The Phoenix Affair

  *****

  They rolled into the tiny village of Rafha just after four in the afternoon with the late April sun still fairly high in the Western sky, but the heat dimming noticeably. In the lead vehicle General Fahd ended the call on his personal cell phone and issued a short series of directions in Arabic that Cameron did not catch much of. Then Fahd said in English, “Paul, our people have been working on the camp for about thirty minutes. We’ll just find some gas for the cars here in the town, then carry on to the south a little way into the desert.”

  “Fine,” Cameron said with a yawn, stretching and looking around. The town was not much to look at. The buildings were all pretty shabby, and there was a liberal sprinkling of trash along the streets and against the sides of the houses and shops. Everything was coated in dust, a casualty of the wind, mostly. There was little traffic, fewer pedestrians, not much sign of commerce or prosperity. He wondered what these people could possibly be living on out here in the middle of nowhere, or how long this place had been here—did it predate the road, or did it grow up around a gas station afterward? He looked out with new concentration, searching for pens that might hold sheep or goats for the night. There, he saw a few, in fact most of what he took to be homes had crude pens at the back made from ancient sticks of wood, or less ancient steel fenceposts and wire. Bedouin, then, maybe. There were no women on the street. Maybe another indication. The few men all wore the checkered shamak on their heads, desert Arabs, but of course that was no guarantee, either. City Arabs were typically supposed to wear a plain white one, but he’d learned years back from a friend with a gold shop that lots of city folk wore the checker as an ethnic cultural icon. Cameron smiled—Majid had actually compared it to Urban Cowboys wearing Stetsons and boots in downtown Dallas, or worse yet, Chicago. But these guys looked like the real article, he thought the rough leather sandals probably made the case. Shoes again. He looked at his watch for the date, which he wasn’t sure made sense, tried to count the nights again, settled on Friday for today. Day of prayer, day of rest. Shops closed after four, usually, the people in their homes with family for the evening. It was weird being in Saudi Arabia again, but oddly familiar at the same time.

  “Abu-Muhammed,” he said to Fahd, “what kind of camp are we to have this evening?” He did his best to raise one eyebrow and affect a quizzical, suspicious face.

  “Why, abu-Sean, a Saudi camp, of course. A proper Saudi camp. We’ll have . . .”

  “Enough,” Cameron cut him off. “I know, and I can hardly wait to see it. I suspected as much. I’m pleased for my colleagues, though. I’d hoped we would show them some of the charms of the Kingdom.”

  “That we shall, my friend, that we shall. I am surprised you even had to ask!”

  XXI. Riyadh/Northern Desert

  Mohammed stared into space as he munched on the warm bread, seasoned with garlic, rosemary and onions, melted cheese over all. It would have been pizza but for the lack of tomato sauce, but Mohammed had never eaten pizza, so it was no great loss. He finished chewing and swallowed heavily, drank off a long draught of lukewarm Pepsi, and carried on with another huge mouthful.

  To his left, right and front at the little square table three of his six men were doing the same—the twins and the man Jabreel who he did not know too well, and who was at his table the better that this should be corrected. Mohammed had no great experience of actual bloody combat, especially not against a potential party of active and determined defenders, but from what little he had he did know it was imperative to know one’s comrades in such a case, and he meant to know how this man would behave if it came to that.

  He’d satisfied himself in the first ten minutes of waiting for the food that all would go well with Jabreel, however. Now his mind was far away, thinking of how he might do a reconnaissance of the target compound, how the plan might be put together rather quickly, how the men should be divided into teams, who should lead and what tasks each group might be assigned. Most of that he had in hand, he thought, and he was wondering about the one thing that vexed him: who Khalid would send to join him, what kind of men they would be, and most important, who would presume to be their leader. Discipline was not all that could be wished with the Brothers when it came to that. And he was aware that often young men who were very excited by the nervousness before action for the first time could be prickly and proud, defensive of their honor lest they should appear to be afraid. It would be a delicate business to take command, to quickly forge a unit that could act as one, and to do the thing fast enough to get away before any force of authorities could muster and then destroy him. This last he put aside with the self-assurance that with the arms Khalid had promised to send he would surely outgun both his victims and any local police or interior ministry troops who might be in al-Ha’il. It would be enough to get away, whatever thing might arise.

  He came out of his daze with this thought fading from his mind, noticing at the same time that his bread was finished and his plate clean. The light can revealed the Pepsi was all but gone as well, and a quick toss destroyed it entirely. A brief glance over his shoulder at the other table—the other men were finishing up—and he said to his people, “That was excellent, by the grace of God. Gentlemen, let us be on our way.”

  Outside the Riyadh air was like a blast furnace, the one hundred twenty degrees magnified by a steady breeze from the northwest. Mohammed shrugged with some pleasure after the chill of the air-conditioned restaurant. He felt the briefest beginnings of sweat form on his arms under the thob that covered them, and then all dried away in an instant, giving way to that curious dry-desert cooling effect of evaporation under light clothing. He walked to the nearest of the two vehicles they traveled in, the Land Cruiser, and the twins and Isa their cousin joined him. Jabreel walked around to the Nissan SUV with the others, and in a few moments they pulled out into traffic. They rode just the two blocks north on King Abdulaziz Road, entered the roundabout under the overpass that carried the six-lane Riyadh-to-Mecca highway, wound around it two hundred seventy degrees, and up the entrance ramp. By the time they reached the motorway and merged with the traffic the speedometer indicated one hundred-thirty kilometers per hour.

  Mohammed turned off the radio and glanced meaningfully at Isa in the passenger seat. “Listen, now, all of you, and I will sketch out the beginnings of the plan that we will carry out tomorrow or the next day. We will have five groups of six men each, if our friends come as they have promised, each of us leading a group and the last led by whomever it appears is in charge of the newcomers . . .