WASHINGTON DC: The Sadir Affair (The Puppets of Washington Book 1) (2 page)

Sabrina, the receptionist told him that Khalid was on the line once again. James was out of excuses.

“Good morning, James,” Khalid replied to James’s quick and frosty greeting.

“Good of you to call again.” The president of Carmine Resources stretched his lanky frame to the back of the chair.

“I am not going to ask you to give me the latest report on Talya’s recovery. I know you’re tired of giving me the same answer.” That was true; James no longer knew how to tell Khalid that Talya didn’t want any visitor or that she seemed to be retreating into a solitary world, and only accepted loneliness for her companion. “The reason for my call is simply to inform you that I should be in Vancouver the day after tomorrow.”

James passed his fingers through his wavy, grey hair. “Should I be concerned…?” That question was perhaps well justified on James’s part. Every time Khalid had come on the scene, troubles had followed him.

“No, not at all. Dr Hendrix is the one who called me and asked for my assistance.”

“To do what?” James asked.

“He thinks I could help Talya in getting her out of her self-imposed seclusion.”

“It’s not only seclusion, Khalid, that’s ailing Talya. You must realize it’s much more than that.”

“Yes, I do realize it, and this is perhaps why I want to see for myself what can be done about it, if anything.”

“Are you a psychiatrist now?” The obvious scoff had its roots in James knowing that Khalid was a good judge of character. He had seen him handle Talya’s difficult traits on many occasions, but this was different; Talya was drowning into some sort of lethargy, from which she didn’t want to come out.

Khalid chuckled. “No, James, I couldn’t begin to pretend to have such knowledge of the human mind, yet and maybe, I could look into the reason for Talya’s wilful retreat.”

“Okay, if you think your presence will make a difference, I’m all for it, of course. Do you want me to tell her you’re coming?”

“No!” The word resounded over the line loud and clear. The firmness in Khalid’s voice took James aback. “I’m sorry, James, but I don’t want her to know that I come to her aid. She would not react well to the announcement.”

“Very well then, when should I expect you? And where will you be staying?”

“I should be at your office on Wednesday and I have made reservations at the Sands for now.”

“Wouldn’t you prefer staying at the 4 Seasons…?”

“No, not this time. I need to be in walking distance of her apartment.”

“Quite. I understand.”

Replacing the receiver, James thought of the first time Khalid came to Vancouver; it was again when Talya needed someone to help her—out of a depression.

Samuel Meshullam was a man of means. He lived comfortably, had money to spare although no one had ever heard him talk about his job—if he held one, no one knew. He lived in a house at the edge of the ocean and abutting a ‘reserve’ or park in Manly, a suburb of Sydney, Australia. His dark hair and sharp facial features, partially hidden under a shadowy beard, told of the man’s strength of character. His eyes darted at the smallest noise. He seemed to be on the alert all the time. His neighbours tried to befriend him when he first moved to the area, but he soon distanced himself from everyone. By all accounts, the man didn’t like company. He often walked across the park, crossed the little bridge and made his way to a secluded beach bordering yet another reserve. He was used to walking long distances and preferred travelling on foot to using any mode of transport, even though he owned a sports’ car, which he used mostly to travel to Melbourne or other towns north or south of the city.

Although no one had ever seen him go to work, Samuel had an occupation, which paid him very well. He was a consultant, a man that you hired when you needed a job done and done well. His kind of consulting was not in high demand, but one contract could see him living in the lap of luxury for years, if that’s what it took until the next job came about. Besides, Samuel had no parents or family to encumber his life with questions or queries as to his means of living or even lifestyle. Perhaps the only characteristic that could distinguish Samuel from many other fellows was that he had been trained and was now in Mossad’s employ, the Israeli equivalent of the American CIA.

The reason he was currently living in Sydney or in Australia for that matter, apart from the fact that he had been born and raised in Melbourne was that he was now in hiding and would remain so until ‘further orders’.

His last job had seen him shooting a woman in Vancouver. He was already back in Sydney when he learned that his target nearly died from his bullet, which was exactly what had been required of him. He had been assigned to “slow the woman down” but not to kill her. Like him, Talya Kartz was Jewish, and killing a Jewess would not only have weighed heavily on his conscience but would have put him in God’s bad books—if there were such a thing.

Of course, the police and various intelligence agencies on two continents had been on his tail since the incident, which had occurred seven months ago, to no avail. Not only was Samuel a master of disguise but Mossad had always covered his tracks very well. As a result, he was now free to roam as he pleased in a country he loved.

The fall months Downunder were now upon the countryside and the trees turning all colours were pleasant to the sight, and the accompanying tranquillity of autumn seemed to appease Samuel’s keenness.

Sitting on a towel at the water’s edge, he thought of Talya. Truth being told he loved the woman. They had been friends once. She had a head of white-blond, curly hair, deep blue eyes and a smile that had shaken him to the core. Her lightly tanned face was a mask of perfection. Yes, he had really enjoyed looking at her or being with her again when they travelled together for a couple of hours in the States. From the time she lived in Australia, he remembered her spunk, her kindness and her determination. That last trait of character had landed her in a wheelchair now, he was sure, and for that, Samuel was sorry, deeply repentant in fact. He had never allowed the emotions that his job would arose in him to deter him from accomplishing his various assignments or to cloud his judgment. Yet, on this occasion, Talya’s beauty and inner strength had touched him in ways he could not even comprehend.

He looked at the waves rolling gently onto the beach for a few more minutes before getting up, making his way into the water and diving into the ocean. He swam to a rocky ledge nearby and heaved himself onto it. Knowing her as he did, he recalled Talya loved to swim, and he would have enjoyed having her at his side at that very moment. Would he see her again? He didn’t think that would ever happen.

Alerted of Khalid’s latest travel plans, Pierre Masson, the pilot, and John Viblickovitzian, the navigator, were waiting for the prince-in-disguise to board his Lear jet.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” Khalid said, poking his head at the cockpit’s door.

“Good morning, Khalid,” the two men replied in unison.

Pilot and navigator were a team. They had been in Khalid’s employ since he bought the Lear—correction—since his uncle had bought the aircraft for him. ‘Talk about a rich uncle,’ had been Talya’s first comment when Khalid had told her of Uncle Abdullah Saif Al-Fadir’s gift. Khalid would never forget her reaction that evening.

He smiled at the two men at the controls and nodded. “Let’s get her off the ground then,” Khalid said, closing the cockpit’s door and going to sit down in one of the six seats that furnished the comfortable cabin.

He knew this journey would take about six hours’ flying-time before they would land in Ottawa. Khalid had arranged to meet with Fred Gibson at the Canadian Security Intelligence Service before flying to Vancouver. He wanted to get an up-date on Mossad’s movements since Talya’s
accident
. However, he doubted he would get much information out of the man. As head of the Service, Fred Gibson had probably closed the file on what they had called ‘The Ben Slimane Affair’, and had resumed their normal course of business—if ‘normal’ could ever describe the running of an intelligence agency. The
Ben Slimane Affair
had seen the CIA’s operation across two continents foiled. The year before, Talya had stumbled onto this hornets’ nest, which consisted in the exchange of drugs for weapons, weapons that had ended in the hands of Israelis in Gaza. The head of this government-sanctioned operation had been none other than a CIA undercover agent, and alleged traitor, by the name of Ben Slimane. Shortly before Talya being shot, Slimane’s death had seen the end of this sordid business.

The Lear needed to make a refuelling stop somewhere between Paris and Vancouver, and Ottawa seemed to be the best place to do that—less air traffic and quicker service.

Sitting at the table of the conference room, Fred Gibson and Namlah Badawee, his legal advisor in international law, were waiting for Khalid’s arrival. Fred was a down-to-earth man. Of Afro-American descent, the pleated lines of his face, large, black eyes and burly stature would remind anyone looking at him of Louis Armstrong. He was not the most astute or clever of men, but he surrounded himself with the best agents in the land. His strength of character and inner wilfulness had seen him climb the rungs of the intelligence agency’s ladder at a steady and unrelenting pace. Through his fatherly, yet firm attitude, he had gained the respect of his peers both in Canada and abroad. Although no longer a young man, he could run the best off the race.

As for Namlah Badawee, a name meaning ‘nomad ant’ in Arabic, he was an unassuming fellow. His value to the agency resided in his knowledge of international law, not to say ‘intrigue’. With an upper lip endowed of a generous, black moustache, this amusing-looking man was a master at unravelling intricate entanglements. He was the one who put Fred on the scent of Ben Slimane’s treason while the latter was working for the CIA.

Escorted by Jimmy, Fred’s aide, Khalid strode into the conference room, and faced the two men who stood up as he entered.

“Welcome to Canada once again, Your Highness,” Fred said, extending a hand for Khalid to shake. “I would have hoped this meeting to be held under better circumstances; nevertheless, it is still a pleasure to seeing you again.”

Shaking Fred’s hand, Khalid replied, “Thank you, sir,” looking at each man in turn.

Namlah had not pronounced a word yet. “Sabahol-khayer, (
good morning
) Mr. Badawee,” Khalid added in Arabic, thus indicating to his interlocutor he recognized his Islamic antecedents.

“Ahlan wa sahlan (
welcome
), Prince Khalid,” Namlah uttered visibly preoccupied, which attitude puzzled the prince.

They sat down. Khalid reclined in the chair and crossed his legs. “As I said on the phone, Mr. Gibson, the reason for my visit is simple; I would like to know if there has been any recent development in Mossad’s activities of which you would be aware, of course.”

Fred stretched his forearms over the table and continued fiddling with his pen. “We have closed the file on this affair, as you know, Your Highness. Officially, Ms Kartz’s shooting tied our hands and the government didn’t see the need to take the case further, since it could have led to an international incident, not only with our neighbour but with Israel, which no one wanted.”

“Yes, I expected such an answer, Mr. Gibson. Yet, I am sure that unofficially you have kept an eye on their movements, am I right?”

Looking slightly uncomfortable, Namlah nodded to Fred before he said, “You are quite right, sir. We have been aware of certain parties resuming their activities in the CIA. Our sources have informed us that the exchange of drugs for armaments in South America, in particular…”

They are skirting the issue
, Khalid thought.

“What about Mossad?” Khalid cut in. “Do you know of anyone picking up where Slimane left off?”

Again, the chief and his lawyer exchanged conspiratorial glances. “No, not exactly,” Fred said. Khalid was getting impatient. He unfolded his legs, slid the chair closer to the table and put his elbows and forearms on it. “We have not been able to trace anyone infiltrating the CIA since last fall, but we have received reports from Australia, that a man corresponding to Isaac Whittlestein’s description is now living in a suburb of Sydney under another name. As you know he’s the only link we could establish between Ben Slimane and Mossad.”

“I am glad to hear that you have followed my suggestion to trace the man Downunder.” Khalid smiled with satisfaction. “And what is the man doing now? If you know...”

“Nothing, Your Highness,” Namlah replied.

“I see. He’s dormant then? But I should think this hibernation will only last for a while longer.”

Fred nodded. “My thoughts exactly, Your Highness.”

Embarrassed, Namlah lowered his head. He raised it to say, “You see, sir, it is my contention that Mossad is waiting for you to make a move.”

That statement took Khalid by surprise. “Me? Could you explain how you came to that conclusion, Mr. Badawee?”

“By all means. Mossad, as we know, is Israel’s eyes and ears. They are looking for an excuse to spark an incident that would re-ignite ill feelings between Saudi Arabia and its allies. The Middle East has an infected wound at Gaza. Since Hamas took control of the strip, the area is a disaster waiting to happen. In my opinion, should the conflict worsen, Geneva would need to take a firm stand and enforced a cease-fire between Palestinians and Israeli forces.”

“I understand…, but how do I fit into this?”

“Mossad would love nothing more than for you to rekindle your relationship with Ms Kartz, thereby demonstrating your affinity or your ties with Israel. This, in turn, would show that Saudi Arabia is befriending an enemy of Islam and would engender an array of questions on the part of its neighbours.”

Khalid had listened to these warning words with sadness in his heart. The only thing he wanted to do at present was to help the woman he loved. His birthright or his faith, or even the political backdrop that had been part of his existence to date, were only asides, hurdles in his pursuit of happiness. Mossad had indeed an ace up their sleeve. They had been playing with Talya’s life, hoping he, Khalid Saif Al-Fadir, would join her once again. They wanted to use them for political reasons, reasons that could result in international tension, not to say war in the Middle East.

Khalid knew that his staying away from Vancouver had been the right decision initially. However now, Talya needed him. She had not called for him to help her, yet he knew he could get her on her feet, so to speak, and get her back to working and enjoying life again.

Khalid said, “I appreciate your frankness, gentlemen. My family owes you a great deal for your foresight, Mr. Badawee. Nevertheless, I feel an obligation toward the woman whose deliberate pursuit for justice has resulted in her being chased like an animal and ultimately being shot. At this point, I don’t know what my decision will be. According to your conclusions, if I were to show myself on Ms Kartz’s doorsteps, it would demonstrate to the Middle East Community that my family is entertaining some sort of relations with Israel, thereby re-igniting resentments on the part of my country’s allies.”

“Yes, that sums it up pretty well,” Fred agreed with emphasis. “But this is only a conclusion that we have drawn from keeping an eye on the situation in and around Gaza. Your family has not taken a stand in this conflict. It has stayed impartial and unwilling to take sides, which is totally in character, actually. Yet, we would be remiss in our relations with you and the Saudi royal family if we did not advise you of the possible consequences a visit with Ms Kartz would have, should you choose to go to Vancouver.”

A short time later, the official car took Khalid to his hotel where he had reserved rooms for himself, Pierre and John. They had arranged to meet for dinner at the restaurant, but as Khalid closed the door of his suite, he didn’t feel like dinner or keeping company to his pilot and navigator. They were friends, of course, but Khalid had too much on his mind to be anywhere near civil that evening. He felt oppressed and despondent. In the past, his movements or decisions bore no consequence for anyone other than himself, but this time, the wrong decision, in the eyes of his family, would have an inevitable impact on Saudi Arabia’s political status in the Middle East. Short of disowning him or endangering the life of his daughter, while perhaps using her as a bargaining chip, his distant uncles would see to Khalid abiding the rules imposed on him long ago, whether he remained in exile or not. He would have to steer clear of Talya and have no contact with her in future. On the one hand, Khalid knew only too well how many lives could be lost if there was yet another hint of disagreement in the Middle East. On the other, he wanted to save the one person that had meant so much to him.

If he didn’t go to her, he would not be able to abide idle her downward spiral to self-destruction, because it was exactly what she was doing. She saw no reason to live. There were no goals to attain, no project to complete, no family to mind, no children to raise. Talya had lost everything once, and now she was losing her very soul.

Rather than unpacking his bags, Khalid carried them out of the suite, went down the elevators, walked through the lobby and came to stand in front of the clerk at the registration desk.

“I’ll be checking out now. Would you prepare my bill and have a taxi wait for me out front?”

“Certainly, sir. Any problems with the service?” the young lady asked. She was surprised. It was unusual for a guest to check out before he even used the room.

“Nothing. My schedule has changed, nothing more.”

While the clerk prepared his bill, Khalid walked to a corner of the foyer, took his cell phone out of his pocket and dialled the hotel number. The operator put him through Pierre’s room immediately.

“Pierre?”

“Oh, Khalid? Are you downstairs already…?”

“No. Just listen. I want you and John to take the Lear back to Paris in the morning.”

“What happened? Are you alright?” Pierre sounded worried and somewhat curious.

“No. Just do as I asked. I’ll contact you tomorrow or when I want you to know where I am.”

“Okay, Khalid, but why?”

“No time for explanation, Pierre. Have a good flight.”

With these words, Khalid hung up, went back to the desk, paid his bill and made his way out of the hotel and into the waiting cab.