Page 18 of High Treason
How could she do her job without needed intel and a dose of courtesy?
“Kord, I’ll have Ali show your assistant to the front sitting area until the escort arrives,” Prince Omar said. “Until then, perhaps we can talk about today.”
Monica trailed after Ali ... like an obedient dog. One look at the sitting room’s extravagance made her uneasy. The royal-blue tufted chair didn’t need the wet stains from her jeans. The Persian rug atop wooden floors held more gold thread than Fort Knox. Maybe not, but close.
Rather than sit, she faced the front grounds from behind a wall of windows and watched the motorcycle security arrive. Outside, Ali talked to Karim and Fares. She pulled her binoculars from her shoulder bag and read his lips. Later she’d ask Kord about him.
Two Mercedes limos pulled into place. According to tradition, each consecutive car lessened in luxury based on the passengers’ status. Which high-dollar limo transported a possible traitor? It made no difference which vehicle Prince Omar rode in when someone he trusted might have designs to kill him.
She replaced her binoculars and processed the case. So many questions and she refused to see another dead body. Unfortunately the body count usually rose before it leveled off.
One step at a time, and most likely behind the men.
ON THE WAY TO MD ANDERSON,Monica rode in the second limo. Ali drove the first car with Prince Omar and Kord. Wasi was her driver, Saad rode in the front, and Princess Gharam slept on the opposite side. Monica had wanted time to chat with the woman, but it didn’t happen. Her noble features matched the photo in her file, a beautiful woman with high cheekbones and large brown eyes, yet so fragile.
Monica read a briefing on hospital policy for non-US patients and the documents related to Princess Gharam. Dr. Wesley Carlson, a highly acclaimed cancer specialist, would be in charge of her treatment. The prince had preregistered his mother prior to US arrival and faxed signed documents. MD Anderson provided interpreters, if needed, to help the prince and his mother understand medical language and procedures. The hospital adhered to Muslim dietary requirements and offered a prayer room. If the prince needed restaurant recommendations, housing, the attention of Consul General al-Fakeeh, or transportation, the hospital offered resources to helpmake the stay easier. That had to offer a measure of comfort to the royal family in the midst of uncertainty.
Princess Gharam, a thin woman, used a wheelchair to enter the hospital. Her diagnosis was grim, but the clinical trials gave her a chance to send the disease into remission. She had a serene look about her, but when she stared ahead, her dark eyes emanated fear. While she and the prince met with hospital personnel behind closed doors of the international patients’ office, Ali and Wasi stood guard outside. Monica had no plans to irritate either of them, especially Ali, who kept glancing her way.
She sat across from Kord in the waiting area, the best position to see those walking by. She observed the movement of everyone around her—doctors, nurses, staff, and visitors.
No one escaped her inspection. The killer had been successful twice, and she doubted that person had any thought of giving up. Kord appeared on alert too. Not one glimpse at his phone or an indulgence in conversation.
When the waiting area was empty, she moved to his side while keeping her focus around them. “I have a few questions,” she whispered.
His gaze never wavered. “Figured you would.”
“Actually, a lot of questions.”
He swung his brown eyes her way for a brief second, and she caught their intensity. Definitely a distraction from her responsibilities. “My relationship with the prince? My escapades in the Middle East?”
“So you have a sense of humor.”
“Light side is rare. Usually nose to the grindstone.”
“In our business, that can keep us alive. Is Princess Gharam a fighter?”
“She’s an exceptional woman. Courageous.”
“From experience?”
“Yes.”
“Good to know. Tell me about Ali.”
“He and Zain are cousins. Grew up together. Why?”
“While waiting for the motorcade earlier, I read his lips when he talked to another bodyguard.”
“What did he say?”
“‘This is over when I say it’s over.’”
No signs of concern creased his features. “Could be legit, spoken in anger about the murder.”
“True. Or it might be an admission of guilt.”
“Impossible.” Kord never looked her way. “I told you I know these men.”
