High Treason

by DiAnn Mills

  “Prince Omar, I appreciate your taking the time for Miss Alden to have a word with you,” Kord said.

  “Yes, of course. Miss Alden, what can I do for you?” As expected, he offered no eye contact.

  “I appreciate this opportunity in light of today’s tragedies. It’s an honor to be a part of the team to protect you and your family. You were briefed about my Middle Eastern experience. I also have the ability to read lips and a photographic memory. I have a mental snapshot of every detail about today: where your bodyguards were positioned, the exterior of the Frozen Rock, and how investigators have swept the crime scenes. While on the roof of the high school, I zeroed in on the surroundings there as well. Each man or woman who passed us at the high school is in my head, those at the hospital, and the description of each man at dinner tonight.” She lifted her chin, a little risky if the prince viewed her boldness as disrespectful. “I regret my first impression on you, and I don’t have an excuse. In your travels, you’ve been to many events in which Western dress is prevalent and appropriate. I will do my best to honor your preference of a woman’s appearance whenever possible. Please note, your safety is my priority. I want to assure you of my commitment to the mission and to help prevent another death.”

  Kord turned to the prince for his reaction.

  “Did you read the lips of any who might be a suspect?” the prince said.

  “Possibly. I’m researching all those, including Americans and Saudis.”

  “I want your conclusions.”

  She didn’t dare implicate Ali with him standing there.

  “As soon as I can verify them. I refuse to cast suspicion until I have facts.”

  “You carry a weapon at all times?” he said.

  “Usually two.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes, Prince Omar.”

  “Are you accurate?”

  “My record states so.”

  “You’re a follower of the book?”

  He meant Jewish or Christian. “I’m a follower of Jesus.”

  “If given the time, I’d very much like to discuss your faith.”

  “I’d be honored.”

  “Do you enjoy your work at the coffee shop?”

  “Yes. I like people.” Monica’s face showed no emotion.

  “And what kind of coffee do you serve?”

  She smiled. “Arabic.”

  “Why?”

  “Smooth. Strong. Less bitter. Balanced taste.”

  He nodded. “Thank you for your time. Sleep well.”

  Kord took his cue and escorted her to the stairway.

  “You made a step forward,” he said. “Nothing can change his mind about women because it’s in his DNA. His asking if you were packing was a positive sign.”

  “Interesting. He’s as hard to read as some CIA operatives.” She said good night without another word.

  He rejoined the prince, who stared out over the pool.

  “Water calms me,” the prince said. “When worries stalk my waking and sleeping hours, the sound of trickling water helps me think more clearly.” Prince Omar stood. “Kord, your assistant is a righteous woman. I believe she has a good heart.”

  Kord nodded.

  “Have a restful evening, my friend. Morning always brings light to problems.”

  MONICA WOKE FOR THE THIRD TIME since she’d fallen asleep, a habit when in the middle of an assignment. She listened and heard nothing. Tossing off her blanket, she walked to the common area, where a dim lamp bathed the room in an amber glow. She retrieved a bottle of water from a small fridge masked as a cabinet and took a long drink. A bit of a scratchy throat bothered her, and the cool liquid felt good.

  Beside the door rested a tote bag with her first name on it. Jeff’s handwriting. Surely the bodyguards hadn’t allowed him to leave this here? But no other women were in the house. She carried the bag into her room and pulled out a few clothing items that would help in her pursuit of acceptance—two pairs of dress slacks, one black and the other charcoal gray. Two long-sleeved blouses, one in cream and another in navy. All had Dillard’s tags. He’d stuck in additional cover items from a previous job. She laid the clothes aside.

  Now to see what went on while the rest of the household slept. She grabbed her binoculars and crept back to the common area. Snapping off the lamp, she tiptoed to a window facing the side grounds. The beauty soothed her soul. Majestic. Peaceful. Unfortunately looks could be deceiving.

  Two men in Saudi dress talked near a rear fountain, but their backs hid their faces. She waited about five minutes until the men walked away in opposite directions. A side view of each man indicated one was Ali, who had lost a cousin and friend in Zain. The second was the press secretary, Malik al-Kazaz.

  Loyal members of Prince Omar’s entourage deep in conversation in the dead of night. Or part of a conspiracy to kill him?

  Monica woke at 6:00 a.m. As usual, questions fought for space in her mind, and she craved answers. None of the intel analyzed during the night had produced a solid clue.

  Before rising, she praised God for His gift of life and asked for wisdom in all she attempted. Her prayer always settled on the same truth. She’d killed a man. Was her deed vengeance or duty? Guilt and shame were cruel partners.

  Refusing to think about it any further, she walked to the bathroom for a shower.

  Fatima and Yasmine had already prayed the Fajr, the predawn first prayer of the day, and would soon be in the midst of the sunrise prayer. The Dhuhr was the noon prayer, the Asr in late afternoon, the Maghrib at sunset, and the Isha in the evening. So glad she’d invested in learning about Wahhabism, so different from her own beliefs.

  Glancing at the clothes, she questioned again who’d delivered them. Waking for every sound was part of her MO. She texted Jeff.

  Were u inside the women’s quarters?

  His response flew into her phone as though he’d been waiting for her. I gave them 2 Kord.

  OK

  She liked the idea of Kord slipping inside the women’s quarters even less. She texted him.

  Thanx 4 taking the delivery from Jeff. How did u get inside?

  Door unlocked. Problem?

  No

  Kord gloated over his ability not to wake her, and she refused to respond.

  Get over your ruffled feelings, Monica. From now on she’d make sure her door was open at night.

  Today began early. She must react efficiently and effectively. The prince’s schedule started at eight, when the consul general arrived for an hour-long meeting. She doubted her attendance would meet the prince’s approval, but Kord might hear the goings-on and relay the conversation. Perhaps the bodyguards would speak to her. Sounded good in theory.

  After buttoning the blouse’s high neckline, she opened the door from her bedroom to the common area. She heard Arabic conversation, and then Fatima and Yasmine greeted her. Again they were dressed in runway attire.

  A large silver server held a feast. Fatima rolled it near a sofa and two chairs. The sights and aromas tempted Monica—fresh coffee, a carafe of hot water, a chest of assorted teas, dates, olives, various cheeses, and hot breads.

  “Breakfast has been brought to us this morning,” Fatima said. “My brother would like for you to join us.”

  Being a woman on this assignment left her out of the loop. Yet getting close to Prince Omar’s sisters meant learning their opinions about the events besieging their family.

  A few minutes into the meal, Monica turned to the sisters. “Thank you for including me. The prince’s invitation to share breakfast with you is a beautiful way to start the day. The cheeses and hot breads are delicious.” She poured another cup of rich coffee. She must find the source of these beans. “Prince Omar is a good brother.”

  Seventeen-year-old Yasmine smiled, her face bathed in youth. “Omar takes excellent care of us.”

  “I wish your visit to the US was not laced with tragedy.”

  “We’re optimistic the clinical trials for our mother will
be successful.”

  “I wish healing for Princess Gharam too,” Monica said. “This is a trying time for all of you.”

  “Thank you. Fatima and I are glad to be here.”

  So proper. Monica turned to the older sister. “Do you have special interests or hobbies?”

  “I sketch landscapes,” Fatima said. “I find it relaxing.”

  “That’s wonderful. Perhaps I can observe your techniques while you’re here.”

  “If there’s time.” Fatima took a bite of warm bread.

  “Yasmine, what about you?” Monica said.

  The younger sister’s dark eyes sparkled. Her thick hair hung below her shoulders, and her delicate features gave her an exotic look. “I play piano.”

  “I’d love to hear you.”

  Yasmine blushed. “There’s a music room on this floor. Perhaps I can play for you.”

  “Excellent. What do you want to see and do while in Houston?”

  “Shopping at the Galleria. A trip to Starbucks. I’d like to see horses, and I know the Houston Rodeo is an attraction. Once Mother makes progress, I’ll ask Omar what we can do.”

  “You would love the rodeo. One of my favorite events is the livestock show that allows boys and girls an opportunity to earn money for their education. Some are able to display and compete with their animals. Bull and bronco riding is a thrill. Were you wanting to attend a concert?”

  She nodded. “My brother would have to select one he feels is suitable.”

  In their culture, men protected the women. “My father gave me strict rules to live by while growing up. At the time, his demands angered me, but then I realized his guidelines were because he loved me. After I came to my senses, I listened and obeyed.” Monica recalled a bit of rebellion. “Not all the time, but I did better.”

  “What caused you to be obedient?”

  “I rode in a car with an intoxicated driver. We were in an accident, and my arm was broken. The pain and close encounter with death served as a reminder of my father’s words to never ride in a car when the driver had been drinking.”

  “I see. Why did you decide to work with an assistant press secretary who is really FBI?”

  How did she answer that? “Kord is an excellent teacher, and I’m learning much from him.”

  Fatima coughed. Fake. Okay, what did the older sister know? Or had Monica’s nearness to Kord prompted the green monster into action? Fatima was a lovely woman, a mirror of her mother. “What would you like to do while in Houston?”

  “What do you recommend?” Hostility brewed stronger in Fatima’s words than the coffee.

  “The options depend on your interests.”

  Fatima stiffened her back. “Yasmine and I are to assist in Mother’s care. Entertainment has not been discussed.”

  “But I’ve spoken to Omar, and he’s planning outings for us.” Yasmine’s voice grew shrill. “Must you always spoil things because you’re angry with our brother?”

  Monica mentally highlighted the question.

  Fatima rose from the elegant sofa. “Hush, Sister. Miss Alden dare not hear your immature whining. She is not one of us.”

  “I apologize for upsetting you,” Monica said. “Can we enjoy our breakfast and each other’s company?”

  “I think not.” Fatima whirled around and walked away. The door to her room slammed shut.

  Monica questioned the anger again. “Yasmine, I’m sorry.”

  “No need. She’s grieving a loss.”

  “Your mother? MD Anderson is highly successful in treating cancer.”

  “Another matter. She’s not happy one of Omar’s friends is here.”

  “A bodyguard?”

  Yasmine sighed.

  “Who? Can I help?”

  Yasmine moistened her lips and reached for a date. “Are your parents in the city?”

  Maybe Yasmine would open up at another time. “They live in Ohio, as well as my four brothers.”

  “Do you miss them?”

  “Yes, but my work is here.” Or wherever the CIA sent her.

  Yasmine chatted on about her brother assuring her of seeing the sights of the city. No more mention of Fatima.

  The animosity between siblings raised some questions, but Monica doubted she’d get answers from Fatima. Last night, the older sister displayed hospitality and a willingness to help Monica dress appropriately. What happened between then and now?

  Monica kept a pleasant demeanor intact. The problem lay with Kord. He’d neglected to tell her a few things about him and Fatima.

  KORD QUESTIONED THE SURFACE TALK between Prince Omar and Consul General al-Fakeeh. Malik typed notes on an iPad while the two men discussed diplomatic relations between the two countries. All pleasant, as though for Kord’s benefit, which exasperated him. He wanted names and motive, not useless words.

  “You’re aware of the changes to benefit our country. All will have a positive impact on every citizen,” Prince Omar said. “Education for women, less of a dependence on oil, and strengthening our military.”

  The consul general frowned and reached for his coffee cup. “Be careful, Amir. There are those who prefer the old ways. I’ve heard rumors that you intend to lease Saudi oil reserves to Americans.”

  “Who told you that?” the prince said.

  “My sources.”

  “Let me just say, my enemies are many, but they won’t succeed. I’ll inform you of any important business decisions. I ask that you come to me with any unconfirmed statements.”

  World politics were unpredictable, with simmering disagreements between Saudi Arabia and those who wanted the country out of the hands of the Saud family. Kord lived with the burden of which country had designs to blow up another. Too many people had no thought of the innocent killed in the name of power and ideologies. A reason why he’d dedicated his life to protecting others from power-hungry predators.

  Kord disagreed with many of the country’s practices, but Prince Omar knew and respected his beliefs—not a typical response from a man who lived and breathed his culture.

  “Prince Omar,” Consul General al-Fakeeh said, “how can I help you with the attempts on your life?”

  “Report every detail to me. Release a statement that indicates the killer has been arrested and is willing to give up all accomplices.”

  Not a good idea, but first Kord would listen to the prince’s analysis of the situation.

  “What else would you like for it to say?”

  “The US and Saudi Arabia refuse to give up the name of the killer or his motive.” The prince turned to Kord. “Does my plan meet with your approval?”

  “Will the announcement prompt the real killer to strike again? Or will he shut down until the media reports fade to the next sensationalism, then strike again?”

  “Nothing the FBI has done before or after my arrival stopped the murders.”

  Kord chose his words. “Prince Omar, this has the possibility of blowing up in our face. We—”

  Prince Omar lifted a finger. “We all manipulate media for our benefit. If it serves a purpose, what’s the difference?”

  “How will your suggestion help us find those responsible when we’re giving them time to regroup?”

  “It buys time, my friend, and informants.”

  Kord’s secure phone alerted him to a text—his contact from Iraq. Perfect timing. He captured Prince Omar’s and the consul general’s attention. “This is important. If you gentlemen will excuse me, I’d like to take the call in private.”

  “If it relates to Zain’s death,” Prince Omar said, “you can talk while we’re here.”

  Choose your battles. “Would you do the same for me?”

  The prince hesitated, then smiled. “Take the call wherever you choose. If there’s one man I can trust, it’s you.”

  Kord thanked him. The recording devices located all over the home would hear the one-sided conversation, so he walked through the foyer and onto the front grounds. He touched Nasim’s number, and
the man greeted him in Arabic.

  “I received your text,” Kord said in Nasim’s native tongue.

  “I have little information, my friend. The plot you are seeking against Prince Omar didn’t originate in Iraq or Iran. Neither do I have a leader’s name or those funding the scheme. From what I’ve learned, Prince Omar has an enemy in his house.”

  “What’s your source?”

  “Iranian intel. Secure.”

  “What else was said?”

  “The enemy in Prince Omar’s house would destroy him.”

  “Keep searching. Anything you can find, no matter how minuscule.”

  “I give you my word. How is my father?”

  “Spoke with him two days ago. He likes Seattle, but the cold and wet bother him. Says he can’t get warm.”

  “Very good.” Nasim laughed softly. “Give him my best. Tell him I look forward to the day when we are together. Tell him the children are growing.”

  “Every time you help me is documented for your benefit. If you fear for your family’s safety, the Saudis will help as well as my contacts.”

  “Good. I’m pleased. I’ll call you again soon.”

  Kord phoned SAC Thomas and relayed the information. “Sir, the new piece is possible betrayal from among the prince’s trusted men. If true, it narrows our scope. But the prince won’t be convinced easily. His men are like brothers.”

  “The situation needs to be addressed.”

  “I’ll pull him aside as soon as possible.”

  “What’s your take?”

  “If someone in the prince’s house is behind this, then a killer was hired to carry out the assassination.”

  “I’ll look into the cartels and put out feelers for hired assassins. See what surfaces.”

  “Appreciate it. I’m with the prince and Consul General Nasser al-Fakeeh. Prince Omar has requested the consul general release a statement to the media about an arrest made.”

  “Snuff that out. This is our jurisdiction,” SAC Thomas said. “The prince knows more than he claims.”

  “He’ll share details when he’s ready to.”

  “You’re blind when it comes to him. Don’t let it get you or others killed.”