WASHINGTON DC: The Sadir Affair (The Puppets of Washington Book 1) (5 page)

When Samuel closed his laptop, he sat looking into space absentmindedly. He had just learned from his source in Paris that Khalid was on the move. He had been followed from Ottawa to Washington D.C. and then he suddenly disappeared from their radar. That bit of intel unsettled the Mossad agent. Knowing what your adversary looks like is of prime importance when your assignment calls for the elimination of the party concerned. Moreover, he didn’t know when his target would land in Sydney, if that was indeed his destination.

He wiped his face with his hand, got up and decided to go for a swim at his favourite beach. He grabbed a discarded towel from the back of the chair in front of the fireplace and walked out, slamming the front door behind him. As he crossed the little bridge leading to the path down to the beach, Samuel stopped, turned around and retraced his steps. He couldn’t stay in Manly or in Sydney for that matter. He had to leave town as quickly as possible. The American expression of being a ‘sitting duck’ was appropriate in this instance, and he didn’t want to be one in the middle of this pond.

The house being let fully furnished, it took no time for him to gather his meagre belongings into a couple of suitcases, clean-up the remains of his lunch, and throw the trash in the bin on his way out. He put the cases in the boot of his car, his laptop and cell phone beside him on the passenger seat, and within an hour, he was on the road. His destination: Melbourne, a city sprawled at the top end of Port Phillip Bay. It didn’t have the charm of Sydney nor was it favoured of the same mild climate. Yet, it was the city of his birth, and as such, Samuel knew it like the back of his hand. He knew where to live, where to pass unnoticed in a crowd of collectors and literary minds or students and patrons of the arts. He would be close to the Botanical Gardens, to the main drag to the city centre, and to most businesses of which he knew a few. He wanted to lose himself until such a time as Mossad would locate his prey once again. He wanted to be the hunter not the hunted.

Samuel kept the top of his convertible down until he reached the busy highway to Newcastle. He stopped at a petrol station, filled up the tank and went into a pub to grab a sandwich before heading down the road. He would arrive at the outskirts of Melbourne the next morning. He did not intend to dilly-dally on this journey. He wanted to get to South Yarra, on the edge of the river by the same name, as soon as he could. He knew a woman who owned a flat at the top end of Caroline Street and nestled at the end of a laneway. It occupied the third and top level of a building, and although a very attractive place, it was not endowed of a view. The balcony faced a bank of tall pine trees that would prevent anyone from spying on him from any given direction. Samuel wondered if the lady was in town still. Used to take herself to Queensland in April, she would remain in her house, which stood facing one of the numerous beaches along the waters of the Great Barrier Reef, until the following spring. Millicent was her name. Samuel knew her well. She had been a friend of his mother for many years and he remembered her most fondly for her poetry. She was a prize-winning author and her work made the bestsellers’ list on more than one occasion. Wanting no one to know that he was back in Australia, Samuel had not contacted her since his return, and it would have to be that way until better days.
When would those be
, he wondered. A Mossad agent doesn’t retire;
he is retired
, put out to pasture or eliminated when his usefulness runs out. For some reason, the thought led him to recall the time he spent with Talya. He had
retired her.
He wished to God, he had never been involved in that case. She was now living the life of a recluse, according to the latest reports, because of him. He hated himself for it. Every time her face appeared in his mind’s eye, Samuel wished he could cry, be at her feet, asking for her forgiveness. More than anything at that moment, he wanted to kill Khalid, the man for whom his enmity would never have a parallel. Hate was a companion Samuel favoured when it came to slay an adversary of Khalid’s calibre and value. Besides being a Muslim, Khalid represented everything Samuel abhorred in a human being. His domineering character, his deceitful conduct, his unending string of excuses when it came to explain or justify any of his actions, everything in the man spelt lies and evil undercurrent. The second man in this triangle, Dr Hendrix, was inconsequential. Samuel bore no animosity toward him. On the contrary, he was grateful for the way he cared for Talya from the minute she had been hospitalized.

Shaking himself out of these unwanted, roaming thoughts, Samuel drank a bit of the coffee he had purchased an hour ago. Staying alert and awake for the rest of the journey was his prime objective.

The stopover
in San Francisco was hardly long enough for Prof. Dickson to get himself from one part of the airport to the other, and get onto the Qantas flight in time. Going through security and customs was a bit of a nightmare. Being a first-class passenger made things a little easier, but when it came to the question as to where the professor was intending to stay in Sydney, the professor was at a loss to name a hotel of note downtown. He couldn’t be sure if the hotel chains that you find everywhere in Europe or in North America extended as far as Downunder. He had to make a decision quickly. The custom’s officer was waiting. “The Hyatt,” the professor blurted finally.

“All right, sir. Enjoy Australia, Professor,” the woman said, motioning for him to move through the passage.

Professor Dickson walked down the hallway quickly, laptop case in one hand and overnight bag in the other. He felt totally out of his depth, not to say out of the water as a fish caught in a net of deceit. He didn’t like having to follow instructions or being hurled into a situation where he had absolutely no control over the players or the circumstances. He had no idea where he was going. Truly, Australia was as strange to him as the moon. He would remedy his ignorance quickly, he thought. He bought the new laptop for that reason—to stay in touch with the world—and he would be able to learn a lot about the country as soon as he could be on line in his hotel in Sydney.

Sylvan, for his part, had no such problems. Although he had never been to Australia either, CSIS had briefed him thoroughly about the country, the city where he and the professor were landing in some 15 hours and about the suburb and surrounding areas of Manly. Before he left, Fred had informed him that the agency would only advise the Australians as to the two men’s presence once they were on their soil. He didn’t want to pre-empt any move on their parts, which could be detrimental or interfering with their original plans. As it were, Sylvan and the professor were on their own until the Canadian agent and his charge would decide otherwise.

Sylvan had not followed Prof. Dickson per se since their boarding of the flight from Washington D.C. He didn’t need to. As an economy class passenger, the herd would
follow
the business class or first-class passengers anyway, and Sylvan knew the professor was as intent as he was to get to Sydney as soon as possible. The dices had been thrown and there was no going back now.

After a scrumptious, five-course dinner, the steward suggested that the professor could freshen up in the lavatory, before lying down on the sitting-bed for the night. He nodded a “Thank you” to the attendant, took his overnight bag to the lavatory and did as suggested. When he returned, his sitting-bed was ‘turned down’ for the night, complete with pillow, sheets, blankets, and a reading light shining discreetly from the side-panel. He looked at it, shook his head and sat down. Khalid felt as if he had lost touch with an entire era of modernization while he lived in Bamako, at the heart of the Sahel.

In the hours that followed, Khalid had a sense of navigating in a fog populated of faces, people, and noises that he didn’t recognize. He saw Talya walk toward him. She was dressed in her white gown, veiled, and holding a magnificent bouquet of red roses against her chest. He noticed the blood as each drop fell rhythmically onto her abayah. When she came closer to him, he saw she was crying. Suddenly, her face disappeared, and in an instant, she was gone. Sinister laughter accompanied his waking up.

He lifted his head from the pillow and for a moment, Khalid didn’t know where he was. The cabin was dark except for the spotlight overhead of someone reading a book two rows ahead of his. Talya had appeared often in his dreams of late, and Khalid could not turn away from these as easily as he did from other things, or ignore them. They were out of reach or his control. He got up, went to stand by the galley’s entrance and asked the attendant for a glass of water. He brought it back to his sitting-bed and drank it slowly.

He could not grasp what was obviously happening to him. He had fantasized vengeance, and his fantasy was now becoming a reality. He was instructed to follow his friend, an assassin, to a duel he only fathomed could take place. He began to realize the enormity of the situation. He had never met this Isaac fellow. He had only heard his other name mentioned in passing, Samuel, which meant
God’s Word
in Hebrew. Possibly, he was only an agent with no real agenda against him or Talya; he just executed orders as so many others did. However, here he was, on his way to kill the man. He had told Talya one day, if she wanted to take vengeance as a companion, she would have to take the devil as her assistant. Incredible as it was, Khalid was doing exactly that. With vengeance in his heart, he had concocted a devil’s plan to kill a man. It was crazy! He would not be able to go through with this. He couldn’t.

If he went to Talya, Mossad would claim that Saudi had forged a secret alliance with Israel, and his uncles would think nothing to have Khalid executed as soon as he would return home—to Paris. It would not be beyond expectation if he were to see reprisals exacted on him for meddling in the Saudi Arabian King’s political affairs, or international relations. What’s more, if he killed the man, Mossad and the Australian authorities would hunt him down like an animal, the same way they did with Talya. He was an outsider.

These tergiversations convinced him that Sadir (or even Fred) had been wrong; there was no way he was coming out of this alive. If he did pull through, he could only look forward to spending the rest of his days in prison, most certainly, in fact.

Replaying the luncheon conversation he had with Muhammad Sadir in his mind, Khalid asked himself why the man was so intent on baiting him into action. He had used an old trick on Khalid, knowing that he was as stubborn as a mule when it came to obtaining what he wanted in life, nothing on a silver platter mind you, but stubborn enough to get what he was told he could not have. He remembered thinking of the word
reversal
when Sadir changed tack, and advanced the idea that the CIA should repay a debt to his uncle. What a laugh! The CIA never paid any debt of the sort. They had already forgotten about Uncle Abdullah and his alleged contraband; they had other problems to deal with now, terrorism being one of them.

“Do you really think he’s going to go through with it?” Thomas asked Sadir as the two of them were drinking their first coffee the morning after Khalid left D.C.

“Frankly, I don’t know. He’s got one-track mind like most of the men in his family, but it’s hard to say.”

“How are you going to ensure he’s carrying this out to the end?”

“Perhaps, Ms Kartz should do the convincing.”

Thomas’s smirk was indicative of his tacit approval. “And how do you propose to do that? She’s not going to jump at the chance to join her prince in a country that really doesn’t remind her of anything too good, you know.”

“Let’s not forget our prince has saved her neck more than once…”

“Yeah, but he’s also left her to deal with a traitor, and I don’t think she’s the forgetting kind.”

Sadir chuckled. “Ottawa would be only too pleased to erase the slate and have us do the erasing, don’t you think?”

Thomas raised a questioning eyebrow. “What do you mean by that?”

Advancing his head closer to Thomas’s, Sadir looked into his colleague’s eyes. He didn’t want to say aloud what he was in fact dying to hear from Thomas. “Think about it, D., the Florida cops could get her up on charges if we wanted to scrape the bottom of this pile of corpses, couldn’t we?”

“I see. You want to rack up a series of warrants for her arrest, is that it?”

“Just one would do—for Al Nadir. She killed him, remember? His case hasn’t been closed yet.”

Thomas brought his mouth closer to Sadir’s ears and lowered his voice to a whisper. “And they would be glad to give us a hand, if we were to inform them what our colleagues at the Bureau discovered at the bottom of the Jackson River, when Ms Kartz left the scene…”

“I think you’re on to something there, Thomas, my friend.” Sadir raised his cup to his lips and grinned before emptying it in one long gulp. “Let’s get back upstairs, shall we?”

Thomas finished off his coffee, too, and followed Sadir out of the cafeteria. However, something bothered him. He knew what Sadir had engineered against Ms Kartz and Agent Slimane earlier that year. He had instant messaging communications to prove it. Sadir’s vengeful Islamic character didn’t seem to have any bounds. Thomas held trump cards, if things were to go wrong, and for that, he was glad.

Plunging headlong into an operation such as the one they were putting in motion by sending their agent and Khalid into an open confrontation with Samuel, didn’t agree with Fred Gibson at all. Time wasn’t always on his side when he had to make decisions, yes, but to be shoved into a corner and being told “that’s the only way the situation could be resolved,” as Sadir had done, was not agreeing with Fred’s management style or his instincts. There was something wrong with this deal. Moreover, a few minutes ago the call from Sadir served to re-ignite his foreboding. In nothing short than open blackmail, Sadir had suggested sending Talya to Australia in order for the FBI to shred the cold-case file of the murder of Al-Nadir and his companion, Salaman Abib, on the trawler. Mark and Talya had been forced to kill two men on that fishing boat when they were hunting Agent Slimane down in Florida.

If he agreed to this, Fred could see Talya—an invalid—being killed along with Khalid the moment Samuel would have them in his scope. Mark would have to arrive on the scene before anyone else, and eliminate the Mossad man first. Mark was good, but he didn’t have Mossad’s training. Fred could see three caskets coming back from Australia, instead of Samuel being returned to Israel to his masters.

He got up, went around his desk and began pacing. “There has to be another way,” he muttered to himself. His fists deep into his trousers’ pockets, he continued rubbing the polish off the hardwood floor before he walked through the door in a rush.

As he entered Badawee’s room, without knocking, he noticed the lawyer was on the phone. Namlah beckoned to the Chief to take a seat and hurried to finish his conversation with the caller. He put the phone down then, and looked fixedly at his boss.

“What happened?” were Namlah’s opening words.

“They’re blackmailing us,” was Fred’s answer.

“Shall we start from the top, Chief? Tell me, who’s doing the blackmailing and why?”

“The CIA wants…” He stopped as if wanting to revise his train of thoughts. “No, Agent Sadir wants us to send Ms Kartz Downunder to convince Prince Khalid to carry out his plan. They want to close the file on the two murders in Florida and promise to do so, if we succeed in getting her to Sydney.”

Caressing his moustache, Namlah reclined in his chair. He then folded his hands over his stomach. “I see. This is quite complex,” he mused. “There are many issues here, and not all to do with the suggestion.”

“Can you explain what you have in mind?”

Namlah nodded, stood up and made his way to the whiteboard that hung on the far wall. Most people worked out their thoughts on paper, but Namlah preferred to put them on the board facing his desk, which enabled him to stare at the problem while he would be resolving it from his chair.

Fred swivelled the visitor’s seat around, his eyes following Namlah’s progress across the room.

The attorney took a marker-pen from the tray and began writing. “First, we have a prince determined to take revenge on the man who maimed his purported fiancée. Then we have Ms. Kartz whose killing of a man is hanging over her head like a Damocles Sword. Next, we have Samuel, who has probably received orders to kill our prince at the first opportunity. Do you see where I am going with this…?”

Staring at the bullet-point list, Fred didn’t see anything else, certainly not an answer. He shook his head.

“Well then, let me continue; next comes in, Prince Abdullah. He’s been instrumental in forcing the CIA’s hand into protecting both his nephew, Khalid, and Ms Kartz.”

Fred nodded and added, “Then, Muhammad Sadir joins in, at Prince Abdullah’s bidding, and begins to stir people into action.”

“Yes, but that’s not all. Sadir wants something else. He tells you that he wants Khalid to eliminate Samuel; to prove Saudi had no allegiance to Israel. Then, he now comes up with a story saying the only way to close the file on the Florida murders, is to send the suspect, Ms Kartz, to Australia to encourage our prince to avenge her being shot. What does that tell you?”

Fred remained silent for a moment, staring at the list of names and jotted circumstances beside each protagonist.

“I’ve got it!” Fred exclaimed at last. “But what can we do about it?”

Dropping the pen in the tray, Namlah shook his head. “Tell me first what you’ve concluded, so that we can be both on the same page.”

“Well, if we connect the dots, the only name that is common to everyone is Sadir. He was the one who gave up Agent Slimane, he was the one who knew of Prince Abdullah’s alleged involvement with the drug exchange for armaments, he was the one who sent Prince Khalid to kill Samuel, and now…, he’s trying to force our hand in sending Ms Kartz to her death.”

“And what’s your conclusion?”

“Either the CIA is into a cover up of some sort or Sadir is acting on someone else’s orders…, or even on his own!”

“Yes. I would rather opt for the ‘acting on someone else’s orders’,” Namlah agreed.

“On whose orders then?”

“My favourite and the only agency with enough power or reasons to do away with a Saudi Arabian Prince…”

“You mean Mossad?” Fred frowned. “But if that’s where you’re going, then it means Sadir is a double agent.”

“Yes, Chief, that’s precisely what I mean. Sadir has probably been playing the man-in-the-middle for many years and he has only one man to thank for his rise to power…”

“Who’s that?”

“I thought that was obvious.”

“You mean Prince Abdullah?”

“Unfortunately, yes. I am sure the man was duped, but he assisted Sadir when it came for him to stay in the States, and he helped him get where he is today.”

“Okay, but how do we turn around now? We want Samuel out of the picture, and we want Mossad to cease and desist when it comes to chasing Ms Kartz and our Prince. How do we do that?”

Turning again to the whiteboard, Namlah took the dry-sponge and erased the list, to Fred’s visible dismay. “You have several choices, each of which has risks attached to it.” He traced four columns and at the top of each, wrote the names of the main players: Talya, Khalid, Samuel and Sadir. “If we were to follow Sadir’s plan, here is what would happen…,” Namlah began while writing his evolving thoughts on the board. “Ms Kartz goes to Australia as suggested by Sadir and gets rid of the arrest warrant hanging over her head, but is eliminated in the cross-fire. Khalid confronts Samuel and gets killed in the process. Samuel washes his hands of two more murders, unless Mark intervenes, which could entail heavy consequences for us and the Australian government. Sadir fulfils his Mossad assignment and satisfies the FBI and they close the file on the Florida murders. Ultimately, Uncle Abdullah in his sorrow can look forward never to be blamed again for being involved in arms’ dealing with Israel.”

Fred was getting edgy. He wanted a solution to the problem, not another description of it. Yet, he knew Namlah couldn’t be rushed. His methodical mind had to function in its own good time. “Okay, now that you’ve described what
should not
happen, could you tell me what we should do about it?”

Without turning his head or answering Fred’s question, Namlah erased the statements within each column. “First, we should advise the Australian authorities of Samuel’s intent…”

“Based on what? We’ve got nothing on him to justify us butting in…”

Namlah turned around and fixed his gaze on the chief, and waited.

“I see, he’s suspected of attempted murder on Ms Kartz... and we should get him back to Canada to face charges.” Fred smiled.

“Absolutely. We have an extradition treaty with the Aussies, which should allow us to bring him back to Ottawa.”

“But how do we stop Khalid…? Apparently, he’s determined to seek vengeance…”

Namlah put up a hand to stop Fred before he went too far ahead of himself. “In the first place, I don’t think our prince has quite grasped the difficulty surrounding this situation, but when he does, he’s going to back out on his own. He wouldn’t want to spend the rest of his days in a Saudi prison.”

“But we can’t wait until he comes to his senses…”

Again, Namlah raised a hand. “We won’t. As soon as they land, we’re going to tell Mark to explain to him what we’ve concluded. If he hasn’t realized it by then, Khalid will soon envision what could happen to him if he didn’t turn back and return to Paris.”

“Okay, so far so good, but what do we do about Sadir? We can’t just cross the border and accuse the man of treason, now can we?”

“No we can’t, but Mossad will do that for us.”

“How?”

“Believe me; they’re not going to stand for showing their hand at this stage. As soon as we apply for Samuel’s extradition, they’ll order Sadir out of the game. And if he doesn’t move on his own, they’ll soon get rid of him. He would have become a loose end which they don’t want or need.”

The chief got up and went to stand close to the lawyer. “Tell me something, Mr. Badawee, why are you staying here? Your power of deductions and knowledge of the law are both wasted in this agency.”

Namlah smiled, bowed slightly, turned away and went to wipe his hand with the towel that hung beside the whiteboard. “I dreamt to skate on the Rideau Canal since I was a boy. My father was well acquainted with a man from Canada when we lived in Syria, and I swore that, one day, I would not only learn to skate, but own a house near the famous Canal. And now that I do, I will not move.”

Fred nodded, and walked to the door. He spun around. “Thanks for the lesson, Professor,” he said, a grin exposing his glistening, white teeth.