Page 2 of High Treason
The two strode across the parking lot toward the window-walled Frozen Rock, painted in vivid orange and neon green. A Closed sign on the door met them, but lights were on inside the shop. Good. The reservations were intact. Now to get the prince and his guests fed and out of there. Was Kord crazy to be so apprehensive?
He knew Zain had his eyes and ears on what was happening around him while his fingers were inches from his weapon. A few feet from the glass door of the ice cream shop, Zain broke his stride.
He fell against the glass door.
The pop of a rifle sounded.
Kord grabbed him, pulling out his Glock with his other hand. Shouts in Arabic alerted him to bodyguards emerging from the limos close behind him. Time hung suspended. Zain’s body slid to the sidewalk facedown, theghutrasoaked in red.
Kord bent to his friend and felt for a pulse. “Zain,” he whispered, “this isn’t the way it’s supposed to happen.” No response orfaint heartbeat. Blood oozed from the back of his skull, draining a Saudi life onto US concrete.
Screams rose from nearby women and children.
The man who’d shared Middle Eastern danger and saved Kord’s life was dead. No doubt mistaken for Prince Omar. How did the sniper know about the stop at the Frozen Rock?
Monica poured a large cup of the Arabic blend for a regular customer. “Chicken-bacon wrap too?”
“You bet. Add a bag of chips and a banana.”
She peeled off a label containing a quote, sealed it onto the side of the cup, and handed it to him before bagging his lunch order to-go. “Been to the rodeo yet?”
“Taking the family on Saturday. The crowds will be crazy, but that’s part of it. What about you?” He gave her a polished smile, one he used for her and every person he met there. Dressed in a dark suit and a two-hundred-dollar tie, he looked every bit the successful lawyer.
“Sunday afternoon.”
He turned the cup to read the quote. “‘Be sure you put your feet in the right place, then stand firm.’ Abraham Lincoln. Good one. I’ll remember it in court this afternoon.”
“May you win all your cases.” She laughed and pointed outside to dark, gathering clouds behind him. “Don’t forget your umbrella.”
He left the café and dashed down the sidewalk. She continued to serve coffee, specialty drinks, and deli sandwiches to the remaining patrons in line. An easy part of her life, but not her mission, her calling. Passing on smiles and encouragement provided optimism for her day and hopefully for the recipient.
A black man in his mid- to late thirties sat at a small table in thecorner and sipped a double dry short. He’d spoken in a Nigerian accent, piquing her interest. The man’s cell phone rang, and he snatched it. Frowning, he spoke low. She scanned him for recognition while reading his lips.
“I have no idea when he’s arriving, but he’ll have the rest of the money.” The man listened. “We have to be careful.” A tall black woman entered the café and seated herself beside him. He nodded and smiled. “I have to go. She’s with me now, and we’ll figure out how to surprise Father with a birthday party even if our brother doesn’t get here in time.”
Monica’s cell phone vibrated twice, paused, then three more times, signifying a notification from her handler.
“Lori, can you take over?”
Her friend gave a quick nod. Without a word, she moved to the register. No questions asked. Monica had told Lori months ago when she was hired that personal family issues could demand her attention at any time. Yet Lori kept her employed at the coffee shop. With Monica’s commitment to the CIA, she was forced to lie to her family and friends, but the cover kept them safe. If the truth ever surfaced, the betrayal might destroy the relationships she treasured. Would they ever understand her commitment to keep their country safe?
With no time to waste, she locked herself inside the restroom, knowing she had less than two minutes to read and respond. Her mental clock counted down to thirty seconds remaining. If she missed confirming the secure notice, it would repeat until she responded. A nagging headache didn’t help the urgency.
Safe House ASAP
OMW
AT12:30 P.M.,Monica pressed on the radio in her car before she clicked her seat belt. News was her go-to station, and she wanted to know what stirred media juices in case it reflected on the reason she’d been contacted.
“... tragic shooting this morning of Zain al-Qureshi, bodyguard of Saudi Prince Omar bin Talal. The victim was shot and killed at the Frozen Rock Ice Cream on Westheimer. He was part of a royal entourage that arrived from Riyadh earlier today. Investigators are on the scene. No arrests have been made.”
The commentator moved on to sports, and Monica silenced the radio. Not good. The relationship between Saudi Arabia and the US didn’t need a weak link. Many of the Saudis, especially the conservatives, would want to hold the US responsible. Most likely why her handler wanted to see her ASAP.
Within fifteen minutes, she’d parked her Honda three blocks away from a safe house east of the Galleria area.
Before emerging from her car, she swallowed two Tylenol with half a bottle of water. Dratted headache attempted to distract her. For a moment, she admired the peaceful setting, basking in the tranquility as though it were sweet nectar, hoping it would chase away the pounding in her head. The weather had coaxed pink azaleas into bloom, and the lawns and shrubs wore a vibrant green like a new spring dress, fresh and welcoming after the sporadic rains.
Danger often didn’t wear a disguise.
