The Phoenix Affair

  *****

  At Langley, Jones aka Smith was on the phone trying to do damage control. “Damned amateurs trying to play spooks” he mumbled while the ringing started at the other end. But that wasn’t what was causing his foul mood. He knew the DDO had a thing for this guy, he’d already screwed up once today, and he didn’t want Cameron to report to “the Boss” that he’d been too clever by half while not supporting an agent in the field.

  “Hello,” was the answer on the other end of the line.

  “Ripley? Jones, calling from the Farm. I have a Flash tasking for you.”

  “Fire away.” Patrick Ripley sat in his office, the desk officer for the night at Paris station. He was covered as a commercial attaché, and so was a “legal” in the country, with full diplomatic immunity. As in all such cases, the fact that he was actually Agency was a very closely guarded secret. He’d worked with Jones before and recognized the voice, and the caller ID on the encrypted phone showed that the call came from Langley. Otherwise, he’d have had to authenticate the caller.

  “OK,” came Jones across the scrambled line, “I have an asset working in Paris, more about that later if I can clear you. He was followed, but he paid some guys to mug the tail in the third alley north of the Tower on the east side of Ave. Gustave Eiffel. Do you know the place?”

  “Sure, I know it,” and Ripley was out of his chair making ready to leave the office. “How long ago, and what’s this guy’s name? What’s he look like?”

  “Two hours ago.” Jones passed all the information he’d gotten from Cameron. “Follow him if you find him, certainly try to run his drivers license there, we’re doing the same here. He’s Moroccan, that we know for sure already. Can’t find any employment in Paris for him, but you may have better luck there. In any case, we want to know where this guy goes home, who he sees, what else he does. You got it?”

  “I’m on it, let me get out of here, call you in a few hours.” Ripley hung up, struggling into his jacket, locked his safe, and flew out the door, making sure it latched behind him. He looked at his watch. “Two hours,” he thought. “Probably not going to find him in the alley still, unless they’ve mostly killed the guy. Worth a try though. If he’s not there, I’ll try the nearest hospital, if not that, I’ll go find this address and see if Mr. Kisani is a bad guy.”

  VII. Paris

  Ibrahim sipped the scalding, sweet tea and munched on the dates from the plate in the middle of the table, watching the door. The lamb had been excellent as usual, and now he waited for Salah to come. The restaurant was quiet, also as usual, two men smoked a hookah at the far end of the room, others talked quietly, waving their hands madly about as is usual in the Middle East.

  Salah came through the door, a great hulking man. He was dressed well enough, but cut an intimidating figure. He was a dark-skinned Egyptian, which spoke of some near or distant lineage from upper Egypt, which meant south Egypt, which always hurt Ibrahim’s head to think about, but never mind. Salah was broad shouldered and muscular, a large head, thick black hair, a matching mustache and a nose that would have made the Pharaoh himself proud. He had jet-black eyes that were not overly intelligent, and indeed, Salah was not Ibrahim’s brightest light. Still, it was difficult to recruit people here in Paris that were willing, able, and discrete, and Salah was all three. In truth, Ibrahim always thought of him as his muscle in reserve, although he had had no occasion to use such talent since he’d been these two years in Paris.

  “Salaam alaykum, ya Salah’ he said, as he rose to greet the man, “Peace be upon you, oh Salah.”

  “And upon you be peace” the other answered, and the two made the pair of mostly-air kisses on the cheeks with which Arab friends often greeted one another. “Hayyak allah” he added “May God give you life.”

  “God gives you life” Ibrahim rendered the required reply, “sit, my friend, have some tea and dates, and then we will talk.”

  This they did, making small talk for several minutes, Ibrahim inquiring after Salah’s family in Egypt, the other knowing better than to inquire after anything to do with Ibrahim. Salah was obedient, and discrete to a fault, and to be candid he was awed and often a little frightened by Ibrahim. He was a quiet man in any case, and now he waited for his sometime employer to come to the point.

  “Salah, brother,” Ibrahim finally began. “Here is the address of a hotel in the Saint Germaine district. There is a man there that you must follow.” He laid a slip of paper with the address on the table, then produced a small photograph of the man. “As you see, he is early fifties, bald. You cannot tell from this, but he is tall, perhaps 1.8 meters, six feet two inches or so. He is a Saudi general, and we do not know why he has come to Paris. I need you to follow him, and report to me where he goes, who he sees, what he does.” He thought for a moment, and remembered his new bit of tradecraft. “You have a cell phone, my friend?” Salah nodded. “Excellent. You will call me every two hours and make a report. This is very important, Salah, the work of God. You must not fail, do you hear?”

  Salah tried his best to look serious and confident, inside he was unsettled. “And what if I do fail, I wonder?” he thought. But he said, “Yes, Ibrahim, I can do it easily. I will follow this Saudi scum, and I will telephone you as you say. But, when shall I go, tonight?” The last he asked only half heartedly, hoping to seem eager to begin but that Ibrahim did not really expect him to spend the whole night on a cold Paris street.

  “No, my friend, tomorrow will be better. But be early, perhaps not later than eight o’clock in the morning. I do not know what he has planned, and you must not miss him leaving the hotel.”

  Inside Salah was relieved. He could sleep with the Lebanese whore again tonight, and still pray at the mosque in the morning for fajr. “God is Great” he said, half to himself and half to Ibrahim, as he thought of the girl and then of the forgiveness of prayer. How wise, he thought, and again he said aloud, “Allahu akhbar”.

  Ibrahim consulted his watch, and swallowed the last of the now-lukewarm tea. “Excellent, brother” he said, as he rose to leave and laid ten euros on the table. “Mind, now, call me every two hours. It is important, my friend.”

  “It will be done, sheik Ibrahim,” he added the desert Arab’s honorific, hoping to flatter his boss. He remained seated, though, and Ibrahim said goodbye and disappeared out the restaurant door.