High Treason

by DiAnn Mills

  “Prince Omar, Malik is in place to answer your questions,” Ali said.

  Malik faced a plea for his life. His white thobe was streaked with dirt and bloodstains, and bruises marred his features.

  “Malik,” Prince Omar said, “your story hasn’t changed.”

  He lifted his head and stared into the camera. “Because it is the truth.”

  “I have new questions, ones that might jar your mind and help you remember.”

  Malik closed his eyes. “I doubt I can help, but I will answer.”

  “What were the dates of your trip to Iraq?”

  “January 3 to the thirteenth. Prince Omar, I’ve answered this before.”

  “Ten days is a long time.”

  “My cousin, Rashid Dagher, took a while to make a decision about returning home.”

  “What was his delay?”

  “His wife’s family didn’t want them to leave.”

  “I see,” the prince said. “You know Parvin Shah was killed in an assassination attempt. But we’ve uncovered more. She worked with Youssof Dagher, and he’s dead.”

  Malik startled.

  “Are you surprised at the death of your cousin?”

  “I have no knowledge of this woman. I thought Youssof lived here with his family.”

  “Not so. He left for Iraq and ended up in Houston. He attempted to kill Miss Alden and Kord but failed. He sped away but sustained serious burns and injuries in a car explosion that resulted in his death.”

  Malik rubbed his face. “I spent time with Youssof. I thought he’d be fine once in Riyadh.”

  “Why did the two of you spend three days in Baghdad?”

  “When I broached the subject of wanting to get to know him better, he suggested a short trip. I asked where, and he said Baghdad.”

  Prince Omar crossed his arms over his chest. “Why?”

  “I asked the same, and he claimed to like the city.”

  “What happened there?”

  “Visited mosques. Talked for hours.”

  “Weren’t you fearful of bombings? Shootings?”

  Malik moistened his lips. “Encouraging my cousin to be a good man was more important.”

  “Whom did you meet with there?”

  “Neither of us saw anyone we knew.”

  “Were the two of you ever separated?”

  Malik blinked. “Twice he went for food, and I stayed behind.”

  “Unusual?”

  “He was insistent I rest.”

  “Were you ill?”

  “A stomach problem from bad food.”

  “How convenient he was unaffected.”

  “Prince Omar, when can I leave this wretched place?”

  “When I have the truth. If it’s a comfort, you will leave. How remains to be seen.” Prince Omar turned to Kord. “What would you like to ask?”

  Kord wished this was face-to-face. “Did Youssof have unsavory friends? Did you see any of them?”

  “No.”

  “Names?”

  “No.”

  “What was Rashid’s argument with these men?”

  “They stressed violence against enemies.”

  “I see,” Kord said. “Had Youssof participated in any of their activities?”

  “Rashid wasn’t aware, but he worried his son might soon embrace their ways. I asked Youssof about his friends, and he claimed they were fine and his father was suspicious of every Iraqi or Iranian.”

  The first bit of information that Malik had offered on his own. Truth? Lies? “Were they Iraqis or Iranians?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Did you hear any statements termed as treason?”

  “If so, I’d have told Prince Omar.”

  The prince huffed. “Like you told me about my sister?”

  Malik lifted his chin. “I am not a traitor. I’d give my life for you.”

  And he might if evidence proved otherwise soon. Kord posed a question. “Who is Jafar Turan?”

  “I have no idea. Never heard the name.”

  Prince Omar indicated he wished to speak. “Do you side with the conservatives?”

  “I’m loyal to you.”

  “My final question—are you prepared to die for your crimes, or do you wish to provide names in exchange for your life?”

  “I have never betrayed you or any member of the Saud family. If you choose to execute me, know you are killing an innocent man.”

  Monica’s phone rang late afternoon after a nap. A call from Mom while on a mission was seldom a good thing. Except this time Monica didn’t mind, and she was in the mood to chat. Closing her eyes, she breathed in and out while willing her lungs to work properly.

  “Hi.” Mom’s cheery voice greeted her. “Hope I’m not catching you at a bad time. I thought the coffee shop would be closed for the day.”

  “It is, so talk away. Love hearing your voice.”

  “Are you in the middle of dinner?”

  “No, and it wouldn’t be a problem if I was.”

  “Your dad and I want to see you. Wondering when you’d be available for us to visit.”

  “Were you reading my mind? I was thinking of a trip home.”

  “I’m so excited. When?”

  Monica touched her chest. The cough would most likely linger. “In six weeks. I can take a few days then, like a Thursday through Sunday afternoon.”

  “Before Memorial Day?”

  “Yes, unless you want me to wait until then and take two more days.”

  Her mother squealed.

  “Okay, that settles it. I’ll be home on Friday the twenty-fifth and fly back on June 3.” She’d put in for leave now before getting a new assignment.

  “I can hardly wait. We’ll have a new foal then.” While Mom talked about farm life, Dad’s refusal to slow down, and her brothers and their families, she longed to join them. But only for the planned week.

  She’d go nuts after that, but she’d never tell them so. Her dear family meant too much to hurt them.

  “I’m going to have all your favorite foods. The rhubarb should be ready then too. Have you saved up enough to buy your own coffee shop?”

  “Not sure I want the responsibility of ownership.”

  “My winsome daughter. I don’t care. Do what makes you happy. Is there a special young man?”

  Monica thought about saying yes, but the complications from it might snowball. “Maybe.”

  “Bring him with you. He can have your brother’s room.”

  “No promises.” Now why did she offer such a thing?

  THE DOCTOR ARRIVED AT 5:00 P.M. to see Monica. Not a moment too soon as far as she was concerned. He removed the IV and took her temp.

  “Still running a fever,” he said. “Let me check your lungs.” He listened and she prayed, but he frowned. “Neither lung is clear. I’ll be back on Friday.”

  It was what he didn’t say that bothered her the most.

  “Stay on the bronchodilators and antibiotics. Don’t attempt any strenuous activities. A little walking is good. Rest often.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll do my best.”

  She hadn’t requested the doctor’s approval about attending the rodeo, and she hoped the prince hadn’t either. Priorities meant a few sacrifices.

  During a short evening walk outside the Saud home, Kord enjoyed Monica’s grip on his arm. He hadn’t talked to the doctor after her appointment due to another meeting with Prince Omar and Ali.

  She leaned into him and slipped her arm into the crook of his.

  “Have you given in to my charms?” he said.

  “No, Agent Davidson. Just maintaining my balance. Sorry for burdening you.”

  “You’re overdoing it.” Telling her he enjoyed it might not be a good idea. “Like the scarf, by the way.”

  “It makes the prince happy.”

  “So would resting more.”

  “The fresh air is good medicine, and the scent of spring flowers boosts my morale.”

  “As long as yo
u don’t have a relapse. What did the doctor say?”

  “That I’m a good patient.”

  “Why don’t I believe you?”

  She laughed. “Tell me about your meeting with Prince Omar this afternoon.”

  “You inspired him.”

  “How?”

  He told her about the live video with Malik. “You were asleep. Saw no need to wake you. Not one sign of deceit in Malik’s words or body language. Threw me.”

  “He’s playing the role of his life.”

  “And he’s trained.”

  “Does the prince know we believe Malik is still a suspect in the conspiracy?”

  “He does. But he needs more proof and names.”

  “In all that we’ve discovered about the suspects, we have two outsiders who can be questioned—a distraught father, whom I believe, and an Iranian national. The FBI and CIA are gathering more intel, but we’re missing an important piece that links them all.”

  Kord reached for his phone and pointed to the marble bench. “Perfect time to check in again with my Iranian contact.”

  Once seated, she removed her arm from his. “Everyone likes to be wakened at 2:30 a.m. Can you put the call on speaker?”

  He glanced around before tapping in Rere’s number. The informant answered on the first ring. “That was quick.”

  “Just picked up my phone to call you. Learned something tonight. Hold on while I make sure no one is around.”

  When Rere indicated he was in place, Kord urged him to share all the details.

  “My source points to Malik al-Kazaz as the originator of the assassination plot against Prince Omar,” Rere said.

  “Is the source reliable?”

  “The man has a connection inside Saudi with the conservatives. Malik arranged for Parvin Shah to handle the kill, offered to pay her $500,000 once the job was complete.”

  “How did he recruit her?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “Where does her brother Jafar Turan fit?”

  “No mention of him.”

  “Youssof Dagher?”

  “Malik recruited him.”

  “Is Malik the leader of the conservatives?”

  “That hasn’t been confirmed. I’m working on names.”

  “Malik’s motivation?”

  “Unclear. I heard a story about him slitting his mother’s throat when she learned he was meeting secretly with an Iranian. He blamed an intruder who was never found for the attack.”

  “That was over two years ago, and he told Prince Omar she’d been attacked in her home, claimed she was murdered. Doesn’t fit with the current scheme unless he had designs to bring down Prince Omar then.” Images darted across his mind of the prince and his family in a pool of blood. “Maybe the mother’s murder is what ties it all together. We’ll work through it here. Anything else?”

  “Another of my sources inside Iraq has photos of Malik with Parvin taken about six months ago. I’m sending them to your phone.”

  “Which means she sneaked in and out of the US.”

  “You need the why, and I’m working on it.”

  “Dig more into the Saudi conservatives,” Kord said. “Thanks. Be safe.”

  “No worries. I’m a good liar.”

  Kord dropped his phone into his pocket and turned to Monica. “ASAP to Prince Omar. You were right. Should have listened. Remember when I said, ‘You know nothing about a brotherhood of loyalty’?”

  “Doesn’t mean I like hearing a man is a killer. What can I do?” she said.

  “Get better.” He kissed her cheek.

  “I’m doing my best.” She yawned.

  “Need to get you back inside. While we walk back, I’m contacting SAC Thomas. See how quickly we can confirm Jafar’s whereabouts.”

  “I’ll text Jeff. Malik won’t live past the hour unless Saudi authorities think they can extract more information.”

  “Either way, he’s a dead man.”

  KORD EXPLAINED TO PRINCE OMAR what he and Monica had learned from Rere and encouraged him to refrain from executing Malik until they had more information. She stood beside him, and he could feel her silent support.

  “Until we have confirmation of who’s behind the plot, Malik is worth more to us alive than dead.” Kord was aware Prince Omar would be sending a team to Iran to find out who else might be suspected in working for Malik. But a formal declaration meant chaos in a world already fueled by violence.

  Fury lined every visible muscle in Prince Omar’s face and body. Nothing came from his mouth. He picked up his phone and called Riyadh. “Intel points to Malik as our man. We must discover who else is involved before executing all the traitors.”

  Kord caught a glimpse of relief from Monica. But without names, Prince Omar and his family still faced danger.

  Prince Omar clenched his fists and requested his bodyguards and staff to meet him in the natatorium.

  When seated, the prince glared at each man. “Malik is responsible for the death of Zain, a friend and good man. Too many others have been killed by his orders. If any of you suspect another man or woman, now is the time to speak up.”

  Nothing.

  “Allah has seen fit to show us the truth. We will not relax but keep our eyes open for the next man or woman to carry out orders. Our plans in Houston will remain intact. The Saud family has built an empire on power and courage. We will not run home in the midst of adversity. We will hunt down these men and destroy them.”

  Back in his room, Kord sank into a chair, his mind weary. This assignment had tested his skills as an agent, and it wasn’t over yet. But finding faith in God, and the sense of purpose beyond the FBI, made it all worth it. He’d read in Christian literature and the Bible about the power of grace. Until he’d experienced it, the concept seemed like a fairy tale. Then there was Monica—wherever that led.

  Wednesday arrived and Monica’s temp dropped to 99.6. Reason to celebrate. The cough was a nuisance. She had sore stomach muscles, ones she never knew existed.

  Houston’s security camera footage indicated Youssof had been in the city twenty-eight hours after his family believed he’d left for Iraq. Footage showed him alone, but the search for accomplices continued.

  Fatima and Yasmine visited their mother during the morning hours while Monica stayed at the Saud home like an invalid. The two young women confided in Monica about the steady decline of their mother’s health. Their good-byes were tearful, as though each time might be the last. Princess Gharam fought hard, but her strength waned.

  After returning from the hospital, Kord accompanied Prince Omar along with three bodyguards to Saudi Aramco. The meeting ran smoothly, according to Kord.

  She despised this wretched healing process.

  She studied secure CIA websites to catch the latest news since the revelation of Malik’s involvement in the assassination plot. A coughing spasm hit, and she clutched her chest. Then took a dose of medicine before diving back into her research. The CIA, along with the Saudis, had people on the ground in Iran running down names and suspects. None of it had hit the media forefront. Yet.

  The one thing cementing her sanity came with the rodeo event on Thursday. She’d be out of the house and working again. Prince Omar had reservations about her participation. Serious ones. But it would take cuffs, chains, and a locked cell to keep her from being at NRG Stadium.

  A few positives—no further attempts on the prince’s life, and she was determined to see this mission through to the end.

  The negatives took a frightful stand. Jafar was hiding. Rere fled Iran to Saudi Arabia due to death threats. Malik refused to talk. Only a fool would believe the turmoil had ended.

  Late afternoon, she made her way to the common area, where Fatima and Yasmine were busy with their phones. The younger woman glanced up, wearing despair like another veil. Monica recognized the immaturity.

  “Yasmine, if you let Malik’s treachery wall up your heart, he won in destroying at least one member of the Saud family.” F
rom Monica’s experience, that kind of bitterness did no one any good. Perhaps it was only a temporary defense mechanism. “If you fuel your soul with hate, your heart will blacken.”

  “How do I rid myself of it?”

  “Forgive him and yourself,” Monica said.

  “I’m trying. Never thought I’d feel so much hate and pain.”

  “I’m praying for you.”

  Yasmine thanked her. She kept her head high and not a tear was shed.

  The quiet in the house was like living in the eye of a storm.

  When she woke on Thursday morning, her temp held steady at 99.2. She had one thought on her mind—that afternoon was Prince Omar’s rodeo event. He’d invited a group of oil and gas businessmen to fill a private suite with catered food and nonalcoholic beverages. No expense spared. In fact, the prince had to pay extra because of not serving alcohol.

  Friday morning he had an appointment with Shell to discuss leasing Saudi oil reserves.

  Jafar had disappeared, and the reality made her nervous. While today’s guests would dine on fine food, watch rodeo activities, and listen to the rich voice of country-western star Keith Urban, those entrusted to the prince’s protection stood by on alert.

  For sure she’d not be bored, and what she needed was energy and strength.

  Snatching her phone from the nightstand, she pressed in Kord’s number. “Got a minute?” she said.

  “What’s up?”

  “My guess is Jafar knows what I look like, as well as any other players. I can balance the situation in our favor by letting them think I stayed behind. You go on without me, and I’ll meet you there.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea. It’s supposed to rain, and your lungs aren’t clear.”

  “Says who? I don’t have a fever.”

  “How can I talk you out of this?”

  “Impossible.”

  “Figured so.” He sighed, and she knew it was for her benefit. “Will I recognize your getup?”

  “Never know. Arrange for a pass at will call under the name of Kay Bronson. I’ve used it before and have ID. Can you request a car and driver from the FBI?”

  “On it. Your being there isn’t necessary. We have law enforcement swarming the place.”

  “If Jafar shows up, I want to see the look on his face when he’s arrested.”