BEING INVISIBLE HAD ITS ADVANTAGES. No one spoke to Monica at dinner, not even Kord, but she’d been on the invisible front before. For Prince Omar to have shaken her hand or given her eye contact would have disavowed hundreds of years of established beliefs. Her very presence with the men this evening went against their practices. This arrangement would not happen in their homeland.
When the prince’s sisters were absent from the meal, she assumed it was another boys-only-club affair. But she had no intention of cowering. Ali did little to hide his anger, but if he’d betrayed Prince Omar, he wouldn’t be visibly upset with Zain’s death. Unless Ali had been trained to mask his emotions and what she saw revealed careful orchestration. Possibly a dangerous man.
Monica enjoyed Middle Eastern food and recognized tabbouleh, a salad made of parsley, bulgur, tomatoes, garlic, and lemon. The hummus and pita bread were mouthwatering, along with a chicken, rice, and vegetable dish called kapsa.
When the meal ended, Prince Omar addressed Kord. “I’ll have Ali escort Miss Alden to the women’s quarters. Then we can resume our discussion.”
“Good night,” SAC Thomas and Jeff said to her.
She hated being left out of the loop. “Thank you for the excellent meal.”
Ali stood and she followed him to a stairway off the kitchen.
“How long have you known Prince Omar?” she said.
He kept on walking. “Years.”
“I want you to understand I have a job to do.” She spoke to his back.
“As well as I.”
Aggravated, tired, with a persistent headache, and burdened with way too much work, she entered a common sitting room of a marble-floored suite. Two Saudi women stared out over the grounds. One wore a floor-length skirt in emerald and gold, embroidered and embellished in soft layers, topped with a flowing silk blouse. Monica recognized her as Fatima, the twenty-two-year-old princess. Her seventeen-year-old sister, Yasmine, wore a red-and-white long dress that looked like a T-shirt in silk. From the shimmer and style, Monica guessed the gowns were Louis Vuitton or Chanel or . . . Didn’t matter. Beyond her budget. They glanced at her and then reset their attention on the exterior. So there was a girls-only club too.
A second grand reception. After she showered, she’d approach the princesses clean and smelling better —hold on, she had nothing to wear unless Jeff had arranged an earlier delivery. Great.
She’d learned the women’s quarters had three bedrooms, each with its own bath, and this central, lavishly furnished common area.
“Excuse me —which bedroom is mine?” Monica said.
The women turned to her but said nothing. She repeated her question in Arabic.
Fatima pointed to a bedroom decorated in brilliant blues and yellows, a common color scheme in the home. Monica thanked her in Arabic and excused herself.
She closed her bedroom door. The first thing that caught her eyes was a familiar small bag. Inside, she found toiletries and intimate clothing. Jeff knew what to grab, even a separate cosmetic bag with items used only in undercover work. Sorting through the clothing, she found her bullet-resistant vest, navy-blue slacks and a jacket, white blouse, and sensible shoes still with the tags. Also with tags were pale-pink pajamas in XS. Good ole Jeff. What a relief. As soon as she worked through her to-do list, she’d shower.
Some blessings came in store packages.
First on her agenda came an inspection of the room. Audio and video devices were always hidden in unusual places. She felt along the baseboards, ceilings, furniture, and light fixtures. She removed outlet covers and searched the plumbing —even the bidet. The ornate crystal chandelier above the bed caught her attention —an easy spot to hide just about anything. She pulled a chair beneath it and gingerly explored the fixture. Sure enough, a listening device set in a mass of ornate glass on one side and a camera on the other. Okay, she’d play their game. They knew she was aware of their toys.
For certain, other surveillance devices watched and recorded her every move. Until she located them, she’d be careful. With the same resolve mustered in every new case, she triggered her internal buttons to keep her eyes open, speak carefully, and text beyond a camera’s sight. Nothing from this home would reveal the workings of her mind. Her search in the bathroom revealed nothing. Hopefully it offered her privacy.
Beside her bed was a royal-blue sofa. There she sat and read the background on Zain, the prince’s bodyguard, driver, and friend. He’d been cleared by the US weeks ago. Her attention turned to Saudi culture, from religion to politics to food and drink. Every Middle Eastern country had its own fingerprint. Quickly she updated her previous knowledge of the country.
While some Saudis clung to the traditions of the past, Prince Omar had become more Western, especially with his views on growing his country. But from his actions, he hadn’t advanced his opinion of women. How strange he supported female education. Women in Saudi Arabia had recently been given the right to vote and held about 20 percent of the political offices. Although not unlawful, deeply held religious beliefs forbade women from driving. Traditionally their bodies had to be covered in black in public, yet great strides had been made. Some advances were becoming acceptable as long as women understood they lived in a man’s world.
Monica texted Jeff:
Thanks 4 dropping off my things. I need suitable clothes around the prince. Long-sleeved blouses. Dark colors. Another jacket. Scarves.
He quickly typed back. Still in meeting. Not sure ur idea is smart.
Monica had already debated the potential problem. The prince has no respect or value 4 me. When possible, I’ll dress according 2 his preference. Need his confidence 2 do my job.
His response flew into her phone. Part-time hijab won’t make a difference.
Handlers had a way of looking at things differently. Have 2 try. Refuse 2 have an international incident on my record.
OK. Remember ur job comes first.
I’m requesting 4 more bodyguard history. Will send in a minute. Need ASAP.
OK
She typed in questions and sent them to Jeff. A couple of things about the prince’s itinerary were inconsistent. Some days were absent of hospital visits. And some hours were blocked with no explanation. Had the CIA or FBI questioned this? Or were the unaccounted hours designated for business?
She added a message to Kord. Text when u r free. I request an audience w/ Prince Omar later, and I need u 2 escort me.
Less than ten seconds passed before she was alerted to his response. OK. Just began w/ prince. Matters 4 u & I 2 discuss b4 then.
Closing her eyes, she prayed for wisdom. She must find a way to reach Prince Omar on his own turf.
A shower was in order and clean clothes. Her nose had reminded her more than once. Nothing Jeff brought would cover her head if the prince approved a meeting. Her attention settled on the closed bedroom door leading to the princesses. What did she have to lose by asking his sisters for their help? Gave her time to speak their language and start building trust.
The two women hadn’t moved from the common seating area when Monica stepped in.
“I have nothing suitable to cover my head that would meet Prince Omar’s approval. Can I borrow a scarf?”
“My name is Fatima. My sister’s name is Yasmine. We speak English, and we can help you.”
One point for Monica’s side.