The Phoenix Affair

  *****

  The subway was not crowded this early, which made his job more difficult. The two Americans, for he assumed that’s what they were, although they might be British, were three cars ahead of him on the train. He’d been lucky to get on with them still in sight. He hoped he was lucky, there was no way to be certain they hadn’t seen him.

  Ibrahim had done his best with what was in the bag. He wore a nondescript loose jacket, and a large beret crowned his head at a steep list. If he had a chance he would shave his beard, he’d decided, but that hadn’t happened yet. In the meantime his hair hung loose at the back of his neck instead of in the pony tail or queue he usually wore, and he slouched visibly, affecting what he hoped was a starving artist look instead of that of the killer he was.

  The train approached the stop at Place du Concorde, and through the dangerously-empty cars in between he could just see the two men preparing to get up from their seats. He waited, moving further back in his own empty car and taking a seat against the window. He made a show of stretching and leaned his head back on the seat and closed his eyes most of the way, waiting.

  The doors opened as the train rolled to a stop, and the men were moving fast. Too fast, Ibrahim was just on the point of getting up himself when he was shocked to see the man on the right, the bigger one, turn and look toward the rear of the train. He tried to relax as his bowels turned to water, slouching further into the seat and trying to melt away. Through the squint of his eyes he saw the big man point first down the platform, then at the Metro map on the wall, and finally at the sign above the door where his companion was now standing, they appeared to be lost, trying to agree which way to go. Ibrahim waited, mentally encouraging them “Imshi, kafir Amriki” he hissed under his breath, “go on, infidel Americans.” But they stayed, apparently arguing. Helpless, Ibrahim watched the car doors close and he rode out of the station, still slouched against the train wall with his face turned away from the menace on the platform.

  The train gone, alone there on the platform, Jones and Allen spoke in English.

  “What was it?” Jones asked.

  “I’m not sure, just a feeling,” the other said. “Should’ve mentioned it earlier probably, I kinda thought maybe someone was tailing us since just before we came down to the subway way back North, the first train. Only that one guy asleep on this train, though, and nobody else got off of course, so we’re clear I guess.”

  “I guess.” Jones returned. This Allen guy was not for real, he thought