IN HER BEDROOM QUARTERS, Monica spent Wednesday evening rereading and probing the backgrounds of every person in the house for a snippet of information that could twist into something shady. All still looked squeaky clean. What about their families and past grievances? Until the killer was caught —possibly Friday afternoon —danger lingered. If she and Kord were wrong about the prince’s phone, their original assumption of a mole meant every person in the home must be viewed under a microscope. And if the prince’s phone had a virus, a mole could have planted it.
So many possibilities, and all had the potential to be deadly.
Rain beat against the windows in a steady downpour, while her phone alerts warned of rising water. Such was her mood. Didn’t help that her throat and head weren’t in the best of condition.
If someone inside the home wanted to harm Fatima or Yasmine, he’d simply enter the women’s bedchambers in the middle of the night. Why wouldn’t the prince send them home? Was it really his mother’s peace of mind, or was he using his sisters as cover for another reason?
She rose from her comfy seat in her bedroom and made her way to the common area, where Fatima and Yasmine sat talking. Again they were dressed in designer gowns and accessorized in pure gold. If the evening meal found her with them, she’d explore more of a friendship. Fatima might not be in such a sour mood.
“Excuse me,” Monica said. “I’m concerned for both of you. Until the person who’s endangered your brother is found, please lock your bedroom doors at night, and keep the door leading to the hallway locked.”
“Thank you,” Yasmine said, her voice sweet and her face filled with youthful light.
“Once we’ve arrested the killer, those precautions won’t be necessary.”
“When will it be?” Yasmine said. “I’m afraid for my brother. With Zain gone and the attempt on Consul General al-Fakeeh, everything’s scary.”
“Staying safe is a priority. I encourage you to remain inside the grounds.”
“Is Mother well-guarded?”
“Prince Omar has men positioned around her at all times. No one comes near her without clearance.”
Fatima lifted her chin. “If we are the next victims, locks won’t keep anyone out. There are men within this home who will protect us. We don’t need Americans interfering in our business.”
Did she have no clue of the real world? “We’re risking our lives to ensure you have yours,” Monica said.
“Aren’t you an assistant to a press secretary?” Fatima said. “What do you know?”
“I have solid training.”
“What if you make mistakes?” Fatima said. “Whose fault is Zain’s death? If we were home, he’d be alive today.”
“Are you saying the tragedy is Mother’s fault?” Yasmine’s voice rose.
“No, Sister. I’m saying this wouldn’t have occurred at home.”
“I do have a license to carry a firearm, and I’ve taken professional instruction,” Monica said. “I’m a light sleeper. If an intruder is able to sneak past the bodyguards, I assure you the rustle of gaining entry would wake me. I’m quite capable of defending you.” Monica refused to mention a trained killer had methods beyond their understanding. Or that she’d really like to shake a few people in this house and open their eyes to the seriousness of the matter.
Ignorance was not bliss.
Might get a throat cut, like the poor janitor at Paramount High School.
“How did you move from serving coffee to being Kord’s assistant?” Fatima’s voice would freeze water. “That’s a little degrading for him, don’t you think? But you Western women have your ways.”
Realization hit —Fatima believed Monica and Kord were together. The princess’s flame burned hot and green. Kord needed to straighten out this mess with her. But how?
Monica plastered a smile on her face. No point in Princess Fatima having the satisfaction of riling her. “My job is to follow Kord’s orders. So get over your animosity.” She walked to the door leading to the hallway, locked it, and made her way back to Fatima. Forcing pleasantness into her voice, she stared into the woman’s brooding eyes. “If you like, I’ll show you the art of self-defense, how to use a knife or send a bullet into the heart of an enemy. I took those lessons too. Let me know, and I’ll fit your training into my schedule.”
“It’s impossible for a woman to defend herself against a man,” Fatima said. “It would be a waste of time.”
“Just because they’re bigger and stronger doesn’t mean we can’t overpower them.”
Yasmine reached out to Monica. “I want to learn. If the offer is for me too, I’ll request permission from my brother.”
“By all means. Every woman, regardless of her religion or culture, needs to have the skills necessary to keep her from harm.”
Fatima rose and returned to her bedroom.
“My chances of becoming her friend are zero,” Monica said. “She’s a beautiful woman, and from her accomplishments, she’s highly intelligent.” Would Yasmine open up about her sister?
“The problem is not you,” Yasmine whispered. “She’s very unhappy.”
“I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do?”
“Nothing will make her happy but the impossible. She’s been in love with Mr. Davidson for years. Seeing him here is difficult.”
The prince would hear every word. Would he confront Kord about his sister’s feelings?
“And since he’s training me, I spend a lot of time with him.” Monica kept her voice low.
“Yes. I’m sorry. She fears our brother may have arranged a marriage to a man she despises while her heart is for another.”
How would Monica ever win Fatima over?
Kord sat with Prince Omar alone in his office and discussed personal times together, avoiding critical matters at hand. The prince’s phone alerted him to a text. He read it and handed the phone to Kord. A photo of Princess Gharam covered in blood filled the screen. A caption read, Cancer won’t kill her. I will. U 2 will soon b dead.
Taking a pad of paper, the prince wrote and pushed it Kord’s way. Your theory about a phone hack may be correct.
Kord motioned for them to leave the office. Once the door closed, anger creased the prince’s features, and rightly so. Saudi men shielded their women from evil. The threat against Princess Gharam had come as a personal blow, as though he’d failed in his responsibilities.
“It’s Photoshopped,” Kord said.
“True, but I’m ensuring my mother is all right. May I use your phone?” When Kord handed him the device, he selected numbers. “This is Omar. Is my mother resting comfortably?” he said in Arabic. “Tell her I called. I’m requesting another bodyguard for her detail, but keep it from her.” He ended the call and phoned another number. After introducing himself, he continued. “It is imperative I speak to Consul General al-Fakeeh.” A sweep of sadness crossed his face. “Yes, good evening, Nasser. I need additional protection for my mother. Can you send a trusted man to the hospital immediately?” He paused. “Thank you.”
“I think the extra precautionary measures are in order,” Kord said.
“I’d like for you to talk to Miss Alden. Make sure my sisters are all right. If you’re correct about the theory of my phone being hacked, theirs may be too. Ask her to collect their phones per my request. No explanation need be given.”
Kord contacted Monica and explained what had happened.
“Hold on while I take this in my bedroom.” A few moments later, she responded. “Yasmine and I are talking in the common area. Fatima is in her room. Please tell Prince Omar I will do as he asks.”
“Thanks.” Kord would have rather confiscated them, but he’d not embarrass the prince by insisting. “We’ll want to run diagnostics. Can you meet me on the covered terrace in fifteen minutes? Bring the phones with you?”
“I’ll be there.”
“These people have no idea who they’re messing with. Friday afternoon, this guy’s toast.” The call ended, Kord processed the now stronger possibility of a hacker planting a virus in the prince’s phone.
A crack of thunder rattled the windows of the mansion.