High Treason

by DiAnn Mills

  “You’re worried about him, aren’t you? Me too. Not like Chip to disappear.” He stood, his metal chair scraping across the tile floor. “I’ll show you.”

  “We’re interested in supply and storage closets too.”

  “The largest closet is really a room on down from my office. Got to keep chemicals and things away from the kids. Some of ’em would be snorting and making drugs if we didn’t.” He unclipped a ring of keys from his belt and led the way. “Are you thinking the killer could be hiding in there?”

  That wasn’t what Kord feared, but his mind usually took the worst chain of events.

  They approached a door labeled Keep Locked at All Times. The older man handed Kord the key. But the door was unlocked. He stepped inside and flipped on a light. Monica followed behind him.

  Navy knit shirts with Paramount High School stitched on the left front pocket hung on hangers from pegs. Industrial-size cleaning products lined metal shelving. Five-gallon buckets with an assortment of mops and wet and dry vacs looked like statues. The pungent odor of the afternoon cleaning, a mix of orange and something he couldn’t identify, assaulted his nostrils. But he’d smelled much worse.

  “Chip?” the older man said. “You back here, buddy?”

  Kord walked deeper into the storage room.

  A man lay flat on his back next to the wall, his neck slashed. Blood covered the floor near his head, and he wasn’t wearing the navy shirt for janitors.

  Kord touched his fingers to the side of the man’s neck. No pulse.

  THE SNIPER could have passed for Chip. Hispanic. Similar height. The dead janitor had been targeted long before today.

  Kord and Monica stayed with the janitor until the medical examiner and FBI arrived to scour a crime scene—again. Monica seemed glued to the janitor’s side, as though her presence comforted him.

  Kord hoped the first day of Prince Omar’s visit held no indication of what the remainder of the trip would entail. But he’d be a fool to believe otherwise. As a case of mistaken identity, Zain’s death couldn’t be the work of the Saudi conservatives. They’d have fired the kill shot on their own territory . . . unless they wanted to discredit the US. Then who? Iran despised the Saudis. So did others. What about those within the US with motive?

  Twice in one day, Kord had witnessed a murder victim inside yellow crime scene tape. The sniper had killed Chip and worn his shirt while he slipped through the school to the roof. Why hadn’t he grabbed one of the shirts hanging in the supply closet? Perhaps he’d already taken Chip’s before discovering the others or Chip surprised him.

  The killer had then assembled his weapon and pulled the trigger on Zain, shot in the line of protecting the prince.

  Zain, Kord, and Monica walked with danger and understood the downside of their roles. So did anyone who put his or her life on the line for others. But the janitor had gone to work this morning with the goal of helping to keep a high school presentable, operable, and clean. At this point, only the basketball player offered any clue to the killer’s appearance and the black metal toolbox in his hands.

  The janitor drew a tissue from inside his desk and wiped his nose. “Chip Garza was a good man. Never late. Jokester. Good family. Never forgot any of our birthdays. We’ll miss him.”

  “I’m sorry.” Monica sighed. “That’s a textbook response, when losing a friend to violence is horrible. I pray God gives you peace.”

  He pressed his lips together, no doubt to block the tears. “’Preciate your kind words. My dad always said when we take a hard hit, turn to God.”

  She touched his arm. “Hold on to that. Do you have a church family, anyone I can call?”

  “I’ll get ahold of my pastor once I settle a bit. Thanks, though.” He swiped beneath his eyes. “Bless you, sweet girl.”

  Kord hadn’t taken Monica for a God person. Not what he’d originally sized her up to be. Maybe she only said the words hurting people wanted to hear. He’d not speak to her about it unless he sensed a problem. He hadn’t decided about God, an all-powerful being who created and destroyed in whatever order He desired.

  How did she rationalize Zain’s and Chip’s senseless murders?

  Monica swung her gaze around the supply closet. She excused herself and walked to a far corner, where she bent to examine a bit of dust. Although neither of them had found anything substantial, she’d doggedly persisted by retracing every inch of the closet. Kord joined her.

  “The killer’s skilled with a knife and a sniper rifle. He’s calculating, intelligent.” She peered at him as if he were going to comment. “This confirms military training, and a run through our databases with specifics could give us a range of suspects.”

  “The boy who gave us the lead is aiding an FBI sketch artist. My thoughts are Middle Eastern, but he could be Hispanic. Some pass for either race.”

  “Is today political, religious, or oil related?” she said. “Or all of them, depending on the origin?”

  “That part of the world uses all three. Toss vengeance into the mix.”

  “We have a can of worms and no hook.”

  He resorted to a huff instead of sarcasm. “The real bait is a Saudi prince with a price on his head.”

  By the time Kord and Monica dodged traffic in the downpour and drove back across Westheimer to the Frozen Rock, the barricade had disbanded. He phoned Prince Omar and told him they’d be there shortly. The prince still needed to admit his mother into the hospital and meet with her doctors. Kord and Monica would be part of the group driving her to MD Anderson.

  Prince Omar had experienced a grand US welcome. Kord sensed determination rising above his own grief to protect those within his responsibility. Too many enemies wanted the prince and his family taken down. Until the US had those responsible in custody, the prince was walking a shaky path.

  Kord pulled onto the busy street, his thoughts flying at the speed of lightning.

  “Tell me about Zain,” Monica said.

  Frustration swirled in his gut. “I don’t need a shrink.”

  “Right, and I’m not a hold-your-hand kinda girl. I asked a question, so suit yourself.”

  Maybe he was edgy. “Here’s the CliffsNotes. Some years ago while in Saudi, Zain and I were on a joint forces rescue mission together. Prince Omar’s second wife and his son had been kidnapped. We got them out of the terrorist camp. You get to know a man real well when facing life and death. Zain’s killer is living on borrowed time.”

  On the way to the Saud home, Monica used the secure phone to text Jeff with a list of toiletries and clothing items for him to retrieve from the trunk of her car. She cringed at the thought of only a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, and toothpaste being there. Once she learned the attire required as Kord’s assistant, she’d make additional requests.

  Kord’s reputation and what she’d seen in action impressed her. He’d completed several successful missions in the Middle East and escaped death against tremendous odds. The right man for her to be working with as long as he didn’t have an arrogant streak. At this point, she hadn’t detected one, only a bit of an ego. Now to figure out why his enemies would fear him. His skill set? Daring? His alliance with Prince Omar and his family? Or information she hadn’t acquired yet?

  Kord turned his Charger down a driveway that led to the iron-fenced grounds of the Saud family estate. He stopped at a sixteen-foot-high metal gate separating the rest of the world from the prince and his guests. She studied the house, or rather the mansion, unlike anything she’d ever seen. The neoclassical style in stone and stucco displayed the wealth to maintain the property. According to her report, the home was thirty-two thousand square feet and presided over three manicured acres. Seven guest suites, eight additional bedrooms, eleven full bathrooms, and five half baths. Monica could only imagine the interior design.

  Kord lowered his window and pressed the button to the home’s alarm system—monitored live by a private security firm around the clock.

  “Kord Davidson and Monica Alde
n,” he said. “Prince Omar is expecting us.”

  “Yes, sir,” a man said. “Your license plate is not in our system. This will take a few moments to verify you and your passenger. Our facial recognition doesn’t have either of you on file.”

  “Since when? We were given authorization this morning.”

  “New measures have been instituted. I’ll do my best to expedite the matter. Each of you will need to exit the vehicle, approach the kiosk for a facial and retinal scan. Then a fingerprint check. Expect ninety-second delays while your identities are confirmed and filed into our system.”

  “Check your records. We’ve been cleared.”

  “How long would you like to sit outside the gate?”

  He muttered a few choice words and grabbed a baseball cap from the backseat to prevent recognition from anyone spying on the home. She didn’t have a thing with her to shield her identity.

  Monica bit back a laugh. Obviously the man at the security company had spoken with Kord types before. “Want me to go first in case you open fire on the monitor?” she said.

  “I’ll restrain myself.” He planted the hat on his head and exited the car.

  While Monica waited for her check, she took in the exterior of the grounds and the street for signs of potential problems. Although law enforcement patrolled the area and kept constant surveillance, small inconsistencies could mean unwanted casualties. The neighborhood boasted of quiet affluence. Those who held the highest ranking were of old money, certain to frown on international visitors invading their empires. Massive oaks hid what residents wanted disguised and showcased what they wanted others to believe.

  Hovering gray clouds indicated more rain. Flash flood warnings affected the low areas of the city, making some streets, roads, and underpasses impassable. Her T-shirt offered little warmth since it had been soaked while on the roof of the high school and clung damp to her skin.

  Kord gestured for her to take her turn at the security camera. She left the car, and he joined her on the left side, blocking her from the street view.

  “Oh, to have changed clothes before Prince Omar arrived.”

  “Nothing we can do about how you look.”

  She took a cursory look at herself and cringed. Her stained brown T-shirt and tattered jeans made her look like a reject from the cleaning crew. With what she’d been briefed about Prince Omar and his extravagance, he’d regard her with less than an ounce of respect or brains. But regrets never solved anything, and she’d been given this assignment because of her experience and abilities. What did Kord or the prince expect when she’d been pulled from an undercover job?

  When she passed the security procedures, the gate opened. His frown annoyed her.

  “What’s wrong?” she said.

  “We’ll talk later. A word of advice—don’t expect a welcome committee.”

  “I’m CIA and I’ve faced these people before. Play your intimidation games somewhere else.”

  He chuckled. Who was this man?

  IN THE CIRCULAR DRIVEWAY of the Saud family home, Monica exited Kord’s Charger, a new model and spotless. A great ride. But his car would have been better suited in the rear service area. Prince Omar had probably offered a more luxurious vehicle, but that could have been interpreted as a bribe, a career breaker for law enforcement.

  She couldn’t imagine living in a home this huge. A perfectly groomed landscape in tiered layers of green looked as though an artist had used a brush to paint the scenery. A marble fountain caught her attention, and she allowed the aesthetic experience to momentarily dispel her misgivings about her ability to work the case. She and Kord needed answers and an arrest. After that, protection detail should be less stressful. Maybe.

  And Kord’s attitude would not dampen her mood or run her off. He didn’t want a woman working the task force? Get over it.

  He joined her. “I’m a jerk,” he said. “You’re good at what you do. How did you pass for a local in the Middle East?”

  “Wig, contacts, makeup.”

  He gave a thumbs-up.

  “We could be a daunting team.”

  “Daunting?” A slight grin met her. She’d take a human response. They walked to the heavy wood-and-glass double doors of the home’s front entrance. “Ready to meet Prince Omar?”

  “By all means.” Her thoughts dwelled on her gender being a massive communication barrier. The prince was highly traveled and well versed in Western practices. Perhaps being a woman was a moot point.

  Get a grip, Monica. You know the odds against you are stacked higher than Mount Rushmore.

  Two bodyguards stood by the entrance and greeted Kord. From the report and photos sent to her phone earlier, the taller man was Karim and the squarer man must be Fares.

  Kord touched a speaker button, and a man from inside responded with an Arabic accent. “Saw you pull up.”

  “Figured so. Is Prince Omar available?”

  “He is. Making arrangements for Zain. Guess I should let you in.”

  Kord shook his head. “Probably a good idea. Ali, FBI Agent Monica Alden is with me.”

  Women’s roles varied in Muslim countries. Some women dressed modestly and colorfully with a scarf to hide their hair, while others were covered from head to toe in black and possibly revealed only their eyes. Saudi Arabia fell in the cover-everything mix. If she’d been given advance notice, she’d not be risking embarrassing the US in front of Saudi royalty. She craved a shower, clean clothes, a toothbrush, and clothing that met Saudi approval.

  She’d follow Kord’s lead.

  The door opened to a broad-shouldered man dressed in a suit that cost more than her car.

  Kord introduced her to Ali Dukali, one of Prince Omar’s bodyguards. He had the blackest mustache she’d ever seen. The man nodded without eye contact, exactly what she expected. His attention focused on Kord, and it was her partner who was invited inside. She must be along for the ride.

  The invisible women of the Middle East.

  At first glance, she believed this world had landed in Houston from a royal palace. She positioned herself a half step behind her partner in a two-story foyer fit for a king. Her assessment wasn’t that far off. A six-foot-wide crystal chandelier cascaded from the second floor like a waterfall. Cream-and-black marble floors and a winding, intricately etched metal staircase added to the opulence. Wealth was no shield to crime—quite the opposite, and many times the motivation.

  Prince Omar and three more bodyguards descended the steps, reminding her of a scene from Arabian Nights. She’d only seen photos of the prince, but reality was impressive—huge nearly black eyes, smooth nose, and a short beard with neatly trimmed sides. He and the others were clothed in Western attire.

  The three bodyguards were easily recognizable from their photos. Inman had a deep scar below his left eye that disappeared into his beard. Saad was a younger brother of Karim, tall and slender. Wasi’s eyebrows seemed knit in a permanent frown.

  Kord strode to Prince Omar and kissed him once on the right cheek and twice on the left. “Amir Omar, as salaam alaikum.” Kord took his hand.

  Monica interpreted the words: “Prince Omar, may peace be with you.” This was the proper way for Kord to greet the prince. But she’d refrain.

  “Wa’alaikum salaam,” the prince said. “Thank you for all you’ve done today on my behalf. I’m glad you’re with me during this time of grief.”

  “It was an honor to call Zain a friend. Memories of him will live with me always.”

  “Allah will bless him for his sacrifice. Consul General Nasser al-Fakeeh is making arrangements for his body to be flown home for the funeral.”

  Kord pressed his lips together before speaking. “Please give my condolences to his family.”

  “I will. My family and staff landed this morning with hope, and now we mourn the loss of an honorable man. The day has been a burden of confusion and questions. You, Zain, and I thought our time together would involve business, my mother’s medical care, and sharing
good times.”

  “Yes, Amir. I feel the same. How is Princess Gharam?”

  “Weak. Emotional. She loved Zain as one of her own and blames herself for his death. She believes her need for medical care brought us to Houston.”

  Monica observed the conversation. The prince’s mother must not be aware of her son’s business affairs. No wonder she blamed herself for the death.

  The prince continued. “My sisters are comforting her. I will escort her to MD Anderson as soon as a motorcycle escort arrives, arranged by your police department.”

  Monica had seen the text confirming the motorcade.

  “Prince Omar—” Kord gestured to her—“I’d like to introduce a skilled FBI agent, Monica Alden. She is my assistant, supporting my role.” He turned to her. “His Royal Highness, Prince Omar bin Talal.”

  Before she could speak, Prince Omar gave her a cursory glance, a momentary flash of disapproval, and immediately back to Kord. “All good men require an assistant. I’m sure she will be an asset to your work. Interesting that she makes coffee too.”

  Monica inwardly cringed. The prince’s treatment wasn’t a surprise—she’d been treated as poorly in Iran and Iraq. No mention of putting her life on the line for him. He simply snubbed her and reduced her status to serving coffee.

  She was better than a rude greeting. This was her life’s calling, keeping others safe, not nursing ruffled feelings. Determination to prove herself sped.

  What else happened those years ago with Prince Omar, Zain, and Kord? She’d known nothing about the incident until Kord gave a brief overview. Could there be a link to the problems today? Who were the players then?

  How could she do her job without needed intel and a dose of courtesy?

  “Kord, I’ll have Ali show your assistant to the front sitting area until the escort arrives,” Prince Omar said. “Until then, perhaps we can talk about today.”

  Monica trailed after Ali . . . like an obedient dog. One look at the sitting room’s extravagance made her uneasy. The royal-blue tufted chair didn’t need the wet stains from her jeans. The Persian rug atop wooden floors held more gold thread than Fort Knox. Maybe not, but close.