by DiAnn Mills
On American soil? That hit a sore spot.
Ali lifted his chin. “Thank you, Amir. Whatever you need, consider it done.”
That hit a worse spot.
“Gentlemen, we have much to discuss,” the prince said. “I thought my trip here to tend to my mother’s care would be uneventful. Someone alerted an assassin of my arrival, and his actions have greatly saddened us. My close friend gave his life for me. I would have suspected this in other parts of the world, but not in the United States. Who has crafted murder and why?” He stared intently at those around the table. “I accused the Americans of disclosing my affairs, while the Americans question the loyalty of my trusted men.”
The Saudi men vehemently opposed the idea of a traitor among them.
SAC Thomas secured the prince’s attention. “There’s no point in dancing around the issues. The world’s watching, which means our allies and enemies. We all want the killer found and justice served for those involved who plotted the killings. It’s no secret there are factions within both our countries who are against your policies and trip to the US. Pointing fingers doesn’t solve the problem. Only unity. The US is actively pursuing any threats linked to what happened today. Our responsibility is ending the tragedies and keeping you and your companions safe while you’re on US soil.”
The prince folded his arms over his chest. Denial of emotions or a personality quirk? “The US was provided my goals for entering their country, and the problem erupted here.” A labored breath disrupted the flow of words. “This has me baffled too. Although we are at odds on many levels, the seriousness of an assassination attempt has critical worldwide implications. Dare I remind you of terrorists infiltrating both of our countries?”
“Prince Omar,” SAC Thomas said, “we’re looking into a computer hack. That might explain how the information was transmitted. The name of the person or persons will take time.”
“Leads? Suspects?” the prince said. “I refuse to hide like a coward.”
Kord captured the prince’s attention. “I may be able to offer assistance. Can we discuss my thoughts later on this evening?”
“Then we are finished until Kord and I have talked this through.” He nodded at Malik. “Consul General Nasser al-Fakeeh and I will meet here in the morning, a schedule and location change due to today’s attack. Please ensure our US friends are aware. Under no circumstances is the media to learn about my business meetings until I’m ready.”
The secretary e-mailed the security team a list that included a trip to the hospital after the consul general’s visit, then business matters at home. No mention of the oil leases.
The prince lifted his cup. “Enjoy your time together. Dinner will be served soon.”
Monica studied her partner. Could he have discovered the enemy?
BEING INVISIBLE HAD ITS ADVANTAGES. No one spoke to Monica at dinner, not even Kord, but she’d been on the invisible front before. For Prince Omar to have shaken her hand or given her eye contact would have disavowed hundreds of years of established beliefs. Her very presence with the men this evening went against their practices. This arrangement would not happen in their homeland.
When the prince’s sisters were absent from the meal, she assumed it was another boys-only-club affair. But she had no intention of cowering. Ali did little to hide his anger, but if he’d betrayed Prince Omar, he wouldn’t be visibly upset with Zain’s death. Unless Ali had been trained to mask his emotions and what she saw revealed careful orchestration. Possibly a dangerous man.
Monica enjoyed Middle Eastern food and recognized tabbouleh, a salad made of parsley, bulgur, tomatoes, garlic, and lemon. The hummus and pita bread were mouthwatering, along with a chicken, rice, and vegetable dish called kapsa.
When the meal ended, Prince Omar addressed Kord. “I’ll have Ali escort Miss Alden to the women’s quarters. Then we can resume our discussion.”
“Good night,” SAC Thomas and Jeff said to her.
She hated being left out of the loop. “Thank you for the excellent meal.”
Ali stood and she followed him to a stairway off the kitchen.
“How long have you known Prince Omar?” she said.
He kept on walking. “Years.”
“I want you to understand I have a job to do.” She spoke to his back.
“As well as I.”
Aggravated, tired, with a persistent headache, and burdened with way too much work, she entered a common sitting room of a marble-floored suite. Two Saudi women stared out over the grounds. One wore a floor-length skirt in emerald and gold, embroidered and embellished in soft layers, topped with a flowing silk blouse. Monica recognized her as Fatima, the twenty-two-year-old princess. Her seventeen-year-old sister, Yasmine, wore a red-and-white long dress that looked like a T-shirt in silk. From the shimmer and style, Monica guessed the gowns were Louis Vuitton or Chanel or . . . Didn’t matter. Beyond her budget. They glanced at her and then reset their attention on the exterior. So there was a girls-only club too.
A second grand reception. After she showered, she’d approach the princesses clean and smelling better—hold on, she had nothing to wear unless Jeff had arranged an earlier delivery. Great.
She’d learned the women’s quarters had three bedrooms, each with its own bath, and this central, lavishly furnished common area.
“Excuse me—which bedroom is mine?” Monica said.
The women turned to her but said nothing. She repeated her question in Arabic.
Fatima pointed to a bedroom decorated in brilliant blues and yellows, a common color scheme in the home. Monica thanked her in Arabic and excused herself.
She closed her bedroom door. The first thing that caught her eyes was a familiar small bag. Inside, she found toiletries and intimate clothing. Jeff knew what to grab, even a separate cosmetic bag with items used only in undercover work. Sorting through the clothing, she found her bullet-resistant vest, navy-blue slacks and a jacket, white blouse, and sensible shoes still with the tags. Also with tags were pale-pink pajamas in XS. Good ole Jeff. What a relief. As soon as she worked through her to-do list, she’d shower.
Some blessings came in store packages.
First on her agenda came an inspection of the room. Audio and video devices were always hidden in unusual places. She felt along the baseboards, ceilings, furniture, and light fixtures. She removed outlet covers and searched the plumbing—even the bidet. The ornate crystal chandelier above the bed caught her attention—an easy spot to hide just about anything. She pulled a chair beneath it and gingerly explored the fixture. Sure enough, a listening device set in a mass of ornate glass on one side and a camera on the other. Okay, she’d play their game. They knew she was aware of their toys.
For certain, other surveillance devices watched and recorded her every move. Until she located them, she’d be careful. With the same resolve mustered in every new case, she triggered her internal buttons to keep her eyes open, speak carefully, and text beyond a camera’s sight. Nothing from this home would reveal the workings of her mind. Her search in the bathroom revealed nothing. Hopefully it offered her privacy.
Beside her bed was a royal-blue sofa. There she sat and read the background on Zain, the prince’s bodyguard, driver, and friend. He’d been cleared by the US weeks ago. Her attention turned to Saudi culture, from religion to politics to food and drink. Every Middle Eastern country had its own fingerprint. Quickly she updated her previous knowledge of the country.
While some Saudis clung to the traditions of the past, Prince Omar had become more Western, especially with his views on growing his country. But from his actions, he hadn’t advanced his opinion of women. How strange he supported female education. Women in Saudi Arabia had recently been given the right to vote and held about 20 percent of the political offices. Although not unlawful, deeply held religious beliefs forbade women from driving. Traditionally their bodies had to be covered in black in public, yet great strides had been made. Some advances were becoming acceptable a
s long as women understood they lived in a man’s world.
Monica texted Jeff:
Thanks 4 dropping off my things. I need suitable clothes around the prince. Long-sleeved blouses. Dark colors. Another jacket. Scarves.
He quickly typed back. Still in meeting. Not sure ur idea is smart.
Monica had already debated the potential problem. The prince has no respect or value 4 me. When possible, I’ll dress according 2 his preference. Need his confidence 2 do my job.
His response flew into her phone. Part-time hijab won’t make a difference.
Handlers had a way of looking at things differently. Have 2 try. Refuse 2 have an international incident on my record.
OK. Remember ur job comes first.
I’m requesting 4 more bodyguard history. Will send in a minute. Need ASAP.
OK
She typed in questions and sent them to Jeff. A couple of things about the prince’s itinerary were inconsistent. Some days were absent of hospital visits. And some hours were blocked with no explanation. Had the CIA or FBI questioned this? Or were the unaccounted hours designated for business?
She added a message to Kord. Text when u r free. I request an audience w/ Prince Omar later, and I need u 2 escort me.
Less than ten seconds passed before she was alerted to his response. OK. Just began w/ prince. Matters 4 u & I 2 discuss b4 then.
Closing her eyes, she prayed for wisdom. She must find a way to reach Prince Omar on his own turf.
A shower was in order and clean clothes. Her nose had reminded her more than once. Nothing Jeff brought would cover her head if the prince approved a meeting. Her attention settled on the closed bedroom door leading to the princesses. What did she have to lose by asking his sisters for their help? Gave her time to speak their language and start building trust.
The two women hadn’t moved from the common seating area when Monica stepped in.
“I have nothing suitable to cover my head that would meet Prince Omar’s approval. Can I borrow a scarf?”
“My name is Fatima. My sister’s name is Yasmine. We speak English, and we can help you.”
One point for Monica’s side.
PRINCE OMAR’S PANELED OFFICE glistened with cherry hardwoods. L-shaped bookcases and cabinets lined a twenty-foot wall and around a corner. A white marble fireplace stood between the shelves of books. More gold trimmed the room than Kord would earn in a lifetime. His feet sank into a handmade cream-colored Persian rug woven with pale blue and green flowers. Instead of the prince sitting behind the elaborate desk, the two sat in companion chairs.
“Prince Omar, we’ve talked for twenty minutes.”
“And nothing is resolved.”
Memories of the past in Saudi Arabia and beating the odds in insurmountable danger were favorite topics. Prince Omar said their survival was the provision of Allah, but Kord had never been a believer in anything but himself. Not an atheist but rather an agnostic. Truth was, he’d like to find something to believe in when the world seemed so crazy. “We could keep this up until the sun rises and not grow tired of the stories. But right now we’ve got to figure out who’s responsible for the deaths, and who wants you dead.”
The prince steepled his fingers. “Our lists grow by the minute.”
Kord clenched his fist. “I refuse to see you end up like Zain.”
“Then where do we begin? Syria? Yemen? Iran? The oil situation that fuels power and hatred? The constant actions of ISIS? The Sunni? Those in Iraq who side with Iran? The protesters in your country?”
“What’s changed?” Kord said.
“There are no fools in this game. All roads lead to Iran, and our sources are on it. Just who is carrying the smoking gun, only Allah knows. We’ll hunt down all those involved and execute them.”
Kord understood a nation’s pride and how the prince believed his country deserved the distinction of eliminating the killer. “Are you ready to exchange names?”
“I gave those to Carlton and Thomas.”
Kord believed he was holding back, but why? “You have more. When will you share what’s really happening?”
“I’m waiting for a report inside Iran. If correct, then we can move forward. You stated earlier you had an idea.”
“I’m also waiting on info—from a man inside Iraq. Politically connected, and I trust him implicitly. He’s helped the FBI many times, but his concern is for his family. I didn’t want to mention it at dinner and expose his cover. As soon as he calls, I’ll relay the information.”
“We could help him get out of Iraq or protect his family.”
“I’ll make sure he’s aware of your generosity.”
“Is he a friend from your upbringing there?”
“No, my work with the FBI. It’s been too many years since I lived among the Iraqis to have a reliable informant from that time.”
“Ah, weak men sway with the wind. Do you suspect a man here or in the Middle East?”
Kord wished he could give him a name or a group. “If I did, he’d be dead or in jail.”
“Saudi eyes miss nothing.”
“Do you trust every man in this house?”
He pressed his lips and nodded. “It makes this conversation difficult. But someone leaked information about my arrival.”
“Do any of your men side with the conservatives?”
“No. That bunch is in Riyadh.”
Kord took a sip of coffee. “Amir, I see your schedule is blocked for personal time.”
“I need to ensure my mother’s care and possible surgery can be done with my presence. Business meetings will occur then too.”
Kord knew the prince far too well, and idleness wasn’t in his vocabulary. “When is the first meeting with oil and gas executives?”
“Tomorrow afternoon with Shell. Also talking to Exxon the end of the week.”
“Who’s aware of the meetings?”
“Malik and Ali.”
Monica had jarred loose his investigative skills. Unless a hacker had been successful in obtaining Prince Omar’s schedule, a traitor roamed the house. “You’ll keep me posted on all developments?”
“You are my ambassador to the Americans.” He smiled. “Tomorrow is a busy day and we need our rest.”
“Before we head to bed, may I ask two favors?”
“Of course.”
“Trust me. I will do all within my power to keep you and your family protected.”
“I have no doubt.”
“The second is Miss Alden would like a word with you. I’ll accompany her.”
“Can’t you relay her thoughts?”
He wanted to laugh. “Possibly, if she’d shared them with me.”
“For you, my friend. A few minutes by the pool where we met earlier.”
Kord thanked him and texted Monica to meet him in the foyer.
At the foot of the massive staircase, Kord breathed in admiration for the operative who’d chosen her job over defying culture. She wore a black scarf around her head, covering any semblance of blonde hair. If not for her ocean-blue eyes and pale face, he wouldn’t have recognized her.
He liked her. Strange for him to come to a conclusion so quickly.
“Wasn’t expecting a transformation,” he said. “But your reputation states an identity change at a moment’s notice.”
“This is the only way I know to get Prince Omar’s attention. It’s not the Saudi black from head to toe, but hopefully he’ll see this as a positive step.”
Her dilemma touched him, a pleasant surprise. “Monica, your skills are indispensable.”
She blinked.
Where did this about-face reaction come from? He’d been less than cordial when they first met. How strange in the course of the day, he’d learned to appreciate her skills.
“Thanks for requesting I be a part of the dinner meeting tonight.”
“You needed to hear the conversation.”
“What did you want to discuss before talking to Prince Omar?”
“Has the prince shared how he plans to avoid the media while negotiating oil leases?”
“Managing his mother’s care.”
“That’s a change in his habits when his visits in the past have been more . . . colorful.”
“Depends if you know him or listen to media hype.”
“Kord, are you friends with any of the other bodyguards who might have insight? Someone we’ve missed?”
He could use Monica’s help with his problem. “Not a man. The prince’s sister, Fatima.”
“What kind of a relationship?” She eyed him with a twist of her head.
“Friendship, one established five years ago.”
“Who was the male chaperone?”
He scratched the back of his neck. “Wasn’t one.”
“How could you speak to her without a male present? Or is the prince unaware?”
“He doesn’t know. We weren’t involved, but the fact we spoke privately might force me into marriage.”
She bit back a grin, but he saw it. “Or get your throat cut.”
“Hard to choose which could be worse.”
“Sure enough, Romeo.”
“Not funny.”
They walked to the natatorium, where the prince awaited them with Ali. The prince shouldn’t be annoyed with her dress. Although the damage had already been done.
Kord and Monica seated themselves on a gold tufted sofa across from the prince. His old friend’s eyelids looked heavy, aging him way beyond his forty-two years and cementing the need to keep the conversation short. A tray of coffee had been delivered. More caffeine would keep Kord awake when he needed rock-solid sleep, but respecting the hospitality guidelines was more important. Ali poured three cups. Kord waited until Prince Omar grasped his before he and Monica took theirs.
