*****
Fahd had walked two hundred meters along the embankment, and back again, twice now. He was on his third lap and beginning to get nervous; it was five minutes after five o’clock. “Where is the God forsaken boat?” he wondered. “This must be the place, but why should the jackal be late?” and he cursed all French under his breath for being tardy.
There was plenty of traffic on the river to be sure, but he had not seen one called BatoBus in the nearly thirty nine minutes he’d been here. It was getting on toward dusk and getting colder as well. He’d left his hotel nearly five hours ago and Fadia would certainly be nervous by now. He was hungry, tired and angry as he passed under the bridge heading east on his route, when he looked straight up into the early evening sky in a silent appeal to God to make the boat appear. He was not looking for anything but grace; what he saw sent a chill through him. There was the briefest glimpse of the same small man, for a moment leaning on the railing of the bridge and also looking to the east, and then he was gone.
Fahd brought his eyes quickly back down to scan the embankment path ahead, and with relief he saw the boat, at last, turning in from the center of the river and headed for a landing at his dock. “What is that man, a devil?” he wondered aloud, in Arabic this time. “How can he have found me again?” Who else is helping him? My God, what about Fadia and the children?” Again he shivered. Now he saw the boat would dock in a minute or two, it was time to decide. “Well, I am not a woman” he thought, ‘the little man can’t be that big a problem, if he is not armed, and that is not likely in Paris.” He hoped that was true. “What to do? Should I lead him away from Cameron? Perhaps that is safest.” The boat touched and a deckhand jumped across to the dock to make it fast. The crowd began to queue for boarding. “What to do?” He ran again through the email with Cameron. “Well, he suspected I would be followed again, he must have a plan. He prefers I come on the boat. Very well, so be it.” He turned on his heel and made for the back of the queue. He could not see the follower anywhere, but he did not want to obviously look around, either. “He does not know that I’ve marked him. I am a Frenchman, taking an easy afternoon in Paris on a fine April day. I have no reason to believe anyone will follow me, I have nothing to hide. I only have to be calm and get on the boat.”
There were perhaps ten people ahead of him, and more joining behind him from the comfort of their benches near the ticket kiosk. When his turn came, he showed his ticket and climbed across the gunwale, taking the two steps down to the deck quick and light. Knowing Cameron would be near the stern he turned left into the Plexiglas-enclosed cabin, shunning a seat in the open bows of the vessel. With an effort he avoided a panicked search of the cabin that might have given Cameron away. There was a seat five rows from the front, he took it and sat, facing the entrance with a view of the gangway. As an afterthought, he reached into his coat pocket and withdrew his copy of the Koran, then watched forward as discreetly as he could, thumbing the pages slowly.
There he was. The follower came aboard between two middle aged American women. Fahd made a quick- but-smooth movement from front to back across the bald pate of his head with his right hand, and then the small man disappeared forward; apparently he chose to sit out on the deck and then to follow when Fahd emerged from the cabin. “He is not stupid” the general thought. Someone sneezed loudly behind him. He thought nothing about that for a moment, then he wondered. “Cameron?” he thought hopefully. “Perhaps he is telling me that he saw? Let us hope so.”
It took another seven minutes before everyone was seated, and the same deckhand cast off the line at the bow and bounded aboard. The pilot in his cubicle jockeyed the throttles and moved the boat away from the dock, slowly at first then gathering speed as she cleared it and made her way into the central channel of the Seine. The view was spectacular, cirrus clouds slid across a high, Spring sky; the sun was going down casting a faint orange pale on the ragged, torn edges. Back to the east the sky had already turned a deep purple, creeping west through a blur of hues to the still bright blue due west. The river bent left about half a mile ahead, and on the south side, around the corner, Fahd could see the Eiffel tower in silhouette against the multicolored sky. It was time for maghrib, but there would clearly be no mosque and no prayer anytime soon; it looked like it would be at least a twenty minute trip to the tower, and Cameron had said the boat would first pass it and then turn back before it stopped there on the opposite side of the river. “No matter,” he thought. He had his Koran in hand anyway, he knew the prayers and the right verses to recite. “Allahu akhbar, Allahu akhbar, Allahu akhbar” he began repeating in his head, “God is most great, God is most great, God is most great . . .” In a moment, he was lost in the mystery of prayer, and forgot everything about his troubles and this worrisome follower.
Up in the bow Ahmed Kisani was uncomfortable and cold, the boat was making something like five knots that drove a frigid breeze over the prow and right through his coat. He cursed France again and thought of home, which reminded him that it was time for evening prayer. According to his habit he cast about for an excuse not to pray, and decided that since he was doing God’s work following this man, and since he was on this wretched boat in the middle of this wretched river in wretched, cold France, God must intend for him to miss this prayer. He omitted the thought that followed it just at the edge of his conscience, that it had been days since he had prayed even once let alone the five times a day that was his duty. He could not even turn his back to the wind for fear that, facing the cabin, his quarry might see him, and know that he was being followed. He cursed again under his breath and drew his arms across his lap, deep in his pockets, and tried to tuck his chin and face behind the collar of his coat.
Ahmed thus passed a truly miserable twenty minutes in the bow of the BatoBus boat, and Fahd a blissful twenty minutes of prayer in the comfortable cabin. Each stirred back to the here and now only when they felt the boat making it’s wide turn back toward the tower, and each returned to his duty, one from heaven, and the other from hell. It occurred to Fahd as he recalled his nemesis there forward that perhaps it had been very cold, and perhaps the man had been in hell up there. “How appropriate” he hoped.
Five minutes later the deckhand once again swung across the short gap and onto the dock, making the line fast at the bow. Passengers all along the boat stood up to collect themselves. A queue formed in the aisle. Fahd stood but did not move into line; he would wait as he’d been told. He buttoned his coat to the top button and turned up his collar against the cold he expected outside. There was no sign of his follower forward.
People were moving up the aisle and onto the dock, there was a sneeze again just to his right. He did not look, but saw in the corner of his eye a figure pass along the aisle. The walk did not look right, there was a slight limp and the figure was stooped and old-looking. Fahd dismissed this man and waited, nearly missing the man’s stumble as he reached the stairs. “Cameron?” He was amazed. What had happened to the vigorous young man he knew? The man wore a black wool coat, turned up at the collar, a black hat not unlike the one Fahd had bought two hours ago for his disguise, black slacks and shoes. He was over the gunwale now and moving off at his crippled pace. Fahd moved now, fearing he would lose his way. He stepped into line and was off the boat in a moment, looking for the slumped man. He saw him crossing the square, about seventy-five meters ahead, toward the Tower and the park beyond. “Fifty meters” he remembered. He began to walk at a brisk pace to catch up. Through his concern for his friend’s health he thought of the difficult time the small man would be having keeping up with his long gait.
A casual observer could not have guessed that the trio were together in any way. There was an old man making his way under the arches of the Eiffel and into the park, probably aiming toward his home somewhere in the dark warren of century-old buildings east and north of the great monument. Then there was a distin
guished looking man of above-average height, walking with a purpose, perhaps to meet someone for dinner at one of the trendy restaurants in that same quarter of the city. Another wanderer hurried along toward his own destination some way behind. It was growing quite dark, only a thin sliver of blue bordered by yellow, orange, scarlet, and then the deep black of approaching night showed on the horizon. The nearly-useless street lamps of Paris were just beginning to come on.
At the edge of the park all three men turned north along the Avenue Gustave Eiffel and continued their slow advance. A block went by, was interrupted by a narrow street, and another began. Another minute and a second alley passed on the right. Up ahead Fahd saw a third alley yawning darkness that seemed to spill into the dimly lit street, and the elderly man limping along passed it and kept going. He was nearly sure now that he must be following the wrong man. If this went on for another block, he would find the next public place, a restaurant perhaps on a busier street a few blocks ahead, and there he would try to find a taxi. He’d go back to his hotel, sleep, and tomorrow he would find another internet café and try again. He was passing the third alley himself now, and the man up ahead turned a corner and vanished from sight. Concerned, Fahd increased his pace slightly, just in case.
Several things happened at once as he reached the corner and turned. A strong grip took him and heaved him around the corner. There was a confused explosion of sound behind him, the way they’d just come. Adrenaline fired through his limbs and he started to struggle with this unexpected assailant, but the grip was like iron and he was swept in a semicircle to his left until his back came to rest against the wall of the building. He looked at his attacker in the dim light, preparing some strike in return, then relaxing. Under the hat the bent old man now stood ramrod straight at six feet, his legs slightly apart in a strong stance, and the face of Colonel Paul Cameron grinned out of the darkness. The grip on his coat relaxed and an index finger pressed to Cameron’s smile. “Quiet for a moment, abu-Mohammed” he whispered, barely audible.
Away around the corner the odd noise continued for another thirty seconds, then the night was quiet once again except for the sounds of distant traffic. Cameron looked satisfied, listening with his head cocked slightly to one side. He thought for a moment, then smiled again, a queer smile that was at once both pleased and something else. “Shall we go and have a look at your little friend?” Cameron asked.
“What do you mean?” Fahd was still recovering.
“I think he has had an accident, and as people of God we should go and see if he needs assistance. Come, I may need you anyway.” Cameron led the way around the corner and back toward the dark alley, no trace of the limp now as he moved like water flowing over the even ground. They walked perhaps twenty meters, Fahd slightly behind and to the right, before three figures materialized out of the gloom. Cameron held out a hand in front of Fahd and said quietly in Arabic “Not too close, my friend. Step to your right ten feet or so, off of the sidewalk just a little. Watch and be ready.”
“Ready for what?” Fahd wanted to ask? “What the hell is going on? When did your Arabic get to be that good?” But Cameron’s tone did not want conversation. Fahd moved as he was told and focused on the figure nearest to him.
“Buenas noches” Cameron said to the man in the middle of the three. “I see you have come. How is our little friend?”
“He will live, but he will not be moving about for a while, and not quickly for a while after that” was Miguel’s reply. “Let us finish our business and get out of here.”
“I need the ID and one credit card from his wallet, if you please,” and Cameron held out his right hand, his left foot sliding back slightly, the right pointed directly at Miguel, the left hand loose and open at his side.
“First the two hundred euros” Miguel demanded.
Cameron shook his head, and wagged his left index finder at the second man, to his left, who had started to move. “No mistakes gentlemen. Patricio, a while ago you had a taste. This time I will break your arm so that it may never heal, you will be crippled as well as fat and ugly. Do not be stupid tonight. One hundred and fifty euros was agreed, and you keep the thirty that you already have. Sixty euros each for beating up a midget is much better than a hospital bed for tonight. Take the money, go find some food and something to drink, perhaps Pablo’s sister even.” This last he said as his gaze fixed on Miguel to his front.
In the dark Miguel fidgeted slightly, trying to decide what to do. This man was strange, he spoke strange Spanish from the Madonna knew where, and for a reason he could not name he was certain that the man would do exactly what he had just said he would do. Could he and Juan take him, and Patricio the other one over there? No, too risky, and they had all been here too long. “Very well, one hundred fifty señor” he said at last. He offered the license and a credit card.
Cameron looked hard at him for a moment, then slowly withdrew the cash from his coat pocket, relaxing as he stepped forward. The money and the cards changed hands.
“Gracias, vayan con dios”, "go with God," Cameron said at last. He motioned to Fahd and backed away a few steps, gave a limp salute to his Spanish toughs, then turned and walked quickly up the street and around the corner into the deepening gloom.
VI. Langley /Paris
Randy Anderson sipped the rapidly cooling coffee, his second cup today and probably his last, as he scanned through his inbox looking for urgent email that must have his attention. Others he would get to later. He worked from oldest to newest, which was relative, because he received new ones at the rate of several per minute.
He was looking for any news of Cameron, who should be in Paris today, since this morning local time. He looked at his watch again: it would be five-thirty in the afternoon there now, eleven thirty in the morning Langley time. He reached the emails that came in around eight this morning, just after two p.m. Paris time. Nothing so far.
There was a message about another operation going down in Yemen, nothing fancy, just a little spying on someone who was nominally an ally of the United States, but you could never be sure these days. Some allies, like the French, didn’t seem to be able to figure out how to act like one most of the time, or so it appeared to many Americans. He scrolled up. There was an email about some information for the President’s Daily Briefing, or PDB. He read it, thought for a moment, approved the inclusion and directed that the Briefing also include some related info, along with the file name where it could be found. Further up he found a note about his meeting this afternoon with the director of the National Security Agency. Another about a personnel matter he’d been working on, a promotion he was arranging for one of his favorite field operatives. There, a note from Mr. Jones. He opened it and read:
For DDO Langley:
Phoenix arrived in Paris on schedule, but lost his minder somewhere enroute into downtown. Probably slipped through a hotel lobby near l’Opera. Unexpected touch. Present whereabouts unknown. He checked in by email two hours ago, nothing since then.
Falcon has also checked in by email, and he received instructions for the contact with Phoenix. Unknown whether contact has occurred, but Falcon’s check-in was also nearly two hours ago. Fortunate timing, both subjects at machines at approximately the same time. Assume that contact has been made but do not know if a meeting has occurred.
No opposition in play that we’ve seen.
Jones
Anderson thought for a moment. “Lost his tail? How’d he do that, the sly bugger? Who’s he worried about, us or someone else? Well, guess it serves us right trying to tail him in the first place, can’t blame him for losing us. That’s actually good news, our boy can take care of himself. Still, I’m going to have some ass for our guy getting lost. No opposition—of course not you hack, you haven’t seen him since he hit town ten hours ago” He typed
Jones
Understand, appears our boy knows how to play. Suggest you check
to see if he’s used one of our credit cards, find his hotel, pick him up again. Use Intel if you need them, my authority. Let me know when you have something, direct.
DDO
He stabbed the “Send” button. “That’ll cause shit to fly down in Intel.” He chuckled. Normally, he was careful not to get directly involved in field ops. He had good people who did it for a living now, he was supposed to let them do their jobs. “Well, what good is it being the Big Cheese around here if I can’t sail some excrement around once in a while.”
Two floors down and at the other corner of the building, Jones sat back from his screen and looked up at the ceiling. “Great” he mumbled to the tiles up there. “DDO knows I’m alive, which could be great for my career, except he also thinks I’m a complete fuck up, which I am. Jesus.” Jones was his real name, a source of some humor among his colleagues. He was not a hack, though. He was a seasoned field agent, had proven he could be resourceful and unpredictable, the kind of agent the Agency had a reputation for, but didn’t actually have many of. He thought for a few minutes. “What’s Phoenix know, and what does he not know?” He didn’t have a clue. He considered forwarding the DDO’s message to the guys in Intel along with his request for a scan of Paris hotels for a credit card. Maybe the DDO’s hand would get him some cooperation with those guys. He re-read the email, “not good.” “No use anyone else knowing the Boss is pissed at me” he observed. Instead, he killed his screen and got up, headed for the Intel desk and a guy who owed him a favor. “This will go better face to face.”