High Treason

by DiAnn Mills

  He felt for the door behind him and backed through. A woman with two teenage girls stood outside the restaurant doors, crowding the entrance and limiting a potential rooftop shot.

  The man took off running toward the mall area, and Monica chased after him with the agent on her heels. The intruder dashed around a few pedestrians crossing the street.

  Not a clear shot for her or anyone.

  She sprinted after him as he whipped down the street and into a parking area. Her warnings didn’t deter him. She itched to take a shot but not with the mass of people.

  He pushed through some teens and ducked behind a car, then aimed his firearm her way. She knelt beside a car, and his shot went wild. Kids screamed.

  She had a clear shot and fired as he twisted around a pickup truck. She followed to where the man lay facedown on the pavement, a puddle of red gathering from the right side of his head.

  The agent hurried toward her.

  “Call 911,” she said and bent to feel for a pulse. “He’s alive.”

  The shot had knocked a wig askew.

  Monica reached for the hairpiece.

  The killer was a woman.

  IN THE ER WAITING ROOM of Memorial Hermann–Texas Medical Center, Monica texted an update to Kord. I have the woman’s phone. Jeff is aware. FBI will arrange 4 an agent 2 pick it up.

  Before HPD had arrived on the crime scene, Monica had slipped into a pair of latex gloves and confiscated the woman’s phone. It was safe inside her bag.

  She’d ridden to the hospital with the agent who’d assisted her, and Kord and Ali were within minutes of coming through the door. Saad and Wasi had returned to the Saud home while the nameless woman lay in critical condition. Monica’s reasons for the woman to live were selfish—the investigation needed answers.

  HPD officers swarmed the area, and FBI agents were posted near the woman.

  A message flew into her phone. She expected it to be Kord, but it was an FBI report. The woman had been identified as Parvin Shah. Authorities were en route to her apartment.

  The moment Monica received her name, she eased into a chair and entered the CIA secure site to gather intel. Parvin Shah had arrived in Houston from Iran in February 2011. Birth date: August 10, 1989. Address in the Montrose area. Parents deceased. Granted citizenship in 2017. Worked at Macy’s. No known terrorist affiliation. But the investigation pointed to an Iranian hired to carry out the assassination.

  Monica watched Kord and Ali walk through the ER doors. Kord no longer wore the thobe and ghutra but jeans and a black T-shirt. She greeted both men.

  “Is she alive?” Kord said.

  “Critical head wound. Hasn’t regained consciousness.”

  Kord glanced around. No one stood close enough to listen. “The agents inside the restaurant gave me the story.”

  “Never had a clue our killer was a woman.”

  “But she was stopped,” Ali said, his voice low. “Thanks to you. I didn’t detect the driver of the food delivery truck was female.”

  She hadn’t expected gratitude. “My concern is someone taking her place or if she’s working with a partner. Unless authorities find evidence at her apartment, we have unresolved questions.”

  “Remember Agent Richardson from the Frozen Rock?” Kord said. When she nodded, he continued. “He and a team are at Shah’s apartment and will call with updates.”

  Impatience stamped onto her mind. She wanted the findings now.

  The TV in the seating area flashed with local news and captured her attention. A male reporter sat behind a desk. “We’ve learned a shooting at the Galleria has prevented the would-be assassination of Saudi Prince Omar bin Talal. The FBI has been working with the Saudi security detail since a bodyguard was shot and killed on Tuesday morning. An unidentified woman lies in critical condition at Memorial Hermann–Texas Medical Center, shot by an FBI agent. We have an unconfirmed report the woman is an Iranian national. No other details at this time.”

  “What are you thinking?” Kord said to her.

  “I want to be here and at her apartment.”

  “Qualified men are on it.”

  She smiled. “They aren’t me, and I have a perfectionist streak that would go around the world. Twice.”

  “Right there with you.” His phone alerted him to an incoming text. He read and glanced up. “Richardson wants to talk.” He turned to Ali. “I need to take this call with Monica. Would you get us if there’s any news about Shah?”

  “Of course.”

  Kord and Monica made their way to a secluded corner, leaving the Saudi bodyguard alone near the nurses’ station. She felt sorry for the women dealing with him.

  Kord pressed in a number and then Speaker. A man responded on the first ring. “What do you have?” Kord said.

  “Looks like Parvin Shah worked alone. At least that’s what her apartment indicates. We found the makings for a bomb and a suicide vest.”

  The potential nightmare swept over Monica in an icy chill. “One bomb or more?”

  “Three. I’m also looking at photos of Prince Omar, his sisters, and his mother attached to Shah’s living room wall. Arabic words in black marker written across them. No idea what it says, but I can pull up my phone and translate.”

  “No need. We’ll handle it when we get there,” Kord said.

  “On a table is a printout titled ‘Prince Omar’s schedule.’ Where did she get it? I’ve already checked and it’s inaccurate. Men’s clothing and various disguises in the closet. And—”

  “Hold off bagging evidence as long as possible until Agent Alden and I get there. We’re waiting to hear about Shah’s condition. Shouldn’t be long.”

  “We’re good. It’ll take a while here.”

  Kord ended the call.

  The photos sailed in with a text, as vivid as Agent Richardson described. How unusual and yet a smart move to enlist a woman to carry out the death sentences.

  Monica looked at the ER door facing the street. Could the woman have acted alone here in the US while taking orders from someone in Saudi or Iran?

  Prince Omar arrived. What was the prince thinking? Saad and Wasi were on both sides of him. The prince wore designer jeans and a button-down shirt. A good choice since his face and Saudi dress had been flashed all over the media. But with the shooting, the place would soon be swarming with reporters—who’d recognize him. She wanted to shake him until his teeth rattled.

  Prince Omar marched to Kord and Monica like a general in command of his troops. He turned to Kord. “Wasi drove your car here.”

  “Thanks. I’ll need it.”

  “Has the woman spoken?”

  “Still unconscious,” Kord said.

  “What do you know about her?”

  Kord confirmed what the news had claimed and described the incriminating evidence at her apartment.

  “Suicide bomber. Photos of me and my family,” the prince said. “I suppose she could have downloaded those of me, but my mother and sisters would be more difficult. When can we talk to this Iranian?”

  “Prince Omar, the woman may not live.”

  He pressed his lips together with a hint of a smile. “The killer has been apprehended, perhaps forever, thanks to Miss Alden.”

  She stifled a smile with the prince’s compliment—said to Kord, not to her.

  “Prince Omar, with all due respect, would you let Saad and Wasi drive you home?” Kord said.

  “I’m staying. I’m tired of others risking their lives. It’s imperative for me to assist with the investigation.”

  “You’d end up as target practice and most likely a few others as well.”

  “I’m an excellent shot. And I want you gathering evidence on this woman. We’ll work together.”

  “How can I do that and protect you at the same time?” Kord said.

  Monica heard a bit of frustration in Kord’s voice. She’d felt the same, often. At times the prince seemed to grasp the seriousness of endangering others, and other times he took on his �
�gotta be in control” status.

  “Prince Omar,” Ali said with the same quiet firmness she’d come to recognize as his caring trademark. “Kord is making an appropriate assessment of the situation.”

  She breathed a thank-you.

  The prince stiffened. “I’ll remain at the hospital until I have word from the doctor. If she’s alive, I will talk to her. If she dies, I’ll have my men take me back to my sisters.” He snorted. “But I won’t like it.”

  “I’ll make sure there are FBI agents at the home until we return,” Kord said.

  The prince reached into his pocket and handed him his original cell phone. “I removed the battery once I heard about the shooting. Your people need to figure this out.”

  Kord appreciated Ali running interference with Prince Omar. Although the prince had made himself less conspicuous in his dress, he wasn’t safe and would never be as long as he held the title of royalty—with a price on his head.

  They’d waited over thirty minutes for the doctor. Updates poured into his and Monica’s phones with the national and international reporting on the shooting.

  The BBC stated the assassination attempt was only temporarily thwarted.

  The New York Times showed a photo of Parvin Shah upon entrance to the US.

  CNN claimed Parvin Shah could not have worked alone.

  Arab News reported arrests had been made in the US and Saudi Arabia. The report was somewhat true for the US, but he had no indications of arrests made in Saudi Arabia.

  Thoughts lingered on about Nasim and his regrettable death. His father had wept with the news. Kord felt the same sorrow, and he hoped there was a God who rewarded the sacrifices of good people. Prince Omar believed in Allah. Monica clung to the Christian God. Kord’s problem with both centered on the innocent suffering at the hands of evil men. And Kord wanted proof of anything or anyone in control of this screwed-up world.

  An elderly doctor walked through the ER doors. “Monica Alden?”

  She rose and those seated around her followed. “Yes, sir. You have word on Parvin Shah’s condition?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry. She didn’t make it. Nor did she regain consciousness.”

  Monica thanked him. “I appreciate your efforts to try to save her.”

  “I know you’re FBI. Is there family to contact?”

  “Not to our knowledge.”

  Kord thanked the doctor and introduced himself. “We’d like to sign for her personal belongings.”

  “I’ll have a nurse bring the paperwork and the items.”

  When the doctor left, Kord persuaded Prince Omar to return to the Saud home. The prince agreed with one condition—Ali would accompany Kord and Monica.

  In Kord’s Charger, with Ali in the front seat, he pushed ahead with a critical matter.

  “Monica,” Kord said. “Would you pull out Shah’s phone?”

  “It’s in my hand.”

  “What have you learned?”

  “Filled with contacts regarding the Saud family. E-mails. Texts. Looks like it mirrors Prince Omar’s phone before we suspected the virus.”

  “As we expected. I’m dropping it off at the FBI office before we continue.”

  “How did this woman get the prince’s information?” Ali said. “I know you said a virus, but it had to be planted by someone close to him, then transmitted to her.”

  “Everywhere he goes, the prince is surrounded by bodyguards, which makes nailing the mole difficult,” Kord said. “The person in Saudi would have been in near proximity to gain access. How many people are involved?”

  “Malik’s hand is all over this,” Ali said. “He had the ability to plant a recording device in Prince Omar’s phone and pass information on to Parvin Shah or anyone else.”

  “Monica?” Kord said. “Have you changed your mind about Malik’s potential guilt?”

  “Need more evidence. He convinced Princess Yasmine to lie. Why not another woman? Shah was recruited by someone.”

  Ali turned to the backseat. “Miss Alden, I like the way you process information.”

  Kord inwardly startled. Ali had given her a compliment.

  “Does he have many friends or anyone close to his family?” she said.

  Ali shook his head. “Never saw him with anyone but Prince Omar. His mother was murdered some years ago, and I thought the trip to Iraq for his father was more of a duty.”

  “Brothers or sisters?”

  “None.”

  Ali still faced her. What had changed his mind about Monica?

  “Thanks,” she said. “Investigators are searching the same info, but this helps us determine if Malik and Parvin Shah are connected.”

  “Shah concealed her identity today and likely other times too,” Kord said. “But we have no idea why or who’s calling the shots. Except she has evidence in her apartment.”

  “Can’t get there fast enough,” she said.

  Kord drove on to the FBI office. They’d learn more about Parvin Shah’s phone in a few hours. Until then they had work to do at her apartment in the Montrose area. “The bottom line is the betrayal happened while the prince was in Saudi Arabia.”

  MONICA WOULD NEVER get used to the boys’ club game. While Kord was inside the FBI office delivering Parvin Shah’s cell phone, Ali asked Monica about her family and the coffee business. One of the two times she’d seen or heard a light side of him. Odd. And she felt uncomfortable. Could be the persistent headache.

  Within fifteen minutes, Kord returned and drove to Parvin Shah’s apartment building.

  “Monica, where are you on this?” Kord said.

  “I want to visit with her neighbors. I’ve requested her work record at Macy’s. And we need to know names of friends and how she related to others.”

  “Have you requested footage in and around her apartment?”

  “The request was made while I was at the hospital.”

  Ali chuckled.

  Kord parked outside the apartment building, and the three walked to Shah’s door on the second floor. Two HPD officers were posted outside. After Agent Richardson vouched for Monica, Kord, and Ali, they stepped inside with those working the investigation.

  “How’s the suspect?” Richardson said.

  “Didn’t make it,” Kord said. “Looking for the sweep to give us answers.”

  Monica studied the assortment of nefarious photos covering the living room walls, just as the texts had indicated. Not just one each of Prince Omar, Fatima, Yasmine, and Princess Gharam, but several, often with familiar bodyguards. Even Malik. She snapped pics. Prince Omar could offer additional info on where they were taken.

  “Kord, figured you or Ali could read this,” Richardson said.

  Kord pointed to each image and the Arabic words. “‘Kill, destroy, murder.’ The woman had a definite agenda.”

  “Take a look at the kitchen wall,” Richardson said.

  Monica stood closest to the small area and turned to view a three-by-three-foot calendar held in place with red pushpins. Prince Omar’s arrival was noted and circled as well as dates, times, and addresses that matched the prince’s original schedule for his time here. Even Princess Gharam’s room number and the names, as well as contact info, of her doctors in Riyadh and at MD Anderson. Each piece of evidence seemed to confirm the phone being infected with a virus or an insider’s betrayal.

  Monica walked into the bedroom, where bombs were laid out on a desk: toggle switches, 9-volt batteries, ball bearings with nuts, a spool of wire, soldering iron, black electrical tape. All neatly arranged.

  She stared around the room. Nothing feminine about where the woman lived—or rather, existed. Drab gray. A single bed. A chair. Nothing on the walls. Her artwork had been handled in the living room. How did one decorate an apartment with hate?

  Kord stood in the doorway. “They’ve gone through every inch, but not the—”

  “Baseboards, plumbing.”

  “And light fixtures.”

  She smiled, but the sa
dness for a woman ready to blow herself up was still there. “Don’t you think the layout of the bomb parts is peculiar? All the FBI needs to do is tag and bag.”

  “Fastidious, or she was set up.”

  “Looks that way to me too.” She took a couple more pics. “Unless she’s OCD, this doesn’t follow a terrorist’s pattern. Have you conducted an investigation like this one before?”

  “Each one’s different.”

  “We’ll learn more as we study her personality and work habits.”

  “I’m ready to end this case.”

  “Some cases are worse.”

  His brown eyes peered into hers. “I’m sorry.”

  How much had he learned about her past failures? “I’m ready to knock on a few doors, see what the neighbors have to say.”

  “With or without Ali?”

  “Now who has the sense of humor?”

  “I’m a bodyguard, not deaf,” Ali called. “I’ll help Agent Richardson and his men remove a few baseboards.”

  The man might be human after all.

  AT APARTMENT NUMBER FOUR, Monica greeted a young mother who had identical twin girls clinging to each leg and crying. “We’re from the FBI.” She displayed her ID. “We’re talking to your neighbors about Parvin Shah. What can you tell us about her?”

  The woman took a cursory look at their creds. “Miss Shah never spoke to anyone. I’d smile and say hi. But she had this rock-face thing going.” She touched the toddlers with each hand and quieted them. “I saw men come and go from her apartment. Made me wonder . . . you know.”

  “What?”

  She shrugged. “One man at a time.”

  “Did she accompany them?”

  “They were alone.”

  “The same ones?”

  “Pretty much.”

  Monica thanked the woman. She and Kord moved on to the fifth apartment. Those they’d talked to previously reported the same thing: Parvin Shah was a loner, except for the men seen coming and going from her apartment.

  Kord knocked on the door of apartment number five. An older man with a cane responded. After they showed their IDs, Monica asked about Shah.

  He moved into the hall. “You folks alone?”