*****
Cameron woke with a start. He blinked at what he saw, and tried to swim up through the sleep haze and confusion that the frequent trans-Atlantic traveler knows all too well. “Oh yeah, welcome to Paris” he said aloud, stretching. He looked at his watch—he’d changed the time on the plane—“two-ten; still light outside, guess it’s still afternoon.” “Time for some lunch,” his stomach was yelling, but he lay back on the pillows staring at the ceiling, wondering “what the hell am I doing here?”
He knew what had got him here—that was pretty obvious. It was the surprise of it, after all these years, that he still couldn’t quite get over. It had started with the phone call at his office, he’d never forget it. “Colonel Cameron, I’m calling for the Phoenix Group.” He’d thought he was hearing things. “Take down this address, sir. Use an anonymous email account that you create today, any service you choose. Do not use an account you’ve used before. Do not use your office computer, your home is better but an Internet café is best; commercial, not a public library. Send an email to the address I’ve given you, say “contact, Phoenix 1” and no more. Don’t worry about a subject line. You’ll receive a reply in an hour or less after you transmit. Do you understand, sir, and can you tell me if you’ll respond?” “Uhhh” was all he could say for a moment. “Sir?” said the voice. “Um, did you say the Phoenix group? Cameron remembered asking. “Yes sir. Do you understand, and will you respond?” the voice asked again. Thinking faster now, Cameron got things moving. “Sheesh, wonder how Lizzy is gonna react to this.” “Sir?” prompted the voice. “Yeah, OK, I’m here” Cameron said at last. “Yes, I’ll respond, I’ve got the address written down, and I know how to take care of that. I can’t do anything about this until around six Eastern Time tonight, though, is that OK?” “Yes, sir” the voice replied, “that will be fine. Be careful, sir, welcome to Phoenix.” The caller hung up. Cameron had sat staring at the email address for five minutes thinking back to the letter that started all this. How long ago had that been? 1990? Almost 22 years, and not a peep from these guys. “Well, not a peep you know about at least,” he thought. That letter in the box at the squadron, the long application he’d had to type on a borrowed typewriter, the essays he’d had to write which he remembered thinking were pretty lame, the machine scored tests, more essays, the interview with those guys, and then deciding to stay in for the war. “Long time ago” he wondered, and remembered the trip to Langley after he’d pulled his papers and decided to stay in the Air Force. “Phoenix program. I’ll bet I haven’t thought about that deal in at least 10 years. Wonder what these guys have in mind? Shit, what am I gonna tell Elizabeth? She’s gonna go nuts.”
He’d sent the email that evening from a machine at Kinko’s, and sat sipping a latte waiting for the reply. It came in 15 minutes. “Well, they’re on the ball at least.” And he read:
Mr. Cameron,
Thanks for your quick reply. We have need of your services, if you’re interested, this month, in Paris. Nothing to be worried about, nothing strenuous. You fly to Paris, meet someone and talk, maybe then meet a few other people who are familiar to us and not hostile to you or us. You fly home and send us a report. Pretty simple.
Interested?
Smith
“Smith” he chuckled. “Yeah, right. Same guys who answer their 800-number with “Hello” if I remember right.” He was thinking now. “Paris this month. Have to tell Elizabeth about that, but we can figure something out. Have to tell the Boss something too. Maybe I need to go to a conference or something?” He made a mental note to check and see if there was anything legit that would form a good reason to go to Paris.” He typed:
Mr. Smith,
I’m interested, but we need to talk about logistics. You have any thoughts of covering me with the Air Force, or do I need to make up my own excuse to go to Paris? Who’s paying the bills? How long will I be gone? Can I get killed (he laughed at himself at this)? Do I travel as me, or are we playing spooks? Who makes the arrangements?
Cameron
He pushed “SEND” and waited, five minutes this time.
Mr. Cameron,
You appear to be as advertised. Marvelous. You are an employee of the Phoenix Group, and records will show you have been so since Oct 1990. You’ll be interested in your account balance, more about that later. The Air Force will task you with the trip to Paris. That’ll take care of your General and your wife. Trip should take about a week, including travel both ways. You travel under your own name, but new passport, which we’ll send you next week. We have a photo, not to worry. We’ll send you a new Visa card as well, your name, don’t throw it out, that’s for expenses. You book your own travel with the card, pay your expenses and get cash as needed out of an ATM when needed. The bills come to us, not you. Be reasonable, but not cheap, you want to look worldly and upper middle class. No more likely to get killed than you would be on a trip to Miami in the wrong neighborhood, but one never knows for sure.
When can you go? We’d like to get moving by the end of April.
Smith
“Well, I’ll be damned. Welcome to the big leagues, I guess” Cameron whistled. He checked his Blackberry for appointments in April. “Pretty booked, as usual” he saw. “OK, that can go, and that . . .looks like the best week is 17-23 April. Air Force orders takes care of both Bosses. General’s gonna be curious as hell and Elizabeth is gonna be pissed, but I’m going.” He typed again:
Mr. Smith,
OK that all works. Best week for me is 17-23 April. That OK for you?
Cameron
The reply was immediate:
Mr. Cameron,
17-23 April is perfect. Expect Air Force tasking end of this week, your destination is classified as is the purpose of the trip. Let us know if that gives you any trouble. Expect passport and credit card(s) end of next week. There will be more than one card, will explain that in later emails along with more info about the mission and the meeting.
Do not use this address again, yours or mine. You create another new account, different provider this time, and send an email to me tomorrow at
[email protected] We will discuss the mission there.
Any other questions for tonight?
Smith
Cameron remembered laughing loud enough that he drew a stare from the woman 2 machines down the row at Kinkos.
Smith,
Just one question. Your name really Smith?
Cameron
And the expected reply,
Dumb question.
“Quite an act” Cameron mused now on the pillows in Paris. “A month ago I was a simple Air Force O-6, and here I am now playing spooks in Paris, all expenses paid.”
Preparations had been hectic, but not too much so. The General had taken it well, considering. Nobody likes to be told he doesn’t get to know something, especially a General. But he’d shrugged at the old man and been banished with a wave. Elizabeth had been a little more difficult, she wanted to go along like last time, to London. Undoing that had taken some real fast talking. In the end she was mollified by the promise of a trip to Grand Cayman in June. They’d both enjoyed the Caymans ever since their honeymoon fifteen years ago, and this would be their fifth trip there.
This one would be different, though. Now, turns out, Paul Cameron, Colonel, USAF, has a private account at the Royal Bank of Canada, Georgetown, and a balance, including capital gains and dividends, of just under $800,000. Employee of the Phoenix Group for 22 years? Yikes, he’d remembered saying when he’d read Smith’s email. He had not told Elizabeth about that yet; wasn’t sure whether he was allowed to or should tell her. Time for that when we get to Cayman, he thought, I have some banking to do in Georgetown, just in case. He returned to the business at hand.
The passport and credit cards came as promised. Three credit cards, each in a separate mailing, on different banks, all domestic. Emails with Smi
th told him to use one for the airplane tickets and cash in the US, nothing else. Smith said to carry about $1000 US, on the card. Destroy that card and leave the pieces in the US. Use another one for the hotel in Paris only, and the third for cash where ever he needed it in Europe. “Pick your own hotel, Mr. Cameron,” Smith had said, “but low profile, not a place where you’ve stayed before, and don’t go straight there from the airport. Take the Metro, not a taxi. You enjoy books on espionage and the like, right?” Cameron had been amazed at the question—he did. “Read this one,” and Smith had given him a title and author. Cameron had read it already, but he read it again. “Create another new email account, new service again, and email Mr. Jones at
[email protected] when you get to Paris. Internet café always, Mr. Cameron,” Smith directed. “Leave your mobile phone at home please. Jones will arrange a meeting via email. When you get a message from yet another address, ask this question in your reply: “What was the title of T.E. Lawrence’s book about his times with the Arab resistance in WWI? The answer should be “Seven Pillars of Freedom.” Cameron balked at that, and emailed back: “Smith, the book is titled “Seven Pillars of Wisdom.” Smith had retorted “Of course it is, but anyone could know that, Mr. Cameron. Very good, though. Seven Pillars of Freedom, if you please.”
He’d thought about the trip, after that exchange, and began to plan. He re-read the novel. He’d scoured the internet, found and studied maps of the Paris streets and the Metro. From there he’d made his plan for the trip into town. The Bistro he knew from before, his last time in Paris with Liz—it was a good place to sit, wait, and watch. The hotel he also found on the internet. The trick with the woman on the plane had come straight out of the novel. He thought it kind of cheesy when he read it, but it worked. He’d tagged the French cop in the restaurant as soon as he came through the door, and he saw clearly that he was watching.
The skill with the crowd was something he’d taught himself back in ’95, in Miami. He’d never been a big city guy, and before they’d moved there he’d thought about how there must be different “rules” people lived by in a city, rules he did not know. People got killed in carjackings in Miami. Elizabeth was scared to death. So, they invented a “spy game” together. “Keep your head on a swivel” he’d told her. “Leave room between the front of your car and the one ahead of you, so you can move if you have to. Be aware of everything around you, don’t just zone in on the car in front of you, or the traffic light. You need to see someone coming for you long before he gets to you, and you can if you open up your eyes and see. Look up when you walk, keep your hands free and open, look in people’s faces well ahead of you. Listen to the steps around you . . .” They’d both practiced, and felt better. “Never knew if it worked or not, though” he admitted to himself, getting out of the Paris bed and heading for the shower. “Guess I still don’t know for sure, maybe half the Paris PD is hanging around outside waiting to pick me up.” He laughed at that. “Well, I saw that bugger at the airport, took me about a nanosecond, and I haven’t done anything to attract attention. Still, he did look me over pretty well. I looked too military, probably, have to walk like a samurai, Paul, not a Colonel,” he reminded himself. “Weight low, down in the belly, not up high in the chest and shoulders, that’s what Sensei would say. ‘Don’t look at me, I’m just another American out for a holiday in Paris.’” And then “Yeah, right, pal. You just keep right on watching, and be careful, and stay smart. We don’t want Mrs. Cameron going to Cayman this summer with somebody better looking than me.”
IV. Bahrain
The Saudi sipped his beer occasionally as he worked his mouse and stared at his screen. Like all Saudis, he wore a thob, the long white shirt that reached to his ankles, and the red and white checkered shamak, even in Bahrain, where most men dressed like Westerners and women could wear miniskirts, high heels, and drive cars. There were many Saudis in the Internet bar in the souq district of Manama, most were having a beer and talking to women or surfing the Internet, none of which they could do at home, ten miles west over a causeway that spanned a thin strait in the Arabian Gulf.
Khalid al-Shahrani took another sip of his beer and savored it. He rationalized that he was doing God’s work, and he needed to blend in with these other people, so it would be OK. He would say extra prayers tomorrow, if he managed to find a mosque. It had been nearly two hours of waiting so far, and nothing had come, until a moment ago.
K,
In the name of God, the Merciful, the Compassionate,
I am sorry to be late, but I have been expecting a report from one of my men. Our problem is here in Paris, but we have it covered. Once we have determined how big the problem is and what caused it, we will be able to eliminate both. I have the assets I need to do that. Do you have any other instructions for me?
Praise be to God,
I
He read it three times, wishing there was a way to be sure nobody was monitoring him. “Cursed Americans” he thought, “they are devils, cursed by God, but they are clever and dangerous.” It was that which made this vague talk necessary, and he was aware that it was a very thin shield. This message was not that hard to understand, though, so he knew what it meant. He had to think a while about what he would say in return, however. In the end he said simply
Proceed as required, let me know when you have something. Usual schedule.
K
That was all he really needed to do for today, but he needed to think. His whole operation could be compromised by this man, if he really knew what he had. In truth, though, Khalid did not know what the man really knew, he only had a suspicion. And, it was only the sudden departure and flight to Paris that had sent up the warning flag in his mind. “Could be completely innocent” he tried to work it out. “He took the small one, the mother, two of the older kids. He left the rest at home didn’t he? Would he have done that if he was worried? Lots of people go to Europe, medical treatment often, a vacation maybe. But it's an odd time of year for that.” Khalid was not married, did not have children in school, so he wasn’t sure. He was thirty-five and unmarried, old for a Saudi, but his family could not afford the dowry. True enough, lots of respectable families these days did not want their daughters married to a man who had been a mujihadeen in the Afghan jihad. “Nobody appreciates our sacrifice, or our piety” he grumbled to himself as he sipped the last of the beer. “Well, Ibrahim is good, God willing he will find out what the man is doing in Paris, thank God we have him there.” He looked at his watch, saw that it was nearly eight o’clock. “Six o’clock in Paris,” he calculated. His schedule did not require him to check for email again until ten tonight, and then not again until noon tomorrow. Isha, last prayer, had ended five minutes ago. He got up to pay his tab, planning to stop in at the Mexican restaurant two blocks away for fajitas and a margarita, possibly to find a Russian girl for tonight.
V. Paris
“Falcon one, Contact.”
General Fahd stared at the single line for a moment, then pushed the “Send” button on the Yahoo email screen. “I wonder how long this will take? Better not be too long, Fadia will wonder what’s become of me, and the kids will be getting hungry and bored.” He bought a bottle of water and a bar of chocolate from the counter girl, and settled back into the chair to wait, keeping an occasional eye on the window and door. He was looking for Arabs now. “Strange I can’t trust my own people” he thought. “Madness.”
He stared at the screen for five minutes, pressing the “Refresh” button twice hoping to see a reply. Nothing. “This is boring” he thought. He opened another window and began to surf. New York stocks up a little. Oil futures steady. Football scores. Good deal on air fares to Tahiti. “Not with a dozen kids,” and he smiled to himself. Another ten minutes had gone by. He hit the “Refresh” button again.
One new message. “Well, tallyho, my friends. God bless you Captain Davidson.” He opened the mess
age and read:
General,
Greetings. We have arranged a meeting with the party you requested, but the exact details have been left to you and him. Email this address:
[email protected] In the body, simply say “Do you have a question for me?” The question should be “What was the title of T.E. Lawrence’s book about his times with the Arab resistance in WWI?” If the question is correct, your reply should be “Seven Pillars of Freedom”. Exactly that, General, no changes please. Once you have both authenticated with these exchanges, you will know that you have connected with the party you asked to meet. He does not know to expect you, however. You should identify yourself, once you are sure of the other party’s identity. Set up the meeting however you like.
IF you must, you may contact me again at this address.
Mr. Smith
“Hmmm. What do they call these people in America? Spooks? I think that’s it.” He copied the new email address with two mouse clicks and opened a new message window. He then typed:
“Do you have a question for me?”
in the message body, pasted the address in the correct block, and pressed “Send”. He sat back to drink his water and think.
Colonel Paul Cameron, showered, shaved, lunched, and well exercised by a long walk across town had been in the internet café down the street from the Cluny Museum for nearly an hour. He’d made his contact with Mr. Smith as well, using the address he’d made up this morning. “Funny how when you need something like that, it’s hard to think them up,” he’d thought for ten minutes. Ultimately he’d used the tail numbers from the F-15s in his old squadron. “No pattern to speak of, and nobody who wasn’t there will remember, so they shouldn’t be predictable. All ’77 models though.” The nice looking twenty-something girl behind the counter caught his eye and smiled at him. He smiled back and held up his empty glass to signal for another Coke.
To the girl, as to most people, Cameron was an interesting man. He was only moderately handsome to be sure. He had a sharp jaw line, a defined chin, high cheekbones, but a nose that was too long and drooped at the end. Not good in profile.. He had thick, brown hair that was graying on the sides and receding a little at the forehead. Just turned forty-five, he was not a big man, but he was nearly six feet tall and clearly fit. “No bulge around the middle like most men his age,” the girl observed. Indeed, he still had a “V” shape from solid shoulders to a waist that was not much bigger than when he was twenty-five. He was wearing a loose-fitting long-sleeved shirt, but when he moved in his chair and the fabric stretched tight across his back she could see the lines of muscle in the shoulders and arms. When he’d come in she’d thought he moved like a dancer—her boyfriend was a dancer—fluid, graceful, light, yet seeming to be anchored to the earth with every step. His eyes were a deep, steel blue, alive and probing, with lines at the corners that spoke of age, mirth, wisdom, guile, or something—she could not tell what. He seemed to radiate an unconscious confidence, she thought, like he doesn’t know or doesn’t care that he looks interesting. Or, that he doesn’t care what the world thinks. “Mon dieu, what an interesting fellow.” She drew another Coke from her tap in response to the summons.
Cameron offered another unconscious smile when the Coke came, as with his other hand he pushed the “Refresh” button on the web browser. “Bingo” he thought when he saw that he had a new message. He opened it and read the simple line:
Do you have a question for me?
“What the heck is this?” he wondered, staring at the line. He checked the address, it was not the one he’d used to contact Mr. Smith. On the other hand, he had not yet used the line about T. E. Lawrence, that had to be it. He wrote in response:
“What was the title of T.E. Lawrence’s book about his times with the Arab resistance in WWI?”
And read the almost immediate reply:
“Seven Pillars of Freedom. What seminar were you in at War College?"
“What?” Cameron asked aloud. He looked up and saw the girl smiling again, a little startled. He smiled back, mouthed “Sorry”, and went back to his screen. He thought for a moment about that year at School in Alabama. “Who’s on the other end of this?” Another moment and he was nearly sure he had it. He sent
"Five. What is the name of your 11 year old son?"
On the Champs Elyse General Fahd sat back abruptly and hard against his chair. He ran both hands over his forehead and back across his bare crown, locking his fingers behind his head and leaning back farther until he stared straight up at the ceiling. “It must be him,” he thought. “So quick, it must be him.” Deciding, he leaned back to the keyboard and sent:
"Aziz.
We need to meet, I must speak with you. But, I was followed, probably from my hotel. I found him and lost him by luck, but am nearly certain he is gone now. Do you have any suggestions?
F.
The girl saw another smile on the face of the man at the computer, but she was not sure what it meant. The man was happy about something, but the look was also, somehow, dangerous. What an interesting fellow indeed, she thought.
Cameron re-read the email three times. “Fahd,” he said to himself quietly. “What have you got yourself into, my friend, and what is it you have to tell me?” He thought for a few minutes, knowing the other man was waiting, but he wanted to be sure about his reply. He could not afford a mistake. What he needed was a public place, but with only a few ways to enter, so he could watch and see if Fahd was followed, without a potential tail seeing him in return. And then, what to do about the tail if there was one? He sorted the options for another minute, and chose. He typed:
F.,
Good to hear from you. Here is what I want you to do:
Do not go back to your hotel yet.
In one hour there will be a boat called “BatoBus” on the Seine going West from the dock just under the bridge at the Place de la Concorde. Buy a ticket and take a seat in the middle of the boat. I will be at the back, but if you recognize me, make no sign. Sit and watch the other passengers board. If the man who was following you gets on the boat, pass your right hand across the bald part of your head from front to back.
If you do not see the man, sit tight and wait for me to come to you, which I’ll do once we’re away from the dock and out of sight of anyone who might have followed you to the shore.
If the man does get on the boat, we have a problem. Just past the Eiffel Tower the boat will turn and head back east, then it will stop in front of the Tower. At that stop, I’ll get off the boat. I’ll trip on the stairs to make sure you know it’s me. Follow me, about 50 meters behind once we clear the boat. Wherever I go, you follow, 50 meters. If I stop, keep walking, and go right past me.
Understand?
P.
Fahd read the words, a little astounded. “Paul, my old friend,” he wondered. “What have you been doing, and where, for whom, and how did you learn to play like a spook so well?” He grinned for the first time since he’d come into the café, some of the tension draining out of him. “Well, thanks be to God, at least he seems to know how to play this game, whatever it is, and I don’t, so that’s a blessing.” He sent:
P.
Understand. I will be there. The man was small, about five feet five or six inches, European looking but he spoke Arabic. Dark coat about mid-thigh length.
See you in 1 hour, I have to get moving to make it there.
F.
And he did. Fahd rose from his seat. He considered straightening his clothes and making himself look presentable, but now that he’d almost talked with his old friend he remembered something. Cameron was often bored at school, and would sometimes read novels in the longer lectures. Once, he had given Fahd one to read--an espionage/counter-terrorism thriller. Thinking quickly, he stuffed his tie in a coat pocket. He folded his suit coat in half, then laid it across the back of his overcoat and stuffed it into the arm holes on each side, then put
on the coat. It was tighter across the back, but there was a little bulge, and it actually made him stoop forward somewhat, like an older man. He paid the attendant thirty Euros for his time and left, affecting a slight limp and hunching forward, trying to walk like his grandfather back in Ha’il. He walked west, back toward the metro station, but he did not intend to take it. Halfway there he turned into a shop he’d seen as he hurried past over an hour ago. There he bought a black hat and a wooden cane, emerging back onto the street looking very much an elderly French gentleman as he hailed a taxi.
Cameron looked at his watch. “Nearly four o’clock,” he saw, “not much time.” He waved to the girl at the counter for his check, and returned to the machine. First, he found the BatoBus website, and looked at the stops. He’d not had time to look before, and now he saw that the stop near the Place Concorde was actually two blocks west. No matter, Fahd would find it. He guessed his friend would be in a taxi in any case, and the driver would know the place well. The schedule was fluid, a boat at every stop every fifteen to twenty minutes. It would have to do. Close to five o’clock, Fahd would be there. Cameron had planned to board himself on the south side of the river, under the shadow of Notre Dame, but he saw immediately that this would not work. The service ran East from there for two stops before turning around the end of the Ile St. Louis and stopping twice more before the place he’d sent Fahd. At fifteen minutes each, that would take him more than an hour, and he had other things to do. “Not good” he thought. Down to fifty-five minutes as the girl brought the bill and he laid ten euros on the table. He would have to find a cab, make the preparations if he was lucky, and then have the cab race across town to the boat dock at Hotel de Ville on the Right Bank not later than four-thirty. “It’ll have to be enough,” he mumbled, signing off his user id and closing the browser to erase his trail.
He stood, putting on his dark wool coat and smiling again at the girl. “Do you speak English?” he asked.
“Yes, monsieur,” she said, “can I help you with something?”
“Mademoiselle, I need a taxi. And do you know a bar where perhaps I may find some Spaniards like me? I need to have a meal and a drink to remind me of home.” He spoke in English but with what he hoped sounded like a Spanish accent.
“I am sorry, monsieur, but I do not,” she replied. “But, there is a place two blocks south of the museum, there. I have had paella for dinner there, but that is the only Spanish item on the menu that I recall.”
“That is good enough, thank you.” He left abruptly, looking for a taxi.
In his own taxi, General Fahd removed his new hat and tried to make himself more presentable. Contacting Cameron had renewed his confidence, now he wanted to make a good impression. He had not seen the man in years. “What a year that was,” and he stared out the window of the car, “that year in Montgomery at the USAF War College.” And it had been. For Fahd and his family, a welcome, novel experience of life in the United States. The cool weather, everything green, everything so inexpensive, and the relaxed schedule of the school had made for a year of refreshment for the whole family. He smiled. Little Aziz had been born there; he and Fadia were so proud. They now had a daughter and a son who were both American citizens by birth. “And Cameron,” he thought. “A true friend—to offer to take Aziz into his own home if I should want to send the boy to school in America someday.” His mind began to drift, still staring out the window as the car neared the Place du Concorde and the Louvre. What a fellow he is. Always knew more than the lesson could teach about the world, and war, and politics. Always ready with an oblique but insightful comment that made everyone think. Beautiful wife with those curious blue eyes, beautiful blonde children, a girl and a young boy who would each be in university now. What were their names? The boy is Sean, I think, and he plays soccer. I shall have to ask him about the girl. But yes, I will call him “abu-Sean” when we meet, and he hoped his friend would call him “abu Mohammed” after his own oldest son. And didn’t he win the athletic award twice in the year? There was that martial arts thing, as well, gave him bruises on the arms all the time but I could tell the difference in his presence in the room after a few months, very strange thing now I think of it. And that sense of humor, just like all American pilots. A Christian, attends church, a Person of the Book and therefore permitted to us as a friend. Knew to point out to me which way was East for my prayers in the building, Praise be to God, and to tell the other Americans to buy kosher meats for the parties we had. . .
With a start he realized he had not prayed since midday, but excused himself because of the follower and the need to stay out of sight for a while. He would say extra prayers at maghrib, God willing, and again at Isha tonight and at fajr at dawn tomorrow. . .
Engrossed as he was in these thoughts, Fahd did not notice that the taxi had stopped at a traffic light. He was so engrossed, in fact, that he made a very serious mistake. On the corner not four meters from his window Ahmed al-Kisani was simply loitering, passing the time before he would head back to the General’s hotel to pick him up again, and wondering what he would tell Ibrahim if he did not. And then there was his quarry, so close he could almost touch the car, the man staring absently into space behind the window. It was all he could do not to leap for the scooter that waited at the curb another six meters to his left. Instead, blessing God and all his ninety-nine names, he very slowly took a few steps backward, behind the man to his left, making slowly for the scooter. Then the light changed and traffic started to move. He bolted for the scooter, kicking it to life and gunning the machine into traffic, searching ahead for the quarry he had lost and now by the grace of God had found. But where was it? His hopes fell, and he gazed wildly around the circle, hoping, searching . . .There! He was nearly killed by a Renault barreling in from his right, but now he saw the taxi across the circle. He fell smoothly in behind, three cars back. “Today I am lucky, perhaps I will be even more so” he said aloud to the traffic around him. He was sure the target had not seen him.
Kisani was correct. Fahd sat in the taxi, still working to restore himself to a dignified appearance. His collar was back down, the tie replaced around his neck. He’d laughed as he squirmed within the coat and withdrew his now wrinkled suit coat from its hiding place, smoothing it on his lap. “What to do now?” he checked his watch. “Forty minutes until the boat, but perhaps it will be earlier? Better not to miss it, or we’ll have to start over.” “Driver,” this in French, “do you know the BatoBus stop near the Place du Concorde?”
“Oui monsieur, but it is further west, perhaps half a kilometer. Is this the one?”
This was confusing. “Is there another nearby?” he asked.
“Non, on this side of the river, the next one is east, near Hotel de Ville” said the cabby.
“Bon,” said Fahd, deciding, “let’s go to this stop west of the Place, then.”
“Bon” the cabbie returned, and he began to look for a place for a u-turn.
He was nearly thirty-five minutes early when he descended the steps to the bank of the Seine and found the ticket kiosk under the bridge. The dock was simple, but the BatoBus sign was unmistakable, so he bought a three day ticket and walked West along the embankment, a little stroll to calm the nerves while he waited.
Kisani parked his scooter at the curb above on the street, and cautiously walked out onto the walk on the bridge. He leaned on the railing and looked East toward the Louvre on the Right Bank and the D’Orsay on the Left, and Notre Dame in the distance. Then he casually looked down to confirm his man was still there. He was, and again he blessed his own luck that he had his monthly transport pass. He would not need to buy a ticket, but could wait until the boat was alongside, blend with the crowd that was starting to build now, and slip onto the boat without being seen. He settled in to wait as the target strolled under the bridge and out of sight. He knew he would not be going anywhere for thirty minutes.