Ibrahim checked his watch just after nine-thirty and took another sip of his café au lait. His train to Cologne would leave in another half hour or just under, probably boarding twenty minutes ahead of time. Another casual scan around the small café confirmed his confidence that he had escaped unnoticed, and more importantly, not without some potentially useful information.
He’d left the subway a stop after he’d been forced to let the Americans go, his skin still crawled a little when he thought of the bigger man almost sniffing the air there on the platform, and then looking directly at Ibrahim. But never mind. He’d taken a chance guess and a roundabout route to the American embassy near the Place du la Concorde, and he’d waited a block away from the rear entrance to the compound hidden in a basement stairwell. An hours’ time proved a good investment. He’d seen the two men and one other leave the compound in two vehicles. He knew for certain at least that he’d been destroyed, nearly killed, by Americans. He also knew his quarry was Saudi, and he had a fair certainty that they would soon be leaving France, probably as quietly as they could manage.
Without much time before his train, he’d gone to an internet café, thinking as he walked, and when he arrived he’d had a pretty good idea what should be done. It was too early to expect any response from Khalid, but he’d emailed anyway. His network was destroyed, Americans had intervened, he himself was moving to Cologne for the time being to insure he was not captured, perhaps to return to Paris in a months’ time or more. He recommended two things: first, that Khalid attempt to interdict the Saudi when they arrived back in the Kingdom, although he did not know how or where. Second, that this might be aided if their connections in some key European cities were told to watch for the Saudis at their embassies in those cities for the next couple of days. Ibrahim reasoned that they would need new papers to get out of the EU. That done, he’d emailed his own contacts in Berlin, Zurich, Geneva, and London with the specific request that they monitor the Saudi Embassies for the next two days, providing a description of the General and asking for photographs to be taken if he was seen.
He’d found a telephone store as it opened precisely at nine o’clock and bought a new phone, the old one was in a sewer a few blocks from the station where he now sat. He would charge it on the train to Germany and call Khalid himself when he was safely in a hotel there.
The call to board his train interrupted this review, but he was pleased as he gathered his duffel and coat, palmed the cup of coffee, and walked toward the platform. His depression of early morning had given way to a feeling of confidence. He’d been put out of operation for a while, but he was not out of the picture entirely, and he had a feeling that, mashallah, “by the Grace of God”, he would manufacture his own luck and an opportunity to take revenge on both the Saudis and the Americans.
XVI. London/Washington/Riyadh
“Paris, Saratoga Foxtrot-two-three-five-Papa-Alpha level at eight thousand.”
“Saratoga Five Papa Alpha, Paris Approach Control, Roger. You are cleared direct via GPS to London and destination as filed, maintain eight thousand.”
“Five Papa Alpha, roger,” Cameron acknowledged. He grinned as he looked right to General Fahd in the co-pilot’s seat. “You want to fly, abu-Mohammed?”
Fahd grinned back, “Absolutely abu-Sean. I’ve never flown one of these.” He took the yoke on his side and said “My airplane.”
“Your airplane, General. It’s nothing compared to what we’re used to, so much slower, but flying’s flying. Here’s the autopilot switches if you decide you don’t want to hand fly. If you can handle air traffic control and the radios for a while, I might try to take a nap for twenty minutes or so.”
“I’ve got it, Paul.”
Cameron could see his friend instantly take on the look he imagined would be on his own face if he were flying: eyes scanning the horizon and the instrument panel in a rapid sequence, the altitude remained pegged at precisely eight thousand feet. Behind him, he could see that Mohammed and Aziz were asleep, the two women were chatting quietly. “OK, you got it. Wake me before we go feet-wet over the Channel or when they pass us over to the first English ATC station, whichever comes first.”
“Got it, go to sleep,” the General said. Cameron leaned his head against the window on his left and was out like a light in a minute.