High Treason

by DiAnn Mills

  “Maybe so. Shall we look at the hospital footage?”

  He brought it up. “I haven’t reviewed it yet. Might take a while.”

  “I’m looking.” She coughed, and the sound of it hurt his gut. “Don’t say a word. Fatima and Yasmine are my med police.”

  For the next fifteen minutes they reviewed the footage with questions here and there. She coughed a few times, but he kept his mouth shut. Fatima had told her brother that Monica was running a consistent hundred-degree fever.

  “Nothing jumps out at me,” he said.

  She gave the location of a section of the burn unit’s waiting area. “See the old woman near the nurses’ desk? Glimpses of her have been in a few frames at different times.”

  “Where?”

  She gave the points of interest. “Her sweater is a distinct gray, and I see flashes of it here and there. Can you zoom in?”

  He obliged. “Olive-skinned. Not much else to go on, but I’ll check it out.” He texted the inquiry to the FIG.

  “Patience is not a virtue for either of us. Anything turn up on Shah’s brother?”

  “Not yet. Investigators are following up on the places she visited.”

  “Like the library?”

  He mulled her question. “That’s a safe place.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m on it.”

  “If you’d let me out of this bed, I’d run it down.”

  “Even if you didn’t sound like your cough came from your toes, our role is protection.”

  She laughed, and he savored the sound.

  MONICA HAD MADE A USELESS ATTEMPT to fight sleep and explore the new findings. She fell asleep before three in the afternoon and didn’t wake until her phone buzzed with a call from Kord. This time, she’d placed her cell beneath her blankets to keep Fatima from confiscating it.

  “Woke you up?” he said.

  “I refuse to answer that.” She took a quick look at the time—9:00. What a shirker. “What have you learned?”

  “The FBI held a press conference, encouraged the community to help.”

  “You’ve had positive responses with billboards and enlisting citizens’ cooperation in the past. By the way, are you hungry?”

  “I could be. Do you want me to bring you up something?”

  “No, I need the exercise and I hate to eat alone.”

  “Aren’t you still running a fever?”

  “Low grade. Very low.”

  “What about your sidekick, the IV pole?”

  “I can carry the bag. Please, anything to get out of this room.”

  “I’ll meet you outside your door.”

  “But no help down the stairs unless I ask.”

  “I could carry you. After all, I carried you up there.”

  “So not laughing.”

  “On my way.”

  Maneuvering the IV bag in and out of the sleeve of a floor-length robe took more time than she thought. Then a scarf in case a Saudi man showed up. Nearly wore her out. Then she had a coughing spell. Fifteen minutes later, she shuffled out. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

  “Sure this is a smart move?” he said.

  “I’m going to the rodeo on Thursday. Have to start somewhere.”

  “Monica, you’ll be watching Keith Urban from YouTube videos.”

  “A good mental attitude is the beginning of great things.”

  “Whose quote?”

  “It’s in the book of Monica. Sure hope there are leftovers in the fridge.”

  “If not, I’ll whip up scrambled eggs.”

  “With lots of cheese.”

  She took slow, deliberate steps. Not since she’d caught malaria had she been this weak. Clinging to the smooth metal railing, she worked her way down the winding steps while he carried her medicine bag and supported her arm. “Keep talking to me,” she whispered. “Keeps my mind off myself.”

  “What kind of a diamond do you want?”

  “A little sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

  “I’m bedazzling you.”

  “Where did you get that word?”

  “Found it in the dictionary.”

  She could get used to Kord Davidson. Seemed to take far too long to get to the kitchen.

  Ali entered the room. “Thought I heard you two talking.” He shook his head at her. “You need to be resting.”

  “I will once I get something to eat.”

  He wrapped his arms across his chest. “I’m staying until you do. And Jeff Carlton is at the gate.”

  Prince Omar walked in dressed in jeans. “I want to hear what Mr. Carlton has to say.”

  What were the odds of the kitchen being the most common meeting area?

  Oh, well, there went her idea of having Kord all to herself.

  A short time later, Jeff sat at the kitchen table, while Kord scrambled eggs with chives and cheese for her. Coffee brewed. Maybe it would keep her awake.

  “Are you checking on my progress or are you bringing info?” she said.

  “How’s the pneumonia?”

  “Better.” If only the fever would break. Kord set the eggs before her, and she picked up a fork. Needed nutrition to work smart. “Tell us what you’ve learned.”

  Jeff smiled, his scruffy beard causing him to look like a college kid. “Figured you’d say that. We have a lead on Parvin Shah’s brother, a man who’s lived here in Houston for eight years. Works as a librarian at the downtown branch of the library she frequented. He didn’t pop up on the initial search for Shah’s family because they don’t share the same last name.”

  She perked. “You have him in custody?”

  “On it. A follow-up earlier this evening with the library director shows he hasn’t been at work for the past two days. Neither has he called in or responded to his phone. Not his habit. Well liked and dependable. He’s a naturalized citizen, lived in Houston since his arrival to the US.”

  “Address?”

  “The apartment was cleaned out. We’ve got a BOLO out now with his photo. Viewing security video from his apartment complex as we speak.”

  “Anything left behind we can use?”

  “He has a strong resemblance to his sister. Sending pic of Jafar Turan to your and Kord’s phones.”

  “Mine and Ali’s,” Prince Omar said.

  “Yes, sir. Jafar Turan has a clean background.”

  “Definitely not the kingpin?” she said.

  “Doubt it,” Jeff said.

  “Just received my info from the FBI,” Kord said. “Every investigator in the city is on it.”

  Jeff turned to her. “We need your photographic memory expertise.”

  She pulled up pics of the brother and sister. “Aside from techs comparing Parvin’s and Jafar’s facial recognition to what we already have, I have nothing.” She longed to help in identifying the suspects. “Parvin had lifted eyebrows, higher cheekbones, and fuller lips. I’m thinking through the footage at Paramount High School, the attempt on Consul General al-Fakeeh at MD Anderson, the bomb left here, Parvin’s apartment, and the various other clips. Jafar is in none of them. Sure of it.” She looked at Kord. “Did you see anyone at the hospital who caused suspicion?”

  Kord shook his head. “If involved, he must be behind the scenes.”

  “Prince Omar?”

  “Nothing, Miss Alden.”

  “Ali?” She studied the big man’s features. He took a breath.

  “In the waiting room of the burn unit, I remember an old woman. Dressed Iranian. Wearing gray.”

  Ali didn’t need to say more. She wanted to run the leads herself, especially with the woman wearing gray. She pulled up the burn unit waiting room footage and pointed to the woman in a few pics. “Is this her?”

  “Yes,” Ali said. “I remember she stared at us.”

  “Could be the woman was Westernized,” Monica said.

  “Or she could have been Jafar Turan,” Ali said.

  “Possibly so.”

  Jeff typed into his phone. �
�Having techs examine the hospital footage. Jafar’s face will be splattered worldwide.” He glanced up. “He can’t hide long. The job isn’t done, so he’s in the city.” Jeff finished his coffee. “Will call with updates.” He shook Prince Omar’s hand. “Don’t go anywhere. Whoever’s behind this is getting desperate.”

  “I can’t promise that. I refuse to cancel my plans like a coward.”

  Couldn’t the prince see he put them all in danger with his actions? Or did his honor and self-sacrifice supersede common sense?

  TUESDAY MORNING, Monica rolled out of bed in a fetal position—the most comfortable—and found maneuvering to the bathroom and dressing a little easier than the previous day. Dragging the IV pole irritated her. She unhooked the bag. The doctor claimed he’d remove it today. Couldn’t happen soon enough.

  Last night’s kitchen meeting had sapped her. How long until she was back to full speed? She swallowed her meds and slid the thermometer into her mouth: 100.2.

  What was wrong with her body? The doctor said exhaustion had weakened her, but she was tired of the temp game.

  Three Tylenol to curb the heat.

  Now to brush her teeth. She bent and gasped at the ache in her stomach from all the coughing. Yesterday she’d managed the task standing up. Sending a brush through her hair proved equally hard on muscles she normally took for granted. At least she was ambidextrous.

  After hooking back to the IV pole, she moved to the common area, but the princesses weren’t there. They’d long since finished breakfast, but a plate of fruit, bread, and coffee awaited her. A text flew into her phone from Ali.

  Prince Omar would like to see you.

  B right down.

  I’ll be in the hallway.

  Best the meeting be now. A nap would chase her until she gave in. Outside the women’s quarters, Ali waited. “Good morning, Miss Alden.”

  She returned the greeting. “Did Kord tell you not to help me with the stairs?”

  He smiled. “Said you might shoot me.”

  “You’re a wise man.” She liked Ali. He had charm. Except she’d kill him because of his temper. Or vice versa.

  But this morning she allowed him to hover over her. Falling face-first down the stairs might stop her from attending the rodeo on Thursday.

  In the prince’s office, she sat beside Kord. Coffee was served, and she desperately needed a second cup. The prince gave her his attention.

  “Miss Alden, you look feverish.”

  “I’m much better, Prince Omar.”

  “Following doctor’s orders by multiple ascents and descents of the stairs?”

  Ouch. “I’m taking the antibiotics and sleeping.”

  “So my sisters tell me.” He rested his cup on a saucer. “During the night, Kord and I requested information. Kord, would you fill her in?”

  “Jafar has not left the States since his arrival in 2009. Legally, that is. I sent a request for sources inside Iran to learn about Parvin Shah and Jafar Turan with ties to anyone in Saudi Arabia, specifically Rashid and Youssof Dagher and Malik al-Kazaz.”

  The prince’s phone sounded, and she paused to listen. He spoke in Arabic to someone she believed was the director of Saudi security. Out of respect, she rose to leave.

  “Miss Alden, wait.” The prince immediately returned to his native language.

  Ali gestured for her to sit, and she did.

  “Are you certain?” The prince listened for a few moments longer. “Arrange a live interrogation with Malik. I want to pose questions. Dig into his mother’s death. Also I want more on Youssof Dagher’s companions in Iraq. We need answers.”

  The conversation ended, and Prince Omar set his phone on a side table. “You heard my part of the conversation. I’ll let you know when the interrogation takes place.” He eased back in his chair. “We have additional intel. Jafar Turan had military training before entering the United States. He’s not associated with any Iranian government official. We don’t know who recruited his sister, trained her, or what the motive behind their actions is in connection with Saudi Arabia.”

  “Youssof claimed to have recruited Parvin, but where does Jafar fit? A sleeper cell doesn’t make sense. We assume the ultimate goal of the plot is to eliminate Prince Omar, but why Parvin, Youssof, and Jafar?” Kord said. “And the consistent question is what Saudi paid an Iranian to assassinate Prince Omar?”

  “We’re researching a plot by the conservatives,” Prince Omar said. “I’ve read the reports and shared them with Saudi officials. We need to find Jafar alive. If he’s killed, we’ll have a difficult time stopping the enemy from sending another assassin or suicide bombers into my country or here.”

  “Would you cancel the rodeo event on Thursday?” Kord said.

  “Not at all. Jafar may have slipped out of the country since he’s a fugitive, but I’m prepared to hire additional security to protect my family here and friends at the rodeo.”

  “I intend to accompany you,” Monica said.

  “Miss Alden, the doctor will have a few things to say about that decision.”

  “I heal quickly.”

  “What about your fever?”

  She might have to pull a trigger on Kord for that question. “I’m sure it’s normal now.”

  Prince Omar huffed. “We’ll allow the doctor to deny or permit your participation.”

  She’d not let anything or anyone deter her. Including the doctor.

  “I’ll escort Miss Alden to her room,” Ali said.

  “Good. I need a word with Kord.”

  Exhaustion seemed to take a chunk out of her normal vibrancy.

  “May I encourage you to stay in bed,” the prince said.

  She rose and slowly moved to the doorway. A bit of dizziness swept over her, and Ali grabbed her arm.

  “Last night’s meeting in the kitchen weakened you,” the prince said.

  He might be right, but she’d not admit it. A raw throat from the cursed cough plagued her. No time to sleep when she wanted to follow up on the same info as Kord and Saudi security.

  Inside the women’s quarters, Fatima and Yasmine were reading in the common area. At times Monica wished for a more leisurely lifestyle, but it never lasted more than a few minutes. She’d be bored out of her mind.

  “Good morning,” she said to the sisters.

  “We’re good. You’re pale,” Fatima said. “Did you take your morning medications?”

  “Absolutely.” The word had become a joke between them.

  Fatima stood and examined her IV bag while Yasmine retrieved her pole from Monica’s bedroom. Sweet ladies. She’d never forget their kindness. She wanted to talk to Yasmine, see if she unknowingly had vital information.

  Monica sank into a chair. “While you two slept last night, I walked down the stairs.”

  Fatima touched her heart. “By yourself?”

  “Kord met me in the upper hallway. I was hungry.”

  Yasmine giggled. “Ali helped you walk down midmorning. Congratulations.”

  “Slow but sure. Before you know it, we’ll start back with self-defense classes. Actually a child could take me out right now.”

  “You have many tricks,” Fatima said. “I think no matter what you face, you’d be triumphant.”

  She laughed. “I doubt it. Do you mind if we chat?”

  “Of course.” Fatima pointed to a comfy chair. “Rest and talk. Is this about my brother’s safety?”

  “Your entire family,” Monica said. “Has Prince Omar spoken with you about the latest findings?”

  Fatima put her book aside. “He told us our people and the Americans are looking for a man named Jafar Turan, brother to Parvin Shah.”

  “It’s not my role to give you any more information than the prince has shared. My question is about another subject, one we’ve discussed before. Mostly for Yasmine.”

  “Malik?” Yasmine said. “Has he done something else?”

  “I’m just working on making pieces fit. Did Malik mention Youssof Daghe
r to you?”

  “He looked forward to spending time with him in Riyadh.”

  “What happened when the family moved?”

  “He encouraged my brother to meet with Rashid and Youssof.”

  “Why?”

  “He said to build good relations between the men. He was proud of Youssof and hoped he gained favor with Prince Omar to secure a position within the family.”

  “Were there other times Malik met with the younger man?”

  She shrugged. “He never told me.”

  Fatima took Yasmine’s hand.

  “If there is anything at all you remember that can help us end this nightmare, tell me now. When Malik returned home, he called you right away?”

  Yasmine shook her head. “Not until the next day. That’s when he told me about the trip.”

  “Did Malik speak of your brother’s business dealings here in Houston?”

  She tilted her head. “Only that Omar believed he was doing the best for our country.”

  “And Malik shared the same conviction?”

  “I assumed so. Monica, I’ve told all I can remember. I hate him. He’s not who I thought he was at all.”

  KORD SPENT THE REMAINDER of Tuesday morning reviewing security footage from every venue in which Jafar or Parvin might have been present. FBI and CIA techs were on it, but he wanted insight now, which meant doggedly pursuing every angle. The FIG beat him to the find—Parvin visited Jafar twice after the prince landed in Houston. Both trips at night to his apartment. She appeared to avoid one camera, as though knowing where it was located, but missed a second one. Didn’t mean Jafar was guilty of conspiracy—only that he and his sister had met.

  Shortly after lunch, Kord sat in Prince Omar’s office with Ali and the prince awaiting a live feed from Riyadh. Monica slept, but she could view it later. A protective nature for her had him concerned for her weakened condition.

  Kord mulled over the connection points for the plot. Information about the conservatives lacked clarity. None of them would own up to an assassination attempt to reinforce their views of how the country should handle natural resources. Monica believed Malik held a critical role, while Kord wavered. Could the former press secretary be innocent and simply have done his father’s bidding and tried to help Youssof, a wayward cousin?