by DiAnn Mills
“Yes, sir. The police are at her apartment,” Kord said. “Is there something you’d like to tell us?”
“She must have been a prostitute ’cause I saw a lot of men comin’ and goin’ from her apartment.”
“Why do you think that?” Kord said.
“She wasn’t ever with ’em.”
“What did they look like?”
“About her height. She must’ve liked short men.”
Shah knew how to play the role of a man . . . or were there more involved? “Would you be able to pick out one of those men in a lineup?” Kord said.
“I’d try. Is she in trouble?”
Kord nodded. “She’s dead.”
His eyes widened. “Do you think one of them men did it?”
“We know who killed her.”
“Have you seen the manager?”
Kord smiled. “He’s on the first floor.”
“Right.” He grinned at Monica, revealing a mouthful of missing teeth. “Miss, I hope this man here appreciates his pretty partner.”
She wanted to laugh, but he was serious. “I’m sure he does.”
“You come back by yourself when you’re done, and I’ll brew us some coffee.”
“Thanks.” Again she swallowed her humor.
Kord took the man’s name and phone number, and the two took the stairs to the first floor, where the manager, J. D. George, lived and worked.
“You were being hit on,” Kord said.
“He simply appreciates the female gender.”
“I’m jealous.”
“You’ll get over it.”
“My heart’s breaking.”
“Superglue is amazing.”
“Do you talk like this to all your partners?”
“Just my current one.” Flirting was for kids, in her opinion, and here she was jumping in with both feet.
George’s office was in the front of the building, and the door stood open.
“Can I help you?” A balding man whirled around on a squeaky chair. “This must have something to do with the HPD and FBI investigation upstairs.”
“Yes, sir.” Monica’s turn to take the lead on this one. “We have a few questions.”
“Gave my statement to the officers.”
“We’re not HPD.” Kord whipped out his FBI ID.
George rubbed the back of his head. “I want to cooperate.” He pressed his computer to life and typed, bringing up Parvin Shah’s file. He stood and pointed to his chair for Monica. “Take a look. I have a spreadsheet with my renters’ payment records and how they paid. Hers was cash on the day due.”
Monica slid into the chair. Shah’s rental application had been completed in June 2011. But her entrance into Houston was February. Where had she lived during that time? The information was basic with nothing verified except her employment at Macy’s and proof of citizenship.
“She doesn’t list a previous address,” Monica said. “And it wasn’t an issue?”
“Told me she’d stayed at a Motel 6 until she found this apartment. Paid three months’ cash in advance, then cash on the day due like I already said.” He swore. “I neglected to check it out.”
Money talked. “She listed her supervisor at Macy’s as an emergency contact.”
“Claimed to have no family or friends in the US.” George’s face flushed. “Not smart in hindsight.”
“Did you ever see her with anyone?”
“My renters have rights, and unless I suspect one of them breaking the law, their activities are private.”
Monica gave him a smile. “But you have eyes. What did you see?”
“She had men friends. No women.”
Kord cleared his throat to take over the interview. “We’d like to see your security cameras.”
George nodded. “I have the footage already. When the police arrived and informed me she’d been shot in a takedown, I got nervous. It’s on the computer.”
Monica pulled it up. “How far does this go back?”
“I have the last three days pulled up here. Thought it would be easier for investigators.”
Kord peered over her shoulder. His breath tickled her neck. Whoa. No need for him to be so close.
“At 1:03 this afternoon, a man left her apartment and took a taxi,” George said.
The same person she’d shot and killed. She zoomed in on a camera positioned outside the apartment building and memorized the taxi’s license plate.
“Handling that now,” Kord said, again incredibly close to her neck. “Will check to see if she used the company or same driver regularly.”
As in the footage from Paramount High School, the person dodged the cameras.
“George, can we copy this footage and her payment records?” Kord said.
“Sure thing. Forget the legal paperwork stuff. If I had a terrorist in my building, I want it on my record about my cooperation.”
“We’ll get back to you about footage going back farther. The FBI will want to image your records.”
Monica reached into her pocket for a flash drive and copied Shah’s records and clips from the security footage. Moments later they thanked George and took the stairs to Shah’s apartment.
“Do you always carry a flash drive?”
“Like lipstick.” She paused and sent a text to the CIA for updates. “I wanted to review the footage over the last few hours before giving it to the big guys.”
“If we can get a facial on every disguise, then we can figure out where she fit.”
“Really?”
He chuckled. “Wishful thinking.”
Agent Richardson was speaking with Ali in the hallway of Shah’s apartment. Richardson waved at Kord and Monica.
“Find anything?” Kord said.
“Ali found another passport. Hidden behind the bathroom mirror.”
“Good one.” Monica smiled at the bodyguard before realizing it wasn’t appropriate. Strangely enough, he handed her the passport instead of Kord. Issued by the US. She opened it and memorized the contents. The photo of Parvin Shah stared back at her with glasses and longer hair. Name: Miriam Hosseini. US citizen. Birth date: September 3, 1983. Born in Michigan. Issued January 7, 2014. Expired January 2024. No date or country stamps to indicate usage.
“Already checked,” Richardson said. “Fake.”
Monica retrieved her phone and clicked a pic of the signature and the number.
“One more thing,” Richardson said. “We found three unactivated burner phones.”
Who was Parvin Shah?
How much info would the sweep reveal?
Would the taxi driver offer more insight?
Who hired her to kill?
OUTSIDE THE APARTMENT BUILDING, Kord talked to Ali while Monica took a call about thirty feet away.
“I understand your argument against giving Agent Richardson Shah’s phone and fake passport,” Kord said. “But it’s the way law enforcement works. Monica snapped a pic of the passport, and she pulled the SIM card and copied the phone’s info before handing them over.”
“Should have known she’d be ahead of their thinking. What about the apartment management records? Her rental application?”
“Copied. The manager was glad to help. Agreed to let the FBI image all his records.”
The two men walked the sidewalk leading to Kord’s Charger. The temps were nearing sixty-five, comfortable until they soared into the heat of late spring and summer. The rain had stopped for today. He’d take a little sunshine and hope Parvin Shah’s death and investigation meant time for the FBI to find those behind the plot while the masterminds scrambled to regroup.
“Miss Alden handles herself well. Fearless and beautiful.” Ali kept his gaze straight ahead.
Unusual comment from Saudi culture. “Her record’s outstanding.”
“I’ve read it. Like you, she values others more than herself.”
“The reason we’re teamed up.”
“I watched her chase the killer from the restaurant
. Impressive.”
“I missed it.”
“Is she unmarried?”
Kord understood exactly where Ali was headed. “Yes.”
“Spoken for?”
Monica was in for a huge surprise. “I have no idea.” Kord wanted to laugh considering she suspected Ali as aligning himself with the enemy. “She’d be a tough woman to tame.”
No emotion creased Ali’s face. “I think she’d be worth the trouble.”
Kord glanced away to hide his grin. “I thought you two didn’t get along?”
“Controversy makes life interesting.”
“Your temper might get you killed.”
“I might enjoy it.”
“She’s a Christian.”
He shrugged. “I like a challenge.”
Before he could discourage Ali any more, Monica walked their way. “I have the report from Macy’s. Shah quit two months ago. Excellent work record. Detail oriented. No absenteeism. No friends. Disconnected phone number.”
“Another dead end—” His phone rang. FBI tech division.
“Found a library card for the downtown branch in the taxi Parvin Shah used today.”
“Find out what she’s been reading.”
ONCE MONICA AND KORD returned to the Saud home and shared dinner, he with his boys’ club and she with the girls’ club, the two met in the natatorium with their laptops. They chose two chairs by the pool’s edge. She hoped the bubbling waterfall distorted their conversation. No one else was around, but ears were always listening. Sheer stubbornness and an intense desire for privacy caused her to hide her words and thoughts. If she wanted the prince to hear a remark, she’d make sure he heard it.
“Do you have the taxi driver’s interview?” she said. “If not, I’ll send mine.”
“Got it.”
Sitting next to him made her nervous. This mission deserved her 100 percent focus, but between an attractive agent and a persistent headache, she was scattered.
They pulled up the feed. The driver, a Caucasian, gave his name and address to a pair of agents. His background checked out—Houstonian. Father of two teens. Lived in the southwest part of town. Worked for Yellow Cab fifteen years. A team of agents was working on the taxi and interviewing personnel.
Kord and Monica played the interview on his laptop.
“Was today the first time you’ve picked up Parvin Shah?” an agent said.
“I picked up men, not a woman. But I’ve been called to the address three other times. It’s in the company’s log.”
Kord paused the video. “Two of those dates match up with the prince’s arrival and the following day at MD Anderson.” He allowed it to continue.
“You say this address,” the agent said. “You mean the apartment building.”
“Yes, sir.”
“According to your log, the calls were made from the same phone.”
“Each time the caller requested me specifically.”
That could have been to eliminate him when she finished her assignment.
“Can you describe the men?”
He tilted his head. “Today was a Hispanic businessman. Before Middle Eastern, I guess. Maybe Indian or Pakistani.”
“How were you paid?”
“Cash.”
“Where did you take these men?”
“First time was a Westheimer address. Second at the front of the family court building. The third, today, was the Barnes & Noble near the Galleria.” He pointed to a file in front of the agent. “I’m sure you have the dates and times right there.”
“We do, and two of the pickups correspond to crimes.”
Monica held up a finger, and Kord paused the video again. “Everything points to Parvin Shah. We need to dig deeper for bank records, alias names, city surveillance cam reports.” She shook her head. “We needed her alive. What about her library card?”
“History and current writings about Iran and Saudi Arabia. And before you ask, techs are working on security camera footage corresponding to when she checked out books.” He resumed the video with the taxi driver.
“Did you have a conversation with the men?” the agent said.
“Just where they wanted to go.”
“Anything more you can tell me?”
“Today the man seemed angry, agitated.”
“How so?”
“Slammed the door when he got in. When I greeted him, he didn’t nod. Before the car stopped, he tossed me a twenty and left.”
The interview ended. Monica waited for Kord to offer feedback.
“Had Shah been nervous with what she’d planned?” he said. “She’d killed before. If she failed, what were the repercussions?” He studied her. “Thoughts?”
“She had less than a thousand dollars in the bank and no cash in her apartment, which says overseas account and a labyrinth of names. Her agitation could be because the prince’s phone had been silent and then the luncheon scheduled.”
Their phones alerted them to an update. The FIG—Field Intelligence Group—had run footage from the high school, Saud home, restaurant, and hospital through facial recognition software to compare images. Analysis confirmed Parvin Shah had been the driver of the food delivery truck, but nothing else matched.
“It’s one checkmark,” he said. “We have the instrument of one of those involved, but I doubt Parvin Shah is the one who ordered the hits.”
Using a secure program, Monica typed criteria to narrow the list of known Middle Eastern female terrorists: sniper skills, disguise master, around five foot six, conversant in Spanish. With the ongoing training of extreme Islamic terrorists around the world, the number of females involved had increased to roughly 20 percent. The woman she’d killed today wasn’t among the names or photos.
She deliberated the rising use and growing force of female terrorists, especially when the average person believed men were the real foes. A female easily gained access to public places where they looked harmless. Females were less likely to be suspected of killing others, allowing them to sneak in and out of targeted areas and resume a normal life. When working in Africa, Monica watched a female terrorist feeding a toddler ice cream, and then an hour later, she blew up a café. Women were known to be more radical than men, and they were drawn into a cause and adventure just like men, enforcing radical doctrine on other women while recruiting them for suicide bombings. Reasons for their enlistment varied. Some European women joined the fight simply because their dress was criticized. So many reports and facts swarmed in Monica’s head, but it was difficult to nail Parvin Shah—Iranian and probably paid by a Saudi to assassinate Prince Omar.
Investigators were on it, but she wanted answers now. Nothing new there.
“Where are you?” Kord said.
She glanced up from her laptop. “Thinking about female terrorists and their growing numbers. Parvin Shah fits the mold. The male clothes and accessories in her closet point to a single conspiracy, but that’s ludicrous. Track with me a moment. Let’s assume a man enlisted her, a man whom she was emotionally tied to—a lover or husband. He saw to her training and convinced her to carry out an assassination against Prince Omar. So who is the man? The scheme is too high level, and as you indicated, we only have a checkmark in a playbook.”
He studied her. “Ali said the mirror was secure to the wall. He started to give up, thinking nothing was there. He persisted and found the passport. I’m going with the idea she intended to use it when she completed the kill.”
“And today’s date was not marked on her calendar or on the original schedule. She could have been apprehensive about moving forward.”
Kord left his laptop on the chair and walked a few feet to the pool. “She was Iranian, an enemy of Saudi Arabia.” He shoved his hands into his pant pockets and looked out over the water.
“Now where are you?” she said.
He swung her way, his gaze on her but his attention elsewhere. “The list of questions with no answers. Malik’s denial of his involvement, but he
’s been implicated. Was it to throw off the real mole? He’ll be released tomorrow. Prince Omar has made arrangements for him to fly home commercially.”
“Do you think Malik’s hiding something?”
“Why? He knows what he’s facing in Riyadh.”
“My point,” Monica said. “Would he rather face death than tell the truth?”
“Depends if he’s protecting someone or a cause. His story hasn’t changed.”
“Yasmine is a pitiful mess. I may need to rethink my approach with her to see if she’s concealing anything, either knowingly or not.”
“Do it. Any comments he made to her are useful.”
Monica smiled. “How is Prince Omar handling this?”
“He’s no fool, and he’s been on the phone constantly to his people.”
Her cell rang and she recognized Ali’s number. “Hi, Ali. Is there a problem?”
“Are you available for a walk in thirty minutes?”
“That’s fine. Will Kord be joining us?”
“He has a meeting with Prince Omar.”
What was this about? “Where will I find you?”
“Where you disarmed the bomb.”
“All right. See you then.”
Ali ended the call. His request tapped at her curiosity. Why her and not her partner? She looked at Kord, who grinned back. “What did you and Ali cook up?”
He lifted a brow. “I’m innocent.”
“I think you have some explaining to do.”
“What did he say?”
“Asked me to join him for a walk.”
Kord laughed—far too long and hard. A joke?
“What’s so funny?”
“He told me this afternoon he’s interested in you as potential wife material.”
How did this happen? “Why didn’t you tell him I had a boyfriend or something?” she whispered. “We nearly killed each other at the hospital.”
The grin stayed intact. “I thought you might be flattered. Think of the press. The wedding would have international coverage.”
“When I’m not with the CIA, I’m a woman. I get my nails done, enjoy bubble baths, get my hair cut. I have more shoes than I’ll ever wear. I bake and give it away. I decorate. I weigh myself every day and count calories. But I’m not looking for a husband.” Now why had she made such a fuss?
