistance. Come, I may need you anyway.” Cameron led the way around the corner and back toward the dark alley, no trace of the limp now as he moved like water flowing over the even ground. They walked perhaps twenty meters, Fahd slightly behind and to the right, before three figures materialized out of the gloom. Cameron held out a hand in front of Fahd and said quietly in Arabic “Not too close, my friend. Step to your right ten feet or so, off of the sidewalk just a little. Watch and be ready.”
“Ready for what?” Fahd wanted to ask? “What the hell is going on? When did your Arabic get to be that good?” But Cameron’s tone did not want conversation. Fahd moved as he was told and focused on the figure nearest to him.
“Buenas noches” Cameron said to the man in the middle of the three. “I see you have come. How is our little friend?”
“He will live, but he will not be moving about for a while, and not quickly for a while after that” was Miguel’s reply. “Let us finish our business and get out of here.”
“I need the ID and one credit card from his wallet, if you please,” and Cameron held out his right hand, his left foot sliding back slightly, the right pointed directly at Miguel, the left hand loose and open at his side.
“First the two hundred euros” Miguel demanded.
Cameron shook his head, and wagged his left index finder at the second man, to his left, who had started to move. “No mistakes gentlemen. Patricio, a while ago you had a taste. This time I will break your arm so that it may never heal, you will be crippled as well as fat and ugly. Do not be stupid tonight. One hundred and fifty euros was agreed, and you keep the thirty that you already have. Sixty euros each for beating up a midget is much better than a hospital bed for tonight. Take the money, go find some food and something to drink, perhaps Pablo’s sister even.” This last he said as his gaze fixed on Miguel to his front.
In the dark Miguel fidgeted slightly, trying to decide what to do. This man was strange, he spoke strange Spanish from the Madonna knew where, and for a reason he could not name he was certain that the man would do exactly what he had just said he would do. Could he and Juan take him, and Patricio the other one over there? No, too risky, and they had all been here too long. “Very well, one hundred fifty señor” he said at last. He offered the license and a credit card.
Cameron looked hard at him for a moment, then slowly withdrew the cash from his coat pocket, relaxing as he stepped forward. The money and the cards changed hands.
“Gracias, vayan con dios”, "go with God," Cameron said at last. He motioned to Fahd and backed away a few steps, gave a limp salute to his Spanish toughs, then turned and walked quickly up the street and around the corner into the deepening gloom.
It took another seven minutes before everyone was seated, and the same deckhand cast off the line at the bow and bounded aboard. The pilot in his cubicle jockeyed the throttles and moved the boat away from the dock, slowly at first then gathering speed as she cleared it and made her way into the central channel of the Seine. The view was spectacular, cirrus clouds slid across a high, Spring sky; the sun was going down casting a faint orange pale on the ragged, torn edges. Back to the east the sky had already turned a deep purple, creeping west through a blur of hues to the still bright blue due west. The river bent left about half a mile ahead, and on the south side, around the corner, Fahd could see the Eiffel tower in silhouette against the multicolored sky. It was time for maghrib, but there would clearly be no mosque and no prayer anytime soon; it looked like it would be at least a twenty minute trip to the tower, and Cameron had said the boat would first pass it and then turn back before it stopped there on the opposite side of the river. “No matter,” he thought. He had his Koran in hand anyway, he knew the prayers and the right verses to recite. “Allahu akhbar, Allahu akhbar, Allahu akhbar” he began repeating in his head, “God is most great, God is most great, God is most great . . .” In a moment, he was lost in the mystery of prayer, and forgot everything about his troubles and this worrisome follower.
Up in the bow Ahmed Kisani was uncomfortable and cold, the boat was making something like five knots that drove a frigid breeze over the prow and right through his coat. He cursed France again and thought of home, which reminded him that it was time for evening prayer. According to his habit he cast about for an excuse not to pray, and decided that since he was doing God’s work following this man, and since he was on this wretched boat in the middle of this wretched river in wretched, cold France, God must intend for him to miss this prayer. He omitted the thought that followed it just at the edge of his conscience, that it had been days since he had prayed even once let alone the five times a day that was his duty. He could not even turn his back to the wind for fear that, facing the cabin, his quarry might see him, and know that he was being followed. He cursed again under his breath and drew his arms across his lap, deep in his pockets, and tried to tuck his chin and face behind the collar of his coat.
Ahmed thus passed a truly miserable twenty minutes in the bow of the BatoBus boat, and Fahd a blissful twenty minutes of prayer in the comfortable cabin. Each stirred back to the here and now only when they felt the boat making it’s wide turn back toward the tower, and each returned to his duty, one from heaven, and the other from hell. It occurred to Fahd as he recalled his nemesis there forward that perhaps it had been very cold, and perhaps the man had been in hell up there. “How appropriate” he hoped.
Five minutes later the deckhand once again swung across the short gap and onto the dock, making the line fast at the bow. Passengers all along the boat stood up to collect themselves. A queue formed in the aisle. Fahd stood but did not move into line; he would wait as he’d been told. He buttoned his coat to the top button and turned up his collar against the cold he expected outside. There was no sign of his follower forward.
People were moving up the aisle and onto the dock, there was a sneeze again just to his right. He did not look, but saw in the corner of his eye a figure pass along the aisle. The walk did not look right, there was a slight limp and the figure was stooped and old-looking. Fahd dismissed this man and waited, nearly missing the man’s stumble as he reached the stairs. “Cameron?” He was amazed. What had happened to the vigorous young man he knew? The man wore a black wool coat, turned up at the collar, a black hat not unlike the one Fahd had bought two hours ago for his disguise, black slacks and shoes. He was over the gunwale now and moving off at his crippled pace. Fahd moved now, fearing he would lose his way. He stepped into line and was off the boat in a moment, looking for the slumped man. He saw him crossing the square, about seventy-five meters ahead, toward the Tower and the park beyond. “Fifty meters” he remembered. He began to walk at a brisk pace to catch up. Through his concern for his friend’s health he thought of the difficult time the small man would be having keeping up with his long gait.
A casual observer could not have guessed that the trio were together in any way. There was an old man making his way under the arches of the Eiffel and into the park, probably aiming toward his home somewhere in the dark warren of century-old buildings east and north of the great monument. Then there was a distinguished looking man of above-average height, walking with a purpose, perhaps to meet someone for dinner at one of the trendy restaurants in that same quarter of the city. Another wanderer hurried along toward his own destination some way behind. It was growing quite dark, only a thin sliver of blue bordered by yellow, orange, scarlet, and then the deep black of approaching night showed on the horizon. The nearly-useless street lamps of Paris were just beginning to come on.
At the edge of the park all three men turned north along the Avenue Gustave Eiffel and continued their slow advance. A block went by, was interrupted by a narrow street, and another began. Another minute and a second alley passed on the right. Up ahead Fahd saw a third alley yawning darkness that seemed to spill into the dimly lit street, and the elderly man limping along passed it and kept going. He was nearly sure now that he must be following the wrong man. If this went on for another block, he would find the next public place, a restaurant perhaps on a busier street a few blocks ahead, and there he would try to find a taxi. He’d go back to his hotel, sleep, and tomorrow he would find another internet café and try again. He was passing the third alley himself now, and the man up ahead turned a corner and vanished from sight. Concerned, Fahd increased his pace slightly, just in case.
Several things happened at once as he reached the corner and turned. A strong grip took him and heaved him around the corner. There was a confused explosion of sound behind him, the way they’d just come. Adrenaline fired through his limbs and he started to struggle with this unexpected assailant, but the grip was like iron and he was swept in a semicircle to his left until his back came to rest against the wall of the building. He looked at his attacker in the dim light, preparing some strike in return, then relaxing. Under the hat the bent old man now stood ramrod straight at six feet, his legs slightly apart in a strong stance, and the face of Colonel Paul Cameron grinned out of the darkness. The grip on his coat relaxed and an index finger pressed to Cameron’s smile. “Quiet for a moment, abu-Mohammed” he whispered, barely audible.
Away around the corner the odd noise continued for another thirty seconds, then the night was quiet once again except for the sounds of distant traffic. Cameron looked satisfied, listening with his head cocked slightly to one side. He thought for a moment, then smiled again, a queer smile that was at once both pleased and something else. “Shall we go and have a look at your little friend?” Cameron asked.
“What do you mean?” Fahd was still recovering.
“I think he has had an accident, and as people of God we should go and see if he needs assistance. Come, I may need you anyway.” Cameron led the way around the corner and back toward the dark alley, no trace of the limp now as he moved like water flowing over the even ground. They walked perhaps twenty meters, Fahd slightly behind and to the right, before three figures materialized out of the gloom. Cameron held out a hand in front of Fahd and said quietly in Arabic “Not too close, my friend. Step to your right ten feet or so, off of the sidewalk just a little. Watch and be ready.”
“Ready for what?” Fahd wanted to ask? “What the hell is going on? When did your Arabic get to be that good?” But Cameron’s tone did not want conversation. Fahd moved as he was told and focused on the figure nearest to him.
“Buenas noches” Cameron said to the man in the middle of the three. “I see you have come. How is our little friend?”
“He will live, but he will not be moving about for a while, and not quickly for a while after that” was Miguel’s reply. “Let us finish our business and get out of here.”
“I need the ID and one credit card from his wallet, if you please,” and Cameron held out his right hand, his left foot sliding back slightly, the right pointed directly at Miguel, the left hand loose and open at his side.
“First the two hundred euros” Miguel demanded.
Cameron shook his head, and wagged his left index finder at the second man, to his left, who had started to move. “No mistakes gentlemen. Patricio, a while ago you had a taste. This time I will break your arm so that it may never heal, you will be crippled as well as fat and ugly. Do not be stupid tonight. One hundred and fifty euros was agreed, and you keep the thirty that you already have. Sixty euros each for beating up a midget is much better than a hospital bed for tonight. Take the money, go find some food and something to drink, perhaps Pablo’s sister even.” This last he said as his gaze fixed on Miguel to his front.
In the dark Miguel fidgeted slightly, trying to decide what to do. This man was strange, he spoke strange Spanish from the Madonna knew where, and for a reason he could not name he was certain that the man would do exactly what he had just said he would do. Could he and Juan take him, and Patricio the other one over there? No, too risky, and they had all been here too long. “Very well, one hundred fifty señor” he said at last. He offered the license and a credit card.
Cameron looked hard at him for a moment, then slowly withdrew the cash from his coat pocket, relaxing as he stepped forward. The money and the cards changed hands.
“Gracias, vayan con dios”, "go with God," Cameron said at last. He motioned to Fahd and backed away a few steps, gave a limp salute to his Spanish toughs, then turned and walked quickly up the street and around the corner into the deepening gloom.
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