Chapter Fourteen

The bench was carved from a fallen tree under the winter’s force. On the one end, the root ball was still sticking out and part of the trunk from the other side. Intricate designs had been carved into the wood and sanded to leave it with an appearance as smooth as glass. It seemed oddly out of place, standing in the small garden in front of the hangar at the Kepler Farm private airfield, just outside of Lovettsville.

Paul Burgess settled on the seat to wait. He ran his palm over the wood in appreciation. It was truly a masterpiece, a bench one could sit on and wonder about the mysteries of the universe. Woodwork used to be a hobby of his . . . during the years so far back; he couldn’t even remember what it felt like to shape something with his hands.

The owner of the airfield and Kepler Industries, David Kepler, was a business associate of Crown International and a regional caporegime of the Sixth Order. It had been a strategic move by Paul to recruit him—the airfield offered the perfect solution for visits from affiliates who wished to remain incognito during trips.

Paul glanced around. David Kepler was a very successful farmer—and businessman—as he was preferred to be called. The main hangar behind Paul was rather big and housed David’s personal Cessna Citation aircraft and two Bell choppers. The roof was an impressive corrugated iron curve. One wall slid back to allow access to Sixth Order’s black and white, Legacy 650 Private Jet. There were various smaller Cessna’s parked on the other side of the runway but apart from the buzz of the limited number of staff in the background, the airfield was quiet.

“Where the fuck are they? They should’ve landed fifteen minutes ago already,” Paul muttered irritably as he checked the time.

He searched the sky for the umpteenth time. He detected a black speck against the dazzling blue of the sky. “About fucking time.” He watched the speck grow larger until the ostentatious gold shimmer of the plane almost blinded him as it circled twice before making a perfect landing.

His personal cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He took it out to notice Alex White’s name flash on the screen. He cursed but knew he’d have to take the call. He treaded about very carefully, when it came to the governor. Alex was too perceptive by far. He cleared his throat to reduce the grating sound he affected when under disguise as Paul Burgess.

“Alex? What’s up?”

“You forgot about our meeting with the President,” Alex said without preamble. He didn’t bother to hide his annoyance.

“Fuck,” Paul said under his breath. It had completely slipped his mind, mainly because he’d been dealing with something way more important in his opinion.

“I’m on my way but I’m stuck in traffic. There’s an accident on the bridge. We’re not moving. Reports on the radio indicates that the scene is about to be cleared. If all goes well, I should be there in less than an hour.”

“Don’t bother. The President has another meeting. We’ve rescheduled for eleven tomorrow. Don’t be late again. The matter we need to discuss is of utmost importance.”

“I’ll be there.”

Paul fumed as he slipped his phone back in his pocket. That had been the third time his PA had failed to schedule a meeting in his daily calendar or to remind him about it. The presidential meetings took precedence and it was one of her key functions to ensure he was always warned ahead of time. His life as a syndicate operative was starting to impact seriously with his day job.

It seems I’ll have to make a decision about my future sooner than I had anticipated.

Paul deliberately didn’t approach the plane but remained seated and waited. Sheikh Juhayman bin Mohammed might be a force to be reckoned with in Saudi Arabia but on US turf, he was just a foreigner; one, Paul was doing a favor and he wanted the sheikh to realize that from the get go.

“No, Burgess, you will not arrange it. You caused this problem. We expect you to take care of it, personally.”

Dexter’s cold voice replayed in his mind as he watched the stocky man in full Arabic dress alight from the plane, with his entourage of six bodyguards. He shifted on the bench. He’d been very careful not to get his hands dirty—so to speak—and opposing a direct order from the top leaders carried a tremendous risk. Paul was banking on catching two flies with one strike to keep him in their good books, should they find out that he had been grossly insubordinate.

The sheikh was very eager to get his hands on his deceitful commander. Paul was banking on the fury the sheikh would unleash upon Joanne’s head when he realized his commander was a woman. If he got rid of Max Shaw in his rage too, it would be an added bonus.

Paul got up and kicked at a small stone in front of him. He watched it roll over the grass until it disappeared under the flowers in the neat flower bed. He glanced toward the plane. He was already irritated and didn’t appreciate the delay and deliberate negligent manner in which the Juhayman was wasting his time.

He was also frustrated. Almost three weeks had passed since Dexter had informed him of the slaves that had been recovered. He hadn’t been able to uncover any information. Nothing. It was like it had never happened. He’d tried all the avenues he could think of, to discreetly enquire about them or find a clue as to where they were being kept. There was no documented evidence that any human trafficking victims had been returned to the US. The one time he had hinted about it to Alex, he’d noticed the flash of distrust in his eyes and had backed off immediately. He had been walking on tenterhooks since then. Joanne presented a threat he couldn’t ignore. He couldn’t afford to expose himself.

“Welcome to the US, Sheikh Juhayman,” Paul said with a tight smile. The cold glint in the sheikh’s eyes spoke of a violent nature and of a man used to be in control of all situations.

“Personally, I would have preferred to stay away from here, but I suppose it couldn’t be any other way.”

Paul didn’t take the bait. Juhayman expected him to bring his commander to him in Riyadh but he’d made it clear that it hadn’t been an option, hence his visit.

“Well, where is Jarrah Farooq?”

“This isn’t the place to discuss it. We’ll talk about it at a secure location.” Paul pointed to the two black GMC Yukon SUVs parked next to the hangar.

“Hamal, appoint two guards to remain with the plane. The rest come with us,” Juhayman barked out in a deep voice. His displeasure was evident in the grim line of his mouth.

“Shall we?” Paul started walking toward the vehicles, giving the sheikh and his men no choice but to follow.

The hour-long trip to the remote warehouse on the outskirts of Fairfax, in Northern Virginia, was conducted in silence. From the outside, it appeared to be nothing but a neglected building. The basement though, was a buzz of activity, with high-tech computer equipment. It was a secondary ops base, used specifically for meetings with affiliates. No one outside of Sixth Order employees knew about the main operation in Manhattan. If this location was compromised, no one would be any the wiser. Triggers were in place to destroy all the computer equipment within seconds should such an incident occur.

“Before we discuss your commander, Sheikh Juhayman, I have some questions in regard to the escaped slaves.

“I’m here for Jarrah. The slaves are of no consequence,” he snapped irritably as he glanced around the work stations where numerous staff members were busy with their daily duties of virtual espionage.

“Maybe not to you but it’s part of our recovery process to verify that the women who had been returned to the US, had indeed been the ones we had supplied.”

“It’s a waste of my time,” Juhayman snapped but Paul’s expression didn’t waver. “Let’s get to it, then.”

A tall blonde man with a brooding stare appeared beside Paul. “Ah, William. Sheikh Juhayman bin Mohammed, meet William Seely, our operations manager.”

Juhayman nodded briefly. “Well, I’m waiting, Burgess.”

“William, please continue,” Paul instructed with a grimace on his face. The sheikh was starting to grate on his nerves. He pointed to the photos on the screen that covered the entire wall. “These are passport photos of the women recovered. Please indicate which ones you recognize.”

Sheikh Juhayman snapped his fingers. “Hamal, you check.”

Hamal stepped forward and perused the photos one by one and with careful consideration. Since he’d been promoted to commander after Jarrah’s disappearance, he took his responsibilities very seriously. He nodded and glanced at Paul.

“They look different to how we used to see them,” he said with a smirk, “But, yes, it’s them.”

“That leaves us with a conundrum,” Paul mused.

“Conundrum? I don’t understand,” the sheikh snapped.

“A problem. You see, seven of those slaves were sold to Sheikh Lufti bin Qara and from reports that we’ve received, you and he don’t see eye to eye. How is it that they ended up in your compound as slaves?”

Juhayman seared Paul with a scorching glare. “Are you implying that I stole them? And what does that have to do with Jarrah Farooq?”

“More than you imagine, Sheikh Juhayman.”

“Let me make this simple, Burgess. It matters not how those slaves came under my care. I fed them, clothed them and offered them my protection. You don’t need to know more than that.”

Paul’s compressed lips conveyed his irritation.

“You’ve wasted enough of my time. I want my commander, Burgess. Where is he?” The sheikh’s patience was running out.

“I’m afraid Jarrah Farooq isn’t quite who . . . and what you believed him to be.”

“I know exactly who Jarrah Farooq is, Burges. A traitor! And I have no mercy for anyone who betrays me!”

Paul felt excitement spike at Juhayman’s anger. He hid his smirk behind his beard. The angrier the sheikh got, the quicker his problem would be resolved.

“I understand how you feel, Sheikh. William, please,” he said and watched as the photo of the person who the sheikh had known as Jarrah Farooq appeared on the screen, wearing the dark sunglasses and the black-and-white checkered Keffiyeh.

“This is Jarrah Farooq, correct?” Paul asked as he pointed to the photo.

Juhayman spat on the floor. “Bah! Traitor!” The fury in his voice was a palpable thing.

“How about this woman? Have you ever seen her?”

Another photo flashed on the screen, side by side to the previous one.

Juhayman stared intently at the face of the beautiful blonde woman. He shook his head. “No, she wasn’t one of my slaves. Hamal?” He turned to his commander for confirmation.

“No, I’ve never seen her either.”

“I’m afraid, Sheikh Juhayman, that you’ve been deceived, to the highest degree,” Paul said with suppressed glee.

“What are you talking about? Where the fuck is Jarrah?” He balked with increased anger.

Paul turned to the senior analyst. “Darius, please run the facial comparison on these two photos.”

“What the fuck is the meaning of this,” Juhayman snarled as he watched green and white lines linking the facial structures between the two faces on the screen until they merged into one.

“Jarrah Farooq was . . . is Joanna Blackmore. A slave that was sold to Sheikh Lufti bin Qara just over a year ago. We never received any indication that she never made it to him. How long had she been living in your compound as Jarrah Farooq?”

“A year, give or take,” Hamal confirmed.

“That whore!” Juhayman exploded with violence that caused his entire body to shake visibly. The angry remarks from the guards echoed his anger.

“A woman! Jarrah Farooq is a woman!”

“I’m afraid so.” Paul did his best to hide his glee. He’d achieved what he’d set out to do. Joanne Blackmore was toast.

“She will rue the day she has deceived me. No one plays Sheikh Juhayman bin Mohammed for a fool. No one! Especially not an American whore!” Juhayman slapped his fist into his hand, saliva spat from his mouth as he cursed excessively.

“One more thing, Sheikh. Do you recognize this man?”

A photo of Max Shaw flashed on the screen.

Hamal cursed viciously. The memory of the ridicule he’d suffered at the American’s hands was still fresh in his mind. “That’s the bastard who Jarrah had claimed was a spy!”

“He was the one who helped Jarrah free the women and returned them to the US.”

“They will rue the day they were born,” Juhayman sneered. An ugly smirk pulled his lips back from his teeth. “Where are they?”

“I will supply you with the information where you can find them but unfortunately I won’t be able to take you to them. I’m sure you can understand why,” Paul said with a self-satisfied smile.

“It matters not. I can and will personally take care of this matter.”

“That’s good but there is a condition before I hand over the files to you.”

“Speak, Burgess, you are wasting my time with all this jabbering,” Juhayman snapped.

“It’s imperative that you take them out of the US before you do anything. The government won’t take kindly to foreigners killing their citizens on home turf.”

The sheikh glowered at Paul. His black eyes bristled with the fury that was slowly threatening to overpower his common sense.

“I am not an idiot and I resent the implication, Burgess.” Juhayman held up his hand when Paul opened his mouth to respond. “I have no intention of soiling my homeland with the filth of that bastard and his whore. They will die here; on their own soil . . . after they have suffered.”

“Sheikh Juhayman, I have to reiterate, if you get caught—”

“I won’t, Mr. Burgess. Purely because there will be no trace of their useless bodies left once I am done with them.”