IN THE CIRCULAR DRIVEWAY of the Saud family home, Monica exited Kord’s Charger, a new model and spotless. A great ride. But his car would have been better suited in the rear service area. Prince Omar had probably offered a more luxurious vehicle, but that could have been interpreted as a bribe, a career breaker for law enforcement.
She couldn’t imagine living in a home this huge. A perfectly groomed landscape in tiered layers of green looked as though an artist had used a brush to paint the scenery. A marble fountain caught her attention, and she allowed the aesthetic experience to momentarily dispel her misgivings about her ability to work the case. She and Kord needed answers and an arrest. After that, protection detail should be less stressful. Maybe.
And Kord’s attitude would not dampen her mood or run her off. He didn’t want a woman working the task force? Get over it.
He joined her. “I’m a jerk,” he said. “You’re good at what you do. How did you pass for a local in the Middle East?”
“Wig, contacts, makeup.”
He gave a thumbs-up.
“We could be a daunting team.”
“Daunting?” A slight grin met her. She’d take a human response. They walked to the heavy wood-and-glass double doors of the home’s front entrance. “Ready to meet Prince Omar?”
“By all means.” Her thoughts dwelled on her gender being a massive communication barrier. The prince was highly traveled and well versed in Western practices. Perhaps being a woman was a moot point.
Get a grip, Monica. You know the odds against you are stacked higher than Mount Rushmore.
Two bodyguards stood by the entrance and greeted Kord. From the report and photos sent to her phone earlier, the taller man was Karim and the squarer man must be Fares.
Kord touched a speaker button, and a man from inside responded with an Arabic accent. “Saw you pull up.”
“Figured so. Is Prince Omar available?”
“He is. Making arrangements for Zain. Guess I should let you in.”
Kord shook his head. “Probably a good idea. Ali, FBI Agent Monica Alden is with me.”
Women’s roles varied in Muslim countries. Some women dressed modestly and colorfully with a scarf to hide their hair, while others were covered from head to toe in black and possibly revealed only their eyes. Saudi Arabia fell in the cover-everything mix. If she’d been given advance notice, she’d not be risking embarrassing the US in front of Saudi royalty. She craved a shower, clean clothes, a toothbrush, and clothing that met Saudi approval.
She’d follow Kord’s lead.
The door opened to a broad-shouldered man dressed in a suit that cost more than her car.
Kord introduced her to Ali Dukali, one of Prince Omar’s bodyguards. He had the blackest mustache she’d ever seen. The man nodded without eye contact, exactly what she expected. His attention focused on Kord, and it was her partner who was invited inside. She must be along for the ride.
The invisible women of the Middle East.
At first glance, she believed this world had landed in Houston from a royal palace. She positioned herself a half step behind her partner in a two-story foyer fit for a king. Her assessment wasn’t that far off. A six-foot-wide crystal chandelier cascaded from the second floor like a waterfall. Cream-and-black marble floors and a winding, intricately etched metal staircase added to the opulence. Wealth was no shield to crime —quite the opposite, and many times the motivation.
Prince Omar and three more bodyguards descended the steps, reminding her of a scene from Arabian Nights. She’d only seen photos of the prince, but reality was impressive —huge nearly black eyes, smooth nose, and a short beard with neatly trimmed sides. He and the others were clothed in Western attire.
The three bodyguards were easily recognizable from their photos. Inman had a deep scar below his left eye that disappeared into his beard. Saad was a younger brother of Karim, tall and slender. Wasi’s eyebrows seemed knit in a permanent frown.
Kord strode to Prince Omar and kissed him once on the right cheek and twice on the left. “Amir Omar, as salaam alaikum.” Kord took his hand.
Monica interpreted the words: “Prince Omar, may peace be with you.” This was the proper way for Kord to greet the prince. But she’d refrain.
“Wa’alaikum salaam,” the prince said. “Thank you for all you’ve done today on my behalf. I’m glad you’re with me during this time of grief.”
“It was an honor to call Zain a friend. Memories of him will live with me always.”
“Allah will bless him for his sacrifice. Consul General Nasser al-Fakeeh is making arrangements for his body to be flown home for the funeral.”
Kord pressed his lips together before speaking. “Please give my condolences to his family.”
“I will. My family and staff landed this morning with hope, and now we mourn the loss of an honorable man. The day has been a burden of confusion and questions. You, Zain, and I thought our time together would involve business, my mother’s medical care, and sharing good times.”
“Yes, Amir. I feel the same. How is Princess Gharam?”
“Weak. Emotional. She loved Zain as one of her own and blames herself for his death. She believes her need for medical care brought us to Houston.”
Monica observed the conversation. The prince’s mother must not be aware of her son’s business affairs. No wonder she blamed herself for the death.
The prince continued. “My sisters are comforting her. I will escort her to MD Anderson as soon as a motorcycle escort arrives, arranged by your police department.”
Monica had seen the text confirming the motorcade.
“Prince Omar —” Kord gestured to her —“I’d like to introduce a skilled FBI agent, Monica Alden. She is my assistant, supporting my role.” He turned to her. “His Royal Highness, Prince Omar bin Talal.”
Before she could speak, Prince Omar gave her a cursory glance, a momentary flash of disapproval, and immediately back to Kord. “All good men require an assistant. I’m sure she will be an asset to your work. Interesting that she makes coffee too.”
Monica inwardly cringed. The prince’s treatment wasn’t a surprise —she’d been treated as poorly in Iran and Iraq. No mention of putting her life on the line for him. He simply snubbed her and reduced her status to serving coffee.
She was better than a rude greeting. This was her life’s calling, keeping others safe, not nursing ruffled feelings. Determination to prove herself sped.
What else happened those years ago with Prince Omar, Zain, and Kord? She’d known nothing about the incident until Kord gave a brief overview. Could there be a link to the problems today? Who were the players then?
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.