*****
“Allahu akhabaaaarrrr, alllaaaaahhhhh u-akhbarrr . . .” a man’s tenor voice was singing somewhere, in Arabic, with a loudspeaker to boost the volume.
Paul Cameron came fully awake with this realization, struggling to take stock of where he was and what was happening. A glance out the window revealed just a faint tinge of light to the clear night sky, in his room it was still quite dark except for the light from the digital alarm clock on the bedside table. Four-forty-seven. His mind still swimming, he lay back again and blinked. The voice outside continued to sing, “God is Great, prayer is good, come to prayer” he translated, and this done, he sorted out where he was and what was happening. “God is Great” he said softly aloud. “Morning prayer call, Amman, Jordan.” He’d slept very soundly. Still, the noise would be over in a few minutes, the faithful would pray, or not if they were not so devout, and then most of the city would go back to sleep for another three or four hours.
He lay there enjoying the haunting singing. The man had an excellent voice, after all, the minor key was striking, the words simple, the command powerful. He thought for what must have been the thousandth time that it was no wonder there were so many of the faithful the world over. It had been nearly six years since he’d traveled in this part of the world and heard it, but it struck him deep as it always did. “Too bad so many of them have gone nuts,” he mumbled. “Otherwise I’d bring Elizabeth out here, maybe the kids as well, lots to see, so much history . . .”
He sat up in bed and took stock of the room. The American Embassy in Amman is large, with VIP quarters on the compound to ensure a secure place for senior US visitors, often the Secretary of State, rarely the President or one of his close advisors or personal envoys. None of them were here today, and none expected anytime soon, so he’d been given a very nice suite. He wasn’t sure if that was because he was a full Colonel in the Air Force, or because of his connection with the DDO. There were several large carpets on the wide tiled floor, most of them Persian he noted with interest and admiration, but three were Turkoman tribal rugs from Afghanistan and the surrounding “stans” where the vast Turkic tribes roamed or now lived in villages and towns. These carpets were his favorites, each one unique but still similar in their simple color schemes of madder red, indigo, white, cream, black, and occasionally just a little bit of green wool. Rolling off the bed, he walked over to the nearest of these and sat down, examining the stiff, short pile and the intricate design. This one had a large, octagonal-shaped figure repeated regularly in two lines running the length of the rug, gold-colored wool woven into the borders, with geometric figures in red woven through the indigo background, and an occasional diamond or triangle of white for accent. “Kizil ayak,” he said to the empty suite. He owned one of these himself, it decorated his office floor back in Ohio. “And that one is Sarouk, this one is Salor, very nice,” rounded out the appraisal of the other two Afghan rugs.
The call to prayer had ended, and quiet had returned to the world for the moment, but the sky outside was lightening. It would be a clear day, probably hot, but fine for travel. A long day. Changing his mind about going back to sleep, he rose, padded over to the bathroom. When he emerged he found a clear space of tile between two exquisite Persian rugs, and began his ritual calisthenics.
Fahd would be at prayer, he thought, as the pushups piled up. Likely the older kids, too, but they would go back to sleep until at least eight. He’d meet the men, including his new traveling companions, for breakfast in the cafeteria a bit after that. Not much time to get to know them last night, just introductions and then off to bedrooms for everyone. The new men were sharp-eyed, sharp-featured, light-ish skinned like Fahd, with quick smiles and easy laughs. They’d greeted him with considerable respect, called him “Aqid” which is “Colonel”. Fahd must have briefed them. Cameron smiled.
Switching to sit-ups, he wondered whether Allen had learned anything more overnight about the guy in the last car. He’d missed that show of course, already inside the compound, but there’d been a quick debrief last night. Good that whoever was following “someone” was off the street, but there was clearly more than one “side” in the game now, followers following followers, very strange, things getting complicated. They’d have to sort that out somehow before setting off today, maybe even set up some kind of diversion to slip away out of town without growing a tail. It’d be awkward if someone set upon them in the desert between Amman and Ha’il, probably messy, too with Allen along. That was not a guy people wanted to screw with if they knew what was good for them.
This also made Cameron smile, but while the thought was amusing, the less diabolical part of his brain interjected that the idea was to be stealthy, not leave a trail of bodies halfway across the Middle East. “Did enough of that across Europe” he mumbled aloud, but the smile was still there. “Six hundred,” for the last situp. He lay on his back now on the Persian Kashan carpet, staring at the ceiling as he caught his breath and let the stomach muscles relax a bit. After two minutes he got up and turned on the shower, maybe the last he’d have for a few dusty, hot days until they reached al-Ha’il. After the shower, he was going to find Allen and the Chief of Station, see what they knew, and sort out some kind of plan for the day.