Page 21 of High Treason
MONICA FOLLOWED KORD AND ALIdown a wide marble hallway hosting alcoves containing gold-etched vases and ancient swords, priceless collector items from around the world. They continued to a massive natatorium. She clamped her mouth shut to keep from gawking.
Above the Olympic-size pool with a huge fountain were rooms with ornate metal balconies, possibly guest suites. Who had three crystal chandeliers overlooking a swimming pool? Four tiers of candle-like lighting were a bit more than she was accustomed to.
Around the pool were seating areas situated for privacy, reminding her of a five-star hotel. Maybe six. To her right, SAC Thomas and Jeff were talking with two bodyguards. She should be aware of their conversation. This boys-only club needed to end. For that matter, she hadn’t seen the princesses. No surprise. Been caught in the middle of cultural differences more than once.
A long, glass-topped table had been set with bowls of fresh fruit, dried dates, and nuts. Two Saudi men in traditional white brought trays of coffee and cups, the nutty aroma of the brew tugging at her senses. Food and drink would energize her mind and body.
Prince Omar took his place at the head of the table with Ali on his right and Malik al-Kazaz, his press secretary, on the left. Kord managed a coveted spot beside Ali. On the remainder of the right were Jeff, Inman, and Saad. On the left beside Malik sat Wasi, SAC Thomas, Karim, and Fares, which meant the front door was armed with technology and not physical men. Monica squeezed into a chair on the far left. That was fine—allowed her to observe every man present, specifically the Saudis. Her gut told her one of them despised Prince Omar and helped plot his assassination. All trails led to a hole in the prince’s security. She’d be observing all of them until she figured out which one was in the same bull pen with akiller.
Ali clenched his jaw. His stiffened body indicated bitterness, anger, or possibly something else.
Inman’s scar had her attention. How had he gotten it?
Saad appeared too young to be a bodyguard. But looks could be deceiving. A pretty-boy type who could be deadly? He’d been with the prince’s bodyguards less than a year.
Malik al-Kazaz focused on the prince. The press secretary knew every detail of the prince’s life, a man whose background was squeaky clean.
Wasi had yet to show any pleasantries. His background indicated a quick temper.
Karim kept his attention fixed on the entrance into the natatorium. According to her report, more than once he’d stopped intruders from gaining access to the prince and his family.
Fares reminded her of a bulldog, and she sensed he didn’t appreciate sitting next to her. A barrel chest bulged through his suit.
The bodyguards were trained to protect at all costs, experts in hand-to-hand combat, weaponry, body language—just as she and Kord were.
“Appetizers have been served. Then we’ll exchange information,” Prince Omar said. “The day’s been too long.”
A man poured coffee, beginning with the prince. Monica absorbed it all like a dry sponge. Her past missions in the Middle East had been in pits of poverty among those who wanted her—and everything she stood for—to die. This might not be any different.
Prince Omar turned to Kord. “My oldest son texted me and asked about you.”
The relationship between the men, brought on by danger, had produced a close friendship. Unique and logical. Kord had referred to Prince Omar as a brother, so what about his own family? She’d ask when given the opportunity. Analyzing a person’s behavior always began with a thorough knowledge of background and family history. She needed to trust him, but that might be impossible.
“Hard to believe he’s seventeen now,” Kord said.
Prince Omar chuckled. “My son would like to take you riding. He has quite an interest in the Arabians.”
Kord smiled, and it was genuine. “Tell him I’d be honored. He showed much bravery back then for a boy of twelve. I’m sure his horsemanship reflects it. When this is over, I’ll visit Riyadh.”
“Good. You’re not married, my friend. Come to my country, and you can have four wives.”
Those at the table laughed, but Monica found nothing humorous in the statement. What woman in her right mind wanted to share her husband with three other women? For that matter, why would a man want to deal with four wives? No doubt the more women, the more sons. Heirs.
“Been too busy to look for a wife,” Kord said.
“Ah, another reason to live in Saudi Arabia. I’ll find a suitable woman for you.”
“I’m picky.”
“No problem. Give me your requirements.”
The men finished their coffee, which was an outstanding Arabic blend, brewed strong. A few swallows and zip bolted into her veins.
While they ate, Monica again contemplated each Saudi in the entourage. She wanted to know their friends, family, siblings, immediate family members’ occupations, health history, blood type, school records, grades, teachers, professors, everything.
Two cups of coffee and a small plate of dates and nuts later, her attention shifted to the prince, who announced his readiness to begin the official meeting.
“Ali, we’re saddened as you are for Zain’s death. Heartbreaking to lose a friend and cousin.” The kindness in Prince Omar’s voice touched her. Unexpected. “We all grew up together, and I grieve with you.” He leaned toward Ali. “I vow vengeance.”
