by DiAnn Mills
“Going on now. Might have an update when we talk.”
“We need more of a break than two men who share the same height.”
“Right. You were amazing today. I’m a lucky guy to have you as my partner.”
His words touched her in a forbidden place. Change the subject, Monica. “You’d have done the same thing. I have a topic to discuss with you. The prince sent me to join his sisters after the episode with Malik and Yasmine. We talked in the common area. I assume he’s listened to every word.”
“Bank on it.”
“Would he share that with you?”
“Possibly, if Yasmine admitted something. Is there a problem?”
She wished for the umpteenth time that she hadn’t mentioned Liam. Telling Fatima and Yasmine came far too easily. The truth flowed from her lips despite that others would learn about her regrettable past. Not her normal mode of operation. Small comfort if the prince or Kord had done a thorough history—they already knew. “This house is filled with cameras and listening devices. Makes me uncomfortable. But in his position, I’d do the same to protect my loved ones.”
“We have nothing to hide.”
Privacy was essential in their mission, but she’d not speak of needing it inside the home and neither would Kord. Ali . . . maybe he wasn’t a part of the prince’s betrayal. He’d risked his life today.
Malik was in a cell when the bomb was brought to the house. But she believed Malik had not worked alone.
The undeniable fact repeatedly surfaced. They had no clue who wanted Prince Omar dead. And she felt incredibly inept. Why hadn’t Jeff given her the mission of finding who was responsible for the murders instead of . . . this?
SHORTLY AFTER 4 P.M., Kord learned the Honda driven by the suspect was found at a used car lot.
The owner of the dealership became suspicious when the news indicated a potential killer was on the loose in a car matching one he’d just taken as a trade-in. A Hispanic man with an accent had paid cash for a red Chevy pickup truck. He wore jeans, a T-shirt that said Anything for Selenas, a tattered cowboy hat, and dirt-covered boots. Went by the name of Jose Alvarez. Upon further questioning, the dealer claimed Alvarez was of slight build and had no mustache.
They assumed at least two men were involved in the assassination attempts, but that speculation needed verification.
HPD verified the Honda had been reported stolen the day before, and the owner of the used car lot had been given a false title. Kord relived the frustration he’d seen in Monica’s face earlier.
Nasim hadn’t called, and Kord feared the worst. Others inside Iraq could provide valuable intel, but this man was a friend. Took risks to bring positive changes to his country and the Middle East. The tragedy in Nasim’s life made Kord question why he considered the existence of God, why the matter pressed against his mind. Only his desire to find a superior being who made more sense than the failings of mankind kept him looking, exploring.
He’d become way too philosophical.
Kord walked to the natatorium, reaching deep and searching for who and what motivated the relentless assault. Two and a half days with Prince Omar, and he knew little more than on Tuesday morning when he’d met his friend at the airport.
Prince Omar entered the area and the two men ventured outside onto the grounds, warm with the western sun. “Kord, you would tell me if the plot is from the Americans?”
The somber look on his old friend’s face clouded the truth of who Kord was and his ideals. “I assure you the US government is not behind this. Why would SAC Thomas and the CIA be supporting you to end the killings and crimes?”
“The perfect American cover-up?”
“No, Amir. In this instance you’re wrong. I understand your doubt, the distrust, but the US government is on your side. Are you thinking Malik is innocent?”
“Looking at all the possibilities. I’ve spent hours thinking through every person in this house and at home, even my sisters. Kord, I have no suspects.”
“Malik is no longer here, but he could have easily given your schedule to the media, or an accomplice, before arriving in the US. He could also have arranged for the bomb to be planted in the food delivery. If he isn’t the one who betrayed you, we’ll soon find out.”
“What course of action do you recommend? Because the waiting is making me short-tempered.”
“I suggest rearranging every item—again. Better yet, don’t go anywhere.”
The prince smiled despite the bleak circumstances. “That won’t happen. Once dinner is over, we’ll retire to my office and reschedule everything. It may be a problem with some appointments, especially those regarding my mother. For example it’s impossible to change her surgery date and time. We’ll need extra men with us to cover it.”
“For the after-dinner meeting, shall I include Monica?” Kord wanted her input rather than giving info to her secondhand.
“I prefer she keep company with my sisters.”
“What have you heard from their conversations?”
He gave a slight nod. “Come with me, and you’ll see the burden I have with my sisters.”
The two returned to the house and entered Prince Omar’s office. He closed the door. The prince inserted a flash drive into his laptop. Once the recordings were downloaded, Kord listened to Yasmine’s confession about her relationship with Malik. Fatima’s voice came through as well as Monica’s with comments and questions. But the confession of what Monica experienced two years ago came as a surprise. Kord knew she’d killed an operative when he used biological weapons on a village in Africa. But he didn’t know the extent of her involvement with the man. Now he understood why she followed up on his every move. Her lack of trust came into play. She blamed herself and couldn’t get past it.
Prince Omar ejected the flash drive and tossed it in his hand. “Miss Alden is fearless, although she blames herself for the tragedy in Africa.”
“Why did you want me to hear the recording?”
“To commend you on your partner’s sensitivity to a young woman’s feelings in the midst of her pain. And . . .”
“What?”
“Fatima still has feelings for you. When she learned you were assigned to me, she was upset. Yasmine told me about her foolishness.”
Kord valued the word foolishness. A sense of what Malik went through crept into his mind. “I never led her to believe I had interest.”
“You talked with her as a friend on two occasions, and on the second, you reminded her that your meeting was forbidden, and it could not happen again.”
“I should have told you myself, and I apologize.” The idea of Fatima still hurting unsettled him.
The prince waved away Kord’s comment. “She will have a husband soon. A favorable match for both families, and he has no other wives. She’s not aware. I intend to tell her before dinner.”
Marrying a man she didn’t love wasn’t the solution, not in Western culture anyway.
“Fatima is a woman weak with emotion, like her younger sister. Once she’s busy with a husband and family, she’ll be happy.
“If Malik attempts to contact Yasmine, I must be informed immediately. His life is thin right now. Both Yasmine and Fatima have mobile phones with international accessibility. I blocked his number, but he could find the means to contact either of them.”
“I’d want to believe they would tell you.”
“Who is behind this? It’s as though another person lives in my mind and is transmitting my life to the enemy.” He sighed. “The source must be my original cell phone, like you suspect.”
“The security company was cleared. Are you confident in their discretion?”
“So far. I’d like to face this man and end it on my terms. As you say, playing defense isn’t my game.”
If only they could attach a name to the man instead of a faceless executioner. Kord took a look at his watch. “We have time to go over your itinerary, before I notify SAC Thomas and the CIA that we’ve taken measu
res to rearrange your schedule. We want to make sure tomorrow’s luncheon is leaked to the media.”
The prince’s new cell phone rang. He took the call while facing Kord. “What have you learned?” he said in Arabic. Prince Omar lifted a brow and thanked the caller. He ended the conversation. “We have answers. Someone within my country has paid an Iranian to carry out the assassination here in Houston. No names. My people are investigating the possibility of the Iranian government backing the plot. They may have nuclear weapons, but we’d blow them off the map first.”
“Neither is necessary.”
“Men take risks when the stakes are high.”
Kord snatched his own cell phone, called SAC Thomas, and revealed the recent findings. “The killer could have gotten access through Mexico, or he could be a naturalized citizen.”
“I’m working with a cartel informant,” SAC Thomas said. “He claims no hit contracts have come through. Send me the updated itinerary once you’ve finished it. I’ll have Malik questioned again. See if he’s ready to change his story.”
“Word about Nasim on your end?”
“Waiting.”
Kord hung up and relayed the SAC’s response to Prince Omar.
“Answers lead to arrests,” Prince Omar said. “Now to figure out who in my country seeks to betray me and why.”
“Have the conservatives followed through on any of their threats?”
“Only talk. But three men are dead.”
They needed so much more intel.
AT THE PRINCE’S REQUEST, Monica prepared to enter the common area with the princesses and share dinner with them. If given a choice, she’d eat in her bedroom and sort through the day’s intel and happenings. What a day . . .
The bomb.
Kord’s flesh wound.
Nasim’s plight.
Malik’s fate.
Another confirmation of a plot inside Saudi Arabia against Prince Omar.
And tomorrow the trap for the alleged killer. Add to all of it the rising floodwaters devastating much of Houston.
Shaking off the load of work, she opened her bedroom door to greet Fatima and Yasmine. The aroma of fresh bread and vegetables caused her stomach to rumble. The sisters stared out the same window where she’d stood observing Yasmine with Malik. The younger sister had her arm around the older. Kord had texted her that Prince Omar had requested a meeting with Fatima. Could this be bad news?
“Dinner smells wonderful,” Monica said.
Yasmine gave a sad smile.
“Is everything okay?”
Fatima shook her head and faced Monica with tears streaming down her face. “My brother and father have arranged marriage.”
Dare Monica apologize, soothe, or listen? “I’m sure he has your best interests at heart.”
“He thinks so. Plans are being made.”
Monica had more than once been grateful for living in the US. “I hope you find happiness.”
Fatima sighed. “I will do my best. I’ve known the man since we were children.” She lifted her chin as Monica had seen before. “He’s kind.”
“Sister, your dreams of children will come true,” Yasmine said. “You’ll be a wonderful mother.”
“I’ll try to think of those things.”
“We can begin by having a celebratory dinner,” Yasmine said. “Mother will be pleased.”
“My appetite has vanished.” She took a glance out the window. “Yes, we will eat and chat and laugh. Omar would not have agreed to the arrangement if he did not think the marriage would be good.”
When the meal was over, Monica addressed the sisters. “I need to ask something that’s important to you and your brother’s protection. Both of you have new phones. If the prince requested to see the numbers you’ve called, would there be a problem?”
Fatima rose and walked to her room. Yasmine did the same. Both returned and handed their devices to Monica.
“All female family members, including Mother,” Fatima said.
“So are my contacts and calls,” Yasmine said.
“Yes,” Fatima said. “Above all things we are loyal to our beloved brother.”
Monica slipped into bed before 9:00 p.m. Tomorrow’s demands left no room for error or an exhausted body. She fell asleep and prayed the nightmares about Liam were over.
An incoming text woke her. She reached for her phone on the nightstand and glanced at the time: 1:45. It was Jeff.
Nasim al-Bazzi found shot dead.
Who killed him?
No one’s talking.
Where?
Near his village.
Have u informed the FBI?
Yes. Will update u later.
Monica leaned back against the pillow. Wide-awake. She hadn’t met Nasim, just knew he was a valuable informant who desperately wanted to get to the US with his family. He’d infiltrated many areas of the Middle East to keep the world safe. And he was Kord’s friend.
Liam had stalked her sleeping hours, and terrorists plagued her waking ones. Now another victim. She texted Kord with the news and closed her eyes while waiting for his reply. He called instead.
“Another honorable man down,” Kord said.
“How did you meet him?”
“He tried to take me out while I was on a manhunt. He thought I meant him harm. Convinced him to work for the good guys.”
“I’m sorry.” Kord had lost two friends in less than three days.
“His father lives in Seattle. They were looking forward to a reunion. I want whoever’s behind this prosecuted.”
She’d been on a similar mission like this in Tanzania . . . with Liam. “We need to find them alive.”
“It’s set for tomorrow at two thirty.”
“Anything you can do for Nasim?”
“Need to call his father and relay the tragedy.”
“I’m sorry.” She said good-bye and laid her phone on the nightstand. She prayed for Nasim’s daughter in hopes she escaped her kidnappers alive.
But what if she and Kord were wrong? What if the cell phone virus was an incorrect hunch? All they had was an internal plot against Prince Omar, one in which the Iranians were involved. Nasim had proven himself many times before his death, and she believed he’d died for learning the truth.
FRIDAY AFTERNOON Monica took her place inside Morton’s steak house as a hostess. CIA operatives and FBI agents, dressed as staff, monitored their posts. She walked to the glass door. Snipers were in position across the street at her 10:00 and at her 3:00. The parking lot held a mix of law enforcement, and the city’s cameras had every foot covered. Soon Kord would arrive in the limo. Ali insisted upon being part of the operation, as well as Saad and Wasi.
She prayed to be alert and filled with wisdom. Kord had put himself in far too much danger. She’d do the same thing. But in a few short days, Kord had touched a part of her that she hadn’t believed possible. Neither was she sure she wanted, needed, or deserved that.
At 2:29 p.m., the Mercedes limo stopped in front of the restaurant. The bodyguards, dressed in suits, emerged and scanned the area before Ali opened the door for Kord, disguised as Prince Omar. Two agents in the hostess area opened the restaurant doors to greet the arrivals. Monica held her breath as Kord left the limo. Zain had been killed by a sniper in a similar situation.
The small group walked inside with all the flair of royalty and no incidents.
Two operatives escorted the entourage to a private dining area. The restaurant doors remained unlocked. How easy could this be for the killer?
Now the wait.
The prince, like others in his country, supported moving beyond a dependence on oil. Those goals and ambitions for a country to stay afloat in a yacht instead of a rowboat meant acquiring allies to make it all happen. A worthy project, and she commended Prince Omar for his dedication. He simply needed to live through whatever was planned against him.
She’d gained respect for the prince.
A couple entered the restaurant, and
she explained they were closed for a private party. They made reservations for dinner.
Two men in business attire requested the bar, and she repeated the same. Their disappointment came through in language she preferred not to hear.
An impeccably dressed man entered, Hispanic, three-piece gray suit, conservative silk tie, and jet-black hair worn above his collar. Slender. An attitude and expensive shades. He smiled at her and she returned the gesture.
“Good afternoon.” His accent indicated Spanish, but a little high-pitched.
“Sir, we’re closed until four thirty for a private party.” Her words sounded into the ears of agents and operatives.
“All I need is a table for one.”
“I’m sorry. Perhaps I can make reservations for later on this afternoon?”
He reached inside his suit coat. She tensed, then slowly relaxed. A wallet. He presented her with a bill. Benjamin Franklin smiled at her. “Will this help?”
“I’m afraid not. I must ask you to leave.”
He swore in Spanish, then stiffened. “The door’s unlocked for anyone to enter. Which means open for business.”
“I’ll take care of the oversight once you’ve left.”
“Allow me to speak to your manager.”
“He’s with the private party.”
“I’d like to use your men’s room.”
“I’m sorry. Do I need to call someone to escort you out?”
“Your rudeness will cost your job. I’ll stay until I can speak to the manager.”
“That won’t be necessary. I’m calling security.” Monica touched her weapon with her left hand, habit.
The man whipped out a firearm and aimed it at her face. “I know Prince Omar is here. Take me to him now.”
“Stop.” A male agent moved into the hostess area.
The intruder swung his attention to the agent, and Monica drew her weapon.
“Don’t move,” the intruder said. “Drop your weapons, or one of you is dead.”
“We’re not budging,” she said.
