“What makes you think I have any intention of going to Australia?” Khalid asked.
“Don’t take me for a fool, Your Highness. Your presence here tells me that you’ve probably been told Mossad is expecting you to make a move. They have been waiting for you to go to Vancouver or make your way to Sydney for seven months now. The minute you set foot on Aussie soil, you will be signing your death warrant. The sniper is waiting for you, Khalid Saif Al-Fadir.”
The waiter’s return to the table interrupted the conversation abruptly. While he deposited a voluminous dish in front of each man, Sadir retreated to the back of the chair again.
Khalid shot a quick glance in the waiter’s direction. “Thank you,” he said, a thin, hesitant smile crossing his lips.
Looking at the withdrawing server, and exhaling audibly, Sadir continued, “As I said and I repeat; I quite understand your predicament, Your Highness. On the one hand you want to avenge Ms Kartz’s ordeal, and on the other, should you decide to go against our advice, you’ll find yourself face-to-face with a Mossad assassin who’s been waiting for you to appear on his doorsteps for months.” He grabbed one of the sandwiches and bit a mouthful of it.
Khalid sipped on the Perrier water. The CIA man would not divulge anything of any use to him, he decided. This wasn’t a good idea. He should have known that involving a friend of his uncle in his plan would backfire. He had to think of something else that would sway Sadir into telling him what he came to D.C. to find out.
The two men ate in silence for a while; Sadir devouring his meal as if it was his last, while Khalid only picked at his dish half-heartedly.
Once the coffee was on the table, Sadir laced his fingers over his protruding belly, and decided it was time to let Khalid out of the hole in which he had fallen unwisely. “I’ll tell you what we’ve decided before I came to meet you.” He paused. Khalid hadn’t expected such an about face. He didn’t like snakes slithering under rocks. He could hear the hissing of lies reaching his ears. In turn, he stared at his guest. “My superiors think that we will not be able to prevent you from going anywhere you please and while we will be tracking you, for obvious reasons, we want you to be aware of who your adversary is. This is highly uncharacteristic of the CIA, you understand. However, last year our office made a grave mistake.” Khalid heard the hissing snake getting louder. “Your uncle was publicly humiliated because we decided to ignore the warning signs alerting us of Mr. Slimane’s treason. In essence, we have a debt to pay, and we want to remit the amount in full.”
“Are you saying you will tell me who he is and where I can find him?”
“Not quite.” The snake was slipping back under his rock. “We will ask for Mr. Gibson’s collaboration. He’ll probably know where you are by the time I’ll call him.”
“And what type of collaboration will you seek from the Canadians?” This, too, was unforeseen. Khalid wanted to accomplish what he had in mind by himself. The prospect of having anyone else involved irked him.
“At present, and until I have Mr. Gibson’s full assurance that his agency will follow our lead, I will not reveal what has been planned. I suggest, you stay at your hotel and wait for my instruction or that of Mr. Gibson.”
“How long will I have to wait?” Khalid hazarded, already planning to be gone by the time the word came.
“Not long, not long at all, Captain. Yet, I wouldn’t make any plans to travel anywhere for the next two days, if I were you.”
Khalid nodded in reluctant assent. Whatever he would do from that moment on, would be the subject of scrupulous scrutiny. Although he didn’t relish the idea of being watched, being chased by two agencies half-way across the world didn’t agree with him either.
Chapter 11
The weather was cool. The Ides of March had come and gone, yet an ominous cloud of unease hung over Mark’s head. He had taken a cab from the airport to a hotel near Capitol Hill and not too far from where Khalid was staying. CSIS had tracked the prince down to Washington D.C. almost at the same time as the call from Muhammad Sadir had come through. Mark’s instructions were simple, nonetheless very risky, as far as he could see. He was to take the lead and let Khalid follow him to their destination—Sydney, Australia. Once Mark would have made contact with Samuel he would step back and let the prince handle the situation. Mark knew His Highness well enough to foresee what could happen. However, his mission was to prevent the killing of either or both parties in this duel. Eventually, Samuel would be sent back to Israel for Mossad to do as they pleased with their ‘defective’ agent, and Khalid would be free to return to Paris via Vancouver if he so chose.
Apparently, and to anyone outside their Washington enclave, the CIA counted on Agent Gilford to demonstrate to Mossad that whatever their intentions were toward either Talya or Khalid, they were not to make any further attempts on their lives without facing serious and far-reaching reprisals. “An eye for an eye” no longer applied here. Whether they would succeed in persuading such begrudging organization as Mossad to leave well alone, was another matter altogether.
The CIA’s ultimate purpose was quite different, however. They wanted Khalid or Agent Gilford to eliminate Samuel. They could not care less whether the prince died in the process or if there were retaliations to follow on the part of Mossad—that would be the Canadians’ problem.
As Khalid came out of the restaurant after breakfast, he bumped into a young man who excused himself and walked quickly out of sight. It was only when he was strolling through the park across from the hotel that he felt something in the side pocket of his jacket. He thought nothing of it for a moment but then stopped and took the item out of its hiding place. A glimpse at the object told him what it was. He resumed his walk nonchalantly while slipping the small booklet in his breast pocket. He returned to the hotel after completing his morning stroll at an easy pace. He knew eyes were on him.
Once in his room, he sat on the bed and took the document out once again. He looked at it, opened it and allowed a smile to light up his face. The American passport bore the name of Dickson, William; Professor. The photograph was one of a man he almost didn’t recognize at first. The fellow had grey hair and light brown eyes. When he flipped the pages, a small note and a drivers’ license fell out. He picked up both from the floor and read the note. He then tore it to pieces and went to flush it down the toilet.
This sort of game didn’t appeal to Khalid. He had to get out now. He packed his carrying case quickly, went down to the lobby and checked out. Once in the street, he hailed a cab and directed the driver to take him to the international airport, departure level.
Inside he bought a one-way ticket to Ottawa at the Air Canada counter. If for some reason he decided this was not the time to go to meet the subject of his revenge, he would have a fallback position, whereby he would return to Ottawa and from there either go back to Paris or make his way to Vancouver. He had no confidence in Sadir’s purpose behind the words. The hissing snake came to mind again. After checking his luggage on the night flight to Ottawa, he ambled from store to store, made a couple of purchases and sat down for a coffee in one of the cafeterias. He then took the escalator down to the arrivals’ level and went out. He took another cab and this time told the driver to take him to the Hyatt. He registered and went up to his room. An hour later, he was ready. He walked out, cell phone in hand.
Down in the reception hall, he sat down, flipped his cell phone open and dialled Muhammad Sadir. Their conversation was short and to the point; Khalid told the CIA man he was on his way Downunder and that he could find his ‘other passport’ in the desk drawer of his room at the Hyatt. As soon as he closed the phone, Khalid got up from the chair, walked to the men’s room and smashed it under his heel before throwing the remains into the rubbish container.
At 4:00PM, a handsomely dressed executive in his 50s climbed out of a cab in front of the American Airlines departure level, paid the driver, and walked to the business-class check-in counter, an overnight bag and lapt
op case in the one hand and rolling a brown suitcase behind him.
As he stood in line, someone tapped him on the shoulder.
“I thought it was you,” the young man said. Khalid spun on his heels and stared. “How are you, Professor?”
“Oh, fine…,” the gentleman replied, still stunned, but all smiles now. “…I’m sorry…, but I can’t place you... Your name escapes me for the moment, I’m sorry… Age, you see, it plays tricks on me from time to time.”
“It’s Sylvan, Sylvan Esteban. I was in your class last year at the Sorbonne in Paris…”
“Oh, of course, you were quite annoyed with my expose on dissidence… I remember now… yes, of course… How are you?”
The two men shook hands and Sylvan discreetly slipped an envelope into the professor’s hand.
Then, to the older man’s added surprise, Sylvan bid him a good trip and walked away without another word.
Not wanting to attract attention by calling him back, Professor William Dickson turned away and looked into the envelope, took out the tickets and wondered when he would see Sylvan again. He didn’t know that they were on the same flights all the way to Sydney but Sylvan was travelling economy while the professor was in business class to San Francisco and in first for the rest of the trip.
Chapter 12
When Samuel closed his laptop, he sat looking into space absentmindedly. He had just learned from his source in Paris that Khalid was on the move. He had been followed from Ottawa to Washington D.C. and then he suddenly disappeared from their radar. That bit of intel unsettled the Mossad agent. Knowing what your adversary looks like is of prime importance when your assignment calls for the elimination of the party concerned. Moreover, he didn’t know when his target would land in Sydney, if that was indeed his destination.
He wiped his face with his hand, got up and decided to go for a swim at his favourite beach. He grabbed a discarded towel from the back of the chair in front of the fireplace and walked out, slamming the front door behind him. As he crossed the little bridge leading to the path down to the beach, Samuel stopped, turned around and retraced his steps. He couldn’t stay in Manly or in Sydney for that matter. He had to leave town as quickly as possible. The American expression of being a ‘sitting duck’ was appropriate in this instance, and he didn’t want to be one in the middle of this pond.
The house being let fully furnished, it took no time for him to gather his meagre belongings into a couple of suitcases, clean-up the remains of his lunch, and throw the trash in the bin on his way out. He put the cases in the boot of his car, his laptop and cell phone beside him on the passenger seat, and within an hour, he was on the road. His destination: Melbourne, a city sprawled at the top end of Port Phillip Bay. It didn’t have the charm of Sydney nor was it favoured of the same mild climate. Yet, it was the city of his birth, and as such, Samuel knew it like the back of his hand. He knew where to live, where to pass unnoticed in a crowd of collectors and literary minds or students and patrons of the arts. He would be close to the Botanical Gardens, to the main drag to the city centre, and to most businesses of which he knew a few. He wanted to lose himself until such a time as Mossad would locate his prey once again. He wanted to be the hunter not the hunted.
Samuel kept the top of his convertible down until he reached the busy highway to Newcastle. He stopped at a petrol station, filled up the tank and went into a pub to grab a sandwich before heading down the road. He would arrive at the outskirts of Melbourne the next morning. He did not intend to dilly-dally on this journey. He wanted to get to South Yarra, on the edge of the river by the same name, as soon as he could. He knew a woman who owned a flat at the top end of Caroline Street and nestled at the end of a laneway. It occupied the third and top level of a building, and although a very attractive place, it was not endowed of a view. The balcony faced a bank of tall pine trees that would prevent anyone from spying on him from any given direction. Samuel wondered if the lady was in town still. Used to take herself to Queensland in April, she would remain in her house, which stood facing one of the numerous beaches along the waters of the Great Barrier Reef, until the following spring. Millicent was her name. Samuel knew her well. She had been a friend of his mother for many years and he remembered her most fondly for her poetry. She was a prize-winning author and her work made the bestsellers’ list on more than one occasion. Wanting no one to know that he was back in Australia, Samuel had not contacted her since his return, and it would have to be that way until better days. When would those be, he wondered. A Mossad agent doesn’t retire; he is retired, put out to pasture or eliminated when his usefulness runs out. For some reason, the thought led him to recall the time he spent with Talya. He had retired her. He wished to God, he had never been involved in that case. She was now living the life of a recluse, according to the latest reports, because of him. He hated himself for it. Every time her face appeared in his mind’s eye, Samuel wished he could cry, be at her feet, asking for her forgiveness. More than anything at that moment, he wanted to kill Khalid, the man for whom his enmity would never have a parallel. Hate was a companion Samuel favoured when it came to slay an adversary of Khalid’s calibre and value. Besides being a Muslim, Khalid represented everything Samuel abhorred in a human being. His domineering character, his deceitful conduct, his unending string of excuses when it came to explain or justify any of his actions, everything in the man spelt lies and evil undercurrent. The second man in this triangle, Dr Hendrix, was inconsequential. Samuel bore no animosity toward him. On the contrary, he was grateful for the way he cared for Talya from the minute she had been hospitalized.
Shaking himself out of these unwanted, roaming thoughts, Samuel drank a bit of the coffee he had purchased an hour ago. Staying alert and awake for the rest of the journey was his prime objective.
Chapter 13
The stopover in San Francisco was hardly long enough for Prof. Dickson to get himself from one part of the airport to the other, and get onto the Qantas flight in time. Going through security and customs was a bit of a nightmare. Being a first-class passenger made things a little easier, but when it came to the question as to where the professor was intending to stay in Sydney, the professor was at a loss to name a hotel of note downtown. He couldn’t be sure if the hotel chains that you find everywhere in Europe or in North America extended as far as Downunder. He had to make a decision quickly. The custom’s officer was waiting. “The Hyatt,” the professor blurted finally.
“All right, sir. Enjoy Australia, Professor,” the woman said, motioning for him to move through the passage.
Professor Dickson walked down the hallway quickly, laptop case in one hand and overnight bag in the other. He felt totally out of his depth, not to say out of the water as a fish caught in a net of deceit. He didn’t like having to follow instructions or being hurled into a situation where he had absolutely no control over the players or the circumstances. He had no idea where he was going. Truly, Australia was as strange to him as the moon. He would remedy his ignorance quickly, he thought. He bought the new laptop for that reason—to stay in touch with the world—and he would be able to learn a lot about the country as soon as he could be on line in his hotel in Sydney.
Sylvan, for his part, had no such problems. Although he had never been to Australia either, CSIS had briefed him thoroughly about the country, the city where he and the professor were landing in some 15 hours and about the suburb and surrounding areas of Manly. Before he left, Fred had informed him that the agency would only advise the Australians as to the two men’s presence once they were on their soil. He didn’t want to pre-empt any move on their parts, which could be detrimental or interfering with their original plans. As it were, Sylvan and the professor were on their own until the Canadian agent and his charge would decide otherwise.
Sylvan had not followed Prof. Dickson per se since their boarding of the flight from Washington D.C. He didn’t need to. As an economy class passenger, the herd would follow the business class or first
-class passengers anyway, and Sylvan knew the professor was as intent as he was to get to Sydney as soon as possible. The dices had been thrown and there was no going back now.
After a scrumptious, five-course dinner, the steward suggested that the professor could freshen up in the lavatory, before lying down on the sitting-bed for the night. He nodded a “Thank you” to the attendant, took his overnight bag to the lavatory and did as suggested. When he returned, his sitting-bed was ‘turned down’ for the night, complete with pillow, sheets, blankets, and a reading light shining discreetly from the side-panel. He looked at it, shook his head and sat down. Khalid felt as if he had lost touch with an entire era of modernization while he lived in Bamako, at the heart of the Sahel.
In the hours that followed, Khalid had a sense of navigating in a fog populated of faces, people, and noises that he didn’t recognize. He saw Talya walk toward him. She was dressed in her white gown, veiled, and holding a magnificent bouquet of red roses against her chest. He noticed the blood as each drop fell rhythmically onto her abayah. When she came closer to him, he saw she was crying. Suddenly, her face disappeared, and in an instant, she was gone. Sinister laughter accompanied his waking up.
He lifted his head from the pillow and for a moment, Khalid didn’t know where he was. The cabin was dark except for the spotlight overhead of someone reading a book two rows ahead of his. Talya had appeared often in his dreams of late, and Khalid could not turn away from these as easily as he did from other things, or ignore them. They were out of reach or his control. He got up, went to stand by the galley’s entrance and asked the attendant for a glass of water. He brought it back to his sitting-bed and drank it slowly.
WASHINGTON DC: The Sadir Affair (The Puppets of Washington Book 1) Page 4