The Phoenix Affair

  *****

  The other “sides” were also up and about as morning prayer ended.

  Ten blocks away, in a stone-lined room in the lowest cellar of the French embassy, the Arab hung limp by the shackles around his hands. A small camera near the ceiling in one corner fed this image to a much more comfortable room down the hall, where two Frenchmen were reviewing what they knew with their boss in Paris. They were tense—the “Boss” on the other end of the phone was their Director, Henri Broussard, and this was not a usual thing.

  The dark man finished reviewing what they’d been able to extract from the Arab, which was not much. He was Jordanian, his name was, in fact, on “the list”, but he was a small player. Had spent some time in a camp in Afghanistan in the nineties, but that was it. No active ops anyone knew about, apparently he was used solely to watch the airport, report on the movements of people of interest, shuttle fellow brothers from there into Amman, facilitate their movement onward to wherever they were intent on going—Iraq or Afghanistan, most likely, but often in the other direction, toward Europe.

  They’d already sent the list of all the numbers from his cell phone to Paris, and had already put a listening watch on several of them. The watch would rotate through the list throughout the day until they heard something that would key them to the most interesting numbers. The photos the man had taken with the phone’s camera were also in Paris for analysis.

  “Good,” Broussard said, shuffling through the file on his desk where he found the three 8 X 10 glossy color shots. “Who are these Arabs he was photographing?” he asked the speakerphone on his desk.

  In Amman, the two men looked at each other, each gave a Gallic shrug, and the chief of Amman station answered, “we do not know, director. Jean saw them, of course, but there were many Arabs on the flights that arrived about then. Nothing unusual about this family, except perhaps that the man, the tall one, is probably military. The walk, you understand, Director?”

  “Ah, yes, I understand,” Broussard replied, thinking. “And they are at the American Embassy now, yes? Well, I hope I don’t need to suggest that we need to know more about these people, gentlemen. Anything else for me just now?”

  Jean spoke then, a low, liquid voice that was both calm and menacing. “Only this, sir. There were a number of odd players in the game last night. I believe there was another American on the flight that arrived with the Arabs, although they were not obviously together. He is probably at the embassy also, but it was dark so I cannot be certain. Then there was another operative watching the street along the wall across from the compound when I arrived to take our man—I barely beat him to it and he nearly interfered with me. Very fast, very discreet, very professional. Last, I believe there was a British agent involved somehow. A Land Rover drove between me and the Arabs along the same route from the airport, and turned off in front of the American embassy in the direction the British mission, several blocks away. I do not think it stopped, nor do I think they observed me. That is all.”

  There was a long pause as Broussard thought in Paris and the two men in Amman squirmed uncomfortably, waiting. Finally the Boss said, “Very good, gentlemen, very good. Jean, my particular compliments on your work last night, it is very helpful. Now, I have much to do so I will go. But do what you can to keep an eye on this interesting caravan of people, and please keep me informed. We’ll send you anything we have here that comes from the data you’ve provided today. Any questions?”

  The Chief said, “No, Director,” raising his eyebrow at his companion in both a question and a plea. He wanted this to be over. The other shook his head very slightly.

  “Goodbye then, gentlemen” came Broussard’s voice, and the secure phone went silent.

  The two men looked at each other for a long minute, each keeping his own thoughts. Jean looked at his Amman counterpart, then glanced with emphasis at the TV image of the Arab down the hall.

  The Chief gave the Gallic shrug again, both eyebrows raised this time, and just the lightest trace of a smirk on his face.

  “Bon,” Jean whispered. “I’ll take care of it. You take care of setting up surveillance on the Americans, and God help us. The man I saw on the street is dangerous. Send your best people and tell them to be careful.” He left quietly, headed in the direction of the cold stone room and the Arab, who would not see another dawn.