High Treason

by DiAnn Mills

“Are you sure?” Monica enjoyed working at the café, although she could be whisked away at any given moment.

  “We’re sister-friends, aren’t we? Just call me when you can.”

  “You’re the best.” Soon enough she’d have to quit her job and move on to wherever the CIA sent her.

  “What can I do to help? I understand family and personal issues, and I’m praying, but what else?”

  She’d have an ulcer soon. “I wish I could talk more. Just impossible.”

  “No worries. You’ve had to take off before, and it always works out.”

  “Lori, a shipment of coffee beans is coming in. I’m sticking you with roasting them.”

  “Who showed you how to use the roaster?” Lori laughed rather musically, and Monica bathed in the temporary relief. “When you’re ready, I’d like to hear what’s going on with your family.”

  “No big thing.” Monica’s family had no clue how she occupied her time.

  “My worry is the sacrifices you’re making. I hope your family appreciates you. Anyway, I’d like to think you’re on your way to Costa Rica. Some gorgeous Latin guy is waiting to sweep you off your feet.”

  Monica sighed. The CIA was her family, and there was no gorgeous hunk in her path. “How did you guess?” Her five minutes were nearly up. “I have to run. Are we okay? I mean, I’m saddling you with all this extra work.”

  “You deal with your problem. Prayers headed your way.”

  Regret swept through Monica for hiding her career from Lori, the dear friend who sat beside her in church, where they sang praises and prayed together.

  Pushing her cover life to the side, she needed to focus on the new assignment and process a ton of data. Add to the mix a partner who’d voiced his opinion about the two of them being a lousy fit. This had disaster written all over it. Working alone was her preference. Taking on a partner complicated her trust issues, but she’d give it her best.

  She dropped her phone inside her bag and stepped into the kitchen. There she eased onto the chair beside Agent Davidson.

  The idea of Jeff entrusting her to a task force meant he had more confidence in her than she had in herself.

  Jeff caught her eye contact. “You and Kord have notes to compare. We all do. Talk through the police and FBI reports sent to your phones while SAC Thomas and I continue our discussion in the sitting room. In five minutes, you two are to head out to investigate this morning’s crime scene. FBI and HPD are on it, but we want your perspective. Initial reporting confirms a sniper fired from the roof of Paramount High School.”

  “Did anyone get my change of clothes from the trunk before taking my car?” she said.

  “No. I’ll get what you need later.”

  She’d deal with it. “Yes, sir.”

  The two men left the room. She took account of the time. Davidson sat at the table poring over his phone.

  “What can you tell me about Prince Omar?” she said. “I’ve heard the media claims of his extravagance, appreciation of beautiful women and fast cars. But who is the real man, the one you call friend?”

  His gaze swung her way, not as harsh yet still chilly. “He’s a strong and powerful man. Outstanding speaker. Successful businessman. Excellent father. Media claims miss the mark of the real man. And he loves his country and mother.”

  In which order? But she’d hold her tongue. All good stuff, except Kord had a bit of prejudice in his eval.

  He pointed to her secure phone on the table, and she picked it up. “The last several hours are documented. With your memory, shouldn’t take long for you to answer your own questions.”

  She slid him a sideways observation before navigating her phone. “Special Agent Davidson, do I hear sarcasm?”

  He sighed and leaned back in the chair. “Call me Kord. And nothing personal against you, but this won’t work for Prince Omar’s protective detail.”

  “Because I’m a woman. I get it. Experienced it all in the Middle East.” She returned her attention to reading about Princess Gharam. His mother had not responded to typical treatments. Neither was she a candidate for a stem cell transplant. Sadly enough, she didn’t have the rank of the favorite wife. In fact there were rumors of a divorce. Poor woman. Monica hoped to befriend her. Knowing the prince cared for her raised his status from the tabloids.

  “We need hours to analyze intel and process Middle East chatter, and we don’t have it,” she said.

  “Can you only work with precise organization?”

  “No. But it helps.” The report about Kord fascinated her. “You’ve worked a few impressive missions in Prince Omar’s part of the world.”

  “I gain a lot of satisfaction from what I do. And I’m at my best working solo.” Not a single involuntary muscle twitch.

  “So you’ve said. For the record, I’m not a partner kind of operative either.” She noted his black hair held a slight wave. Unlike her, his looks gave him the ability to pass for one of the prince’s team. “I learned a long time ago that life often tosses rancid garbage. Deal with what’s presented.”

  His face reddened. “Ralph spoke of your missions in Iran and Iraq. What’s your experience with Saudi culture? Haven’t had time to read it yet.”

  “I can handle myself.”

  “You’d better if you want to stay alive.”

  For over a year, she’d served coffee to customers while monitoring and recording conversations. When he read her résumé, he’d see her background. His objections should dissipate with her experience. “The real question is who’s behind the attempt on the prince’s life today.”

  “Rhetorical, don’t you think?”

  She read on. A description of Prince Omar’s private jet played into his reputation for being extravagant: a Boeing 747-400, $500 million. She couldn’t imagine such luxury, a flying five-star hotel.

  Did she really have the confidence for this assignment? Never mind. If she wanted to raise her status and prove her value to the CIA, then she had to give 200 percent. But how quickly could she grasp the unique skills to help keep the prince and his family alive?

  God, while I’m giving the impression of knowing how to handle Prince Omar’s security with my confidence at zero, I need You desperately. Poke my heart when I’m about to mess up. And please pick up the pieces when I fall.

  KORD WHIPPED HIS CHARGER into the parking lot of the retail shopping strip housing Frozen Rock and parked next to an HPD barricade. Officers covered the area, lights flashing. A TV van with a camera crew and reporter were live on the scene. Monica appeared to take in every detail of the gathered crowd and investigators, her face a mass of concentration.

  He fought the frustration inching up his spine about the ludicrous situation between the CIA and the FBI. Did they believe Zain’s death was his fault? And it was Kord who’d not stopped Zain’s killer? Were his thoughts his own insecurity about not following his instincts this morning and avoiding Zain’s death?

  Kord had the ability to protect Prince Omar and didn’t need anyone to help him. The prince would not be pleased with the arrangement. His—

  Kord halted his thoughts midstream. Why waste brain cells? Prince Omar would ignore Monica and rely on him. She might have impressive skills, but she was still a woman, and the Saudis lived in a gender-segregated culture.

  Under normal circumstances, he’d be attracted to the little woman beside him with the long blonde hair. Blue eyes. Super hot. Super smart or she’d not be in her position. But the situation was super irritating.

  “The elephant between us refuses to eat my peanuts,” she said with her attention on the phone.

  “The elephant is a Saudi prince who has a distinct opinion about a woman’s role.”

  “He’s in the US. Our turf. Our terms.”

  “Can’t change his beliefs because he has a temporary address.”

  “Look. I’m aware of Middle Eastern culture. For the record, I’ve used it to my advantage. Makes me wonder who has the biggest problem with it, you or Prince Omar?
”

  “A man would have his respect.”

  “And yours?”

  “I’m not sexist.”

  “Are you sure?” She dropped her phone into her bag. “Both of you will have to get over it. I have the assignment, and I intend to work it.”

  He scratched the back of his neck. “You have no idea how hard this will be.”

  “I’ll manage.”

  He sensed her eyes drilling a hole into him. “Are you planning my demise?”

  “No. We have our differences, but I’m thinking about the day. I’m sorry your friend Zain was killed.”

  “Thanks.” Later he’d manage his grief. He’d been assigned to Prince Omar before Zain was killed, and he wanted to see the case to the end, find the killer, and protect the prince on his own terms. Not necessarily the best attitude, but he owned it. Mr. Ego himself.

  Monica would learn in a few short hours about Prince Omar’s beliefs. Kord banked on her quitting before the day was over—unless she was made of tougher stuff.

  The House of Saud had a hierarchy according to each family member’s status. Prince Omar’s ranking fell in the middle range of importance. His life and experiences were worlds apart from Kord’s, but they remained solid friends, a man whom Kord had trusted in the past. Western media depicted the prince as always in search of a good time. When Kord had been in Riyadh, he’d experienced a caring side of the prince with his immediate family and regard for those he met. He showed devotion to his two wives and seven sons.

  “Kord, what’s your gut take on the prince’s agenda?” Monica said. “Are his plans contributing to what happened?”

  “It’s more about which one of our joint enemies pulled the trigger today.”

  “Should I ask who despises us and the Saudis this week?”

  “Who doesn’t?”

  “Right. What else are you thinking?” she said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I sense there’s more.”

  “Are you a mind reader? That isn’t on your bio.”

  “Intuitive. So, partner, what’s spinning in your head?”

  She had a quirk or two. “If I were in Saudi Arabia, I’d be following up different leads. Prince Omar’s designs to negotiate with American oil and gas companies to lease oil reserves is a shrewd business move. Oil demands are declining, and better to conduct the business now than when the country has little choice.”

  “How are the Saudi conservatives handling the leases?” Monica said.

  Kord breathed in deeply. “They’re furious. They believe the oil reserves are given by Allah to the Saudis and therefore for the wealth of the kingdom. A dangerous move for Prince Omar and those who support him, but if the conservatives wanted the prince dead, they’d have made the attempt there.”

  “The oil leases could get him killed,” she said. “Or one of Saudi Arabia’s spiderweb of enemies is using the controversy to eliminate him. Is he wanting the negotiations to be completed before the Offshore Technology Conference in May?”

  “Most likely so. He’s on the roster for this year.”

  “Why is Prince Omar the one escorting his mother instead of his father? Then he could tend to business while she received care.” When Kord didn’t respond, she dove in. “Is he using his mother’s medical condition as a smoke screen?”

  “He’s keeping the media at bay.”

  “How much are they aware of his plans?”

  “Viewed as rumor. Fear missed Prince Omar’s DNA, and what happened today was unfortunate but not a barrier to his plans.”

  “Before we check out the crime scene, I want to hear the reporter,” she said.

  He couldn’t argue the point. Actually a good one. They clipped on their FBI IDs and moved to where a solemn-faced Hispanic woman took a deep breath before speaking into the live feed.

  She repeated information that Monica and Kord had been briefed on. “Police officers and the FBI are combing the area for information leading to the sniper’s identity. No other details are known at this time.”

  Neither Monica nor Kord said a word, instead continuing to the Frozen Rock, where a team of FBI agents were investigating the crime scene. Eeriness clamped on his heart, a vise of grief and dread. Zain had taken this same path earlier today. Nothing justified the murder of a good man.

  One of the agents, a man with premature gray hair, recognized him.

  “Davidson, you’re on this one?” the agent said.

  He nodded. “Richardson, this is my partner, Monica Alden.”

  Richardson reached out to take her hand. “We haven’t met. Keep this guy in line. He can be a maverick.”

  She laughed, and Kord liked the sound. “I will,” she said. “Good to meet you.”

  Kord got back to business. “Anything additional you can tell me?”

  “Clean kill. Professional hit. You already know that. We’re looking for anything left behind.”

  “I hear the shooter was across the street on the roof of the academic building at Paramount High School.”

  “Take a look at this.” Richardson pointed to the hole in the glass door facing the parking area.

  Kord followed the trajectory from where Zain had stood to the bullet lodged lower in the opposite wall of the store, an angle indicating the sniper had been positioned several feet away and higher at the high school. He should have concluded the sniper’s location this morning, but his attention had been diverted to the prince’s and his entourage’s safety.

  “We dug a round out of this wall. It’s mangled, but I’d say possibly a .300 Win Mag.”

  “Has security footage given us a lead?”

  “The owner here gave us permission. But we found nothing. City cams might show something.”

  “Thanks. Call me if you find anything.”

  “Will do. Good to meet you, Agent Alden.”

  Kord walked outside with her. “Those kids were in school when the shooting took place. This could have been a bloodbath. Makes me sick thinking about it.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” Monica said. “A student or a member of the faculty could identify the killer. Another course of danger. Has anything turned up in the interviews?”

  “Nothing solid yet. The arrangements to visit here were done in Riyadh. How did the sniper know the exact time we’d be there? That’s the big question.”

  “Not if Prince Omar has someone on his team who betrayed him.”

  “The prince has conducted extensive background checks on his bodyguards and staff. Impossible.”

  “Anyone can be bought,” she said.

  “Prince Omar’s men are loyal. Zain died for him today.”

  “Really? Money talks big.”

  Her cynicism brought out the worst in him. “I told you this partnership wouldn’t work. You know nothing about a brotherhood of loyalty.”

  For a fraction of a second, a flicker of anger crossed her eyes. Monica instantly reverted to her professional mode, the one they all practiced consistently. No emotion. End the crime. Do your job.

  “Don’t pitch your chauvinism at me. I’ve been where I wouldn’t want anyone to go.” She crossed her arms, then dropped them at her sides. “Ninety percent of our discussions are arguing. We can verbally kill each other or try to get along. Which will it be?”

  An hour at the prince’s home, and she’d resign. “We could be more civil.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  They walked to his car, where privacy was their closest companion. “I’m listening,” she said.

  “ISIS, al-Qaeda, and every terrorist group in between are supporting or taking responsibility for what happened.” He hesitated. “Someone paid for precise results. Once we know why, then we can nail the who.”

  “Or the other way around.” She sighed. “Think about where we’d be right now if the sniper had been successful and killed Prince Omar.” She shook her head. “That was unfeeling when your friend is gone.”

  He peered into her blue eyes. She looked
the farthest from a CIA operative, more like a J.Crew model. If he wasn’t careful, she’d be in the thick of his thoughts. “Every national security agency in the country is on this—checking through data on those with known terrorist affiliations.” But she knew that. “The high stakes of an operation like this point to a disaster of not only alienating Saudi but also their publicly joining some of our growing list of enemies.”

  “We’re on the same page.”

  “We’ll know more after we talk to investigators across the street. Later on we’ll have a security meeting with the prince at the Saud home. Prince Omar could very well have a suspect in mind by then and give us a name to question and end the killings. Are you familiar with Saudi etiquette?”

  “Enough to get by.”

  He smiled, couldn’t help himself. “I was afraid of that. Follow my lead, and if in doubt—”

  “Women aren’t equal to men. I know my place.”

  “You’re left-handed?”

  “I’m ambidextrous. Kord, I’m familiar with how Muslims view left-handed people. I know to use my right. Your second-guessing my skills is getting old.”

  If Kord was to work with Monica on any level, she deserved his respect. “Just being sure.”

  “I’ll do my best to take a crash course in appropriate manners. My first priority is Prince Omar’s safety. What I don’t want is to discredit the US in his eyes.”

  She’d learn the realities soon enough. He almost felt sorry for what was about to transpire. Not her fault. Convincing Prince Omar of her abilities meant combating hundreds of years of Muslim culture derived from a literal translation of the Quran. Impossible.

  Kord noted HPD had swarmed Paramount High School, and several officers were on the roof. He doubted the sniper had left any casings. A new school was being constructed on the east side, making it easy for someone to move about. “Ready to check out the high school?”

  “If any of the students, staff, or construction workers witnessed the shooter, they might speak up.”

  “We’ll assure them protection,” Kord said.

  “Doesn’t always work that way.”

  MONICA AND KORD WAITED at the busy intersection until the traffic allowed them to drive across the street to Paramount High School. Before exiting his car, she dug into her shoulder bag for her Glock, then inserted it into her back waistband. She hung binoculars around her neck and stuffed latex gloves into her jean pocket. They walked to the front entrance of the original school. Silent. At least they weren’t arguing.