WASHINGTON DC: The Sadir Affair (The Puppets of Washington Book 1) (6 page)

As Friday night rolled around, Talya was ready, packed, and looking forward to their weekend on Bowen Island. Aziz had made sure the batteries of her racing wheels were fully charged and made a reservation with the taxi company to have one of their wheelchair-vans in front of the building’s door at 8:00AM the next day.

That night they went to the Boat House—their favourite restaurant—by the beach and not too far from Talya’s place.

Talya was a changed woman. Still thin and emaciated-looking, her whole demeanour, however, was one of a person who enjoyed life to the fullest. Her long, black dress draped elegantly over her legs, with its long sleeves, hid her scarred arm very nicely and enhanced the white curls surrounding her face. She had put on some make up, although her cheeks had almost returned to their rosy colour already.

Aziz sat down across from her at a table near the picture windows. He couldn’t stop staring at the woman he loved. The past seven months’ ordeal was fading from his memory very quickly. He didn’t want to think about it. Tonight they were closing the book on the Ben Slimane Affair. Or were they?

“I got a call from Fred Gibson last night,” Aziz said when their entrees were on the table.

Talya looked up from her plate, wondering if she wanted to hear this. “And what did the man have to say for himself?”

Aziz smiled. “He was very happy to hear that you’re making good progress and he’s invited us to Ottawa whenever you’re fit to travel.”

Talya dropped her fork. “What for?” she blurted, peering into Aziz’s eyes. “I have no intention whatsoever to travel anywhere near that agency. You can tell him so, next time he calls. And what did you say?”

“Nothing.” Aziz picked up a prawn from his dish and bit on it with gusto. “I mean…, I didn’t say yea or nay. I just told him that travelling was not in the cards for you yet. That’s all.”

Talya grabbed hold of the fork again and stabbed a couple of pieces of calamari on her plate in the same manner a snorkeler would stab a fish for his dinner. “Good! And it won’t be in the cards ever again. I’ll be going back to work next week and if there is any travel to be done, it’ll be to Paris…” It was Aziz’s turn to stop eating. Their eyes locked. “Oh, don’t worry, I’m not going to get involved with the prince again, no, I’m going to get him to fly us down to Bamako to go and pay our respects to Hassan’s father. The man deserves that much from Khalid and from me. His son died because of us, and going to see him is long overdue. Besides, I want to see for myself what’s been done with the Kankoon permit and have a nice long visit with Chantal.”

Aziz didn’t know what to say. He had known Talya wouldn’t have forgotten the events of the past year and knew that she would have wanted to return to Africa someday, but he tried to put that thought out of his mind. He couldn’t accept seeing her leaving for a continent that was at the origin of all that happened to her. The only solace he took in the whole idea was that Talya proposed to visit Chantal Gauthier. He had never met the woman, but from what Talya explained after her return, she had always steered her in the right direction and hadn’t taken no for an answer when it came to protecting Talya from making unwise decisions.

The troubled lines of his face finally receding into a happier expression, Aziz nodded. “But let’s get to Bowen Island first, shall we?”

Not really knowing what came over her, Talya giggled and began tittering uncontrollably. The contagious laughter soon took hold of Aziz and he started chuckling. The two of them had tacitly decided to leave the past behind, for a while anyway.

As Khalid cleared the gangway leading to the arrivals’ lounge, two men—one tall and muscular, the other a head shorter than his companion with mousy-looking features—came to stand on either side of him. They were both dressed in the regulation-blues.

“May we see your passport, sir?” the short one of the two demanded.

Khalid didn’t know the procedure in this foreign land and didn’t flinch when asked to show his travel documents to an official-looking fellow. “Sure, by all means.” He put down his laptop case and fetched his passport out of his breast pocket.

The mousy officer opened it and flipped through it. “Welcome to Australia, Professor. Would you follow us, please?” He handed the document back to him.

By then Khalid had realized he was the only person, thus far, that had been stopped upon exiting the aircraft. He turned his head, hoping to spot Sylvan among the economy class passengers who were now coming out of the gangway.

“Don’t worry, Professor, we’ll get your friend to join us in a minute,” Mr. Muscle said, a shrug and a smirk accompanying the words.

Already walking in step with the two men, Khalid stopped abruptly and waited for his escorting officers to do the same. When they did, and turned to face him, Khalid deposited both his bags to the floor and crossed his arms over his chest. “Alright, gentlemen, I realize I am only a guest in your country, but since I seemed to have been singled out from among 300 or so visitors, before we go any further, I’d like to know what this is all about.”

The officers looked at one another before answering.

“Just come with us, sir, we can’t have this conversation right here,” Mousy urged, ready to resume his walking.

Khalid’s obdurate stance stopped him. “Oh yes we can, and we will, unless you want me to make a fuss in the middle of this hall.”

The taller officer took a step toward Khalid, manifestly ready to take him by the one arm. “Come, come now, sir, we don’t want to attract attention, now do we?” Khalid’s glare had him change his mind instantly.

“No we don’t,” Khalid heard someone say from over his shoulder. He spun on his heels to find Sylvan standing at his back. “We’ll be going with you—no question—won’t we, Professor?” He smiled invitingly as he flung his bag over his shoulder.

“Oh…, yes…, of course… Lead the way, by all means,” Khalid said, ostensibly appeased. In reality, he was seething. He picked up his laptop and overnight bag from the floor.

The four men walked down a series of corridors and finally filed into a room that looked to be part of the customs’ offices. A lone table and four chairs were the only pieces of furniture in this rectangular room. They sat down. Khalid and Mark put their bags beside their respective chairs while the two officers took off their chequered-band caps in one movement and deposited them between their forearms, which they extended atop the Formica. The four men looked at one another as if assessing the debating camps on opposite sides of the table.

The short fellow broke the silence. “I’m Constable Strickland, Professor.” Khalid clenched jaw remained closed. His piercing eyes did not leave the man’s face. “And this is my partner, Constable Damien.”

Damien’s mocking eyes focused on Mark. “And you must be Sylvan Esteban, or should I call you Agent Gilford?” He paused. “I prefer you with blond hair,” he snickered, his own head adorned of curly, flaming-red hair.

Strickland turned his head and looked at Damien disapprovingly. Familiarities or scorn toward foreigners, were not in his book of rules of behaviour. He returned his attention to the two people across from him. “We know this intervention must seem strange and certainly unexpected to you both, gentlemen, but we have been ordered to advise you of the change of plans.”

Khalid’s anger was not abating. “What plans?” He didn’t like interference of any sort.

“
Prince Khalid,
please…” Visibly taken aback, Khalid stared at his interlocutor. He hadn’t expected being called by his official title, although he knew their fake identities had been uncovered as soon as he heard Damien identify Mark. “…don’t make this more difficult than it has to be. We’re simply following orders, you understand.”

“And what orders are those?” Khalid barked at his adversary.

“For you to go back to Paris on the next available flight to France, Your Highness.”

At these words, His Highness got to his feet with such an abrupt and violent jerk that the chair fell behind him. “You can’t do that! I’ve got a passport that has a three-month’s visa…”

Mark leaned down, straightened up the chair and pulled down on Khalid’s sleeve. “Sit down…,” he told him as firmly as the circumstances allowed, “…please, Your Highness.” Khalid did.

Strickland, evidently armed of great patience, totally ignored Khalid’s outburst and resumed his explanation. “And you, Agent Gilford, you have been assigned to extradite Mr. Samuel Meshullam back to Canada.”

Khalid’s facial expression changed instantly and dramatically from one of annoyance into one of amazement. Had he been arrested already? Was there something he didn’t know? Clearly there was. But what? “What happened?” His tone of voice betrayed his bewilderment.

“Yes, Your Highness, something has happened and you do not want to be party to this investigation. That’s the reason we’re sending you home.”

Mark opened his mouth quickly—if he didn’t, Khalid would. “Do you mean the fellow is not behind bars yet?”

Showing some embarrassment perhaps, Strickland surrounded his cap on the table with both hands. “We’ve got a warrant for his arrest, but we haven’t caught up with him yet.” He moved his head from side to side as if wanting to relieve the tension in his neck.

“And I’m supposed to wait until you do?”

“That’s the plan, Agent Gilford, and those are our orders,” Damien confirmed. “We’ve reserved rooms for the both of you at the Airport Hotel for the night…”

Khalid had calmed down considerably but his curiosity aroused now, he had to ask, “Would you at least tell us the reason for the warrant?”

Strickland turned to his partner before answering. The latter nodded almost imperceptibly. “Charges of attempted murder on the person of Ms Talya Kartz.”

Khalid let a heavy sigh escape from his mouth, his upper body sagging against the back of the chair. At last, someone was going to do the right thing. He felt relieved as if the burden of the last two years of turmoil had suddenly been lifted from his shoulders. “Thank you, gentlemen…” He left the words hanging in the air, and then added, “Shouldn’t we see to our luggage…?” turning to Mark.

“No need. We’ve taken care of it,” Strickland said, shaking his head. “And…, here is your return ticket to France.” He pulled out an envelope from his jacket pocket and handed it to Khalid. “Your flight is departing tomorrow night.”

The prince took the envelope. “Thank you again.” He got to his feet hesitantly. “Oh…, but I almost forgot, my passport…, my other passport is in Washington…”

“Don’t worry about it. We’ve contacted D.C. already, and your passport will be at the Hotel de Crillon when you get home in Paris.”

“I see. Well then, I’ll make my way to the hotel…” He grabbed his two bags with the one hand and walked to the door.

Mark, who had listened to the last of this exchange in puzzlement, got up, picked up his shoulder bag, and was about to follow Khalid out of the room when Damien called him back. “I think you might want to remain with us for a few more minutes, Agent Gilford…”

Mark turned around, put down the bag beside the chair again. “…I... I... guess, I should.” He then shot a quick glance in Khalid’s direction. “I’m sorry… I’ll see you tonight then?”

Khalid nodded, and as he was about to place his free hand on the doorknob, Damien called to him. “One of our colleagues is waiting for you outside, Your Highness. He’ll see you through customs and security…”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Still somewhat in shock, Khalid walked through the door and was gone, leaving Mark to sit down again opposite the satisfied-looking constables.

Talya’s weakened condition showed when she and Aziz arrived on the island. Although her racing wheels were doing most of the work, she felt her strength leaving her as every minute passed. Aziz had seen this before. Following months of inactivity, she had made demands on her body to which it was not prepared to respond. In less than 72 hours, Talya had resumed a great deal of activities and her muscles were screaming for help—and food.

“Can we stop?” Talya asked, as they were half way up the hill leading to their B&B.

“Sure. Why don’t we have a bite to eat? The restaurant is open. Maybe a large brunch…? What do you say?”

Talya looked up at him and smiled. He always knew what she felt and what she wanted. “Good idea! Let’s go.” She put her chair in motion again and they turned into the terrace fronting a little house. She skirted the patio and rolled down to the entrance at the side of the establishment. Aziz opened the door for her, walked in and dropped his shoulder bag near a table. Talya manoeuvred the chair in front of it and took off her jacket.

The waitress was already at her side, helping her out of it. “Would you like some coffee?” She smiled at the two people in turn.

Talya looked up at her, thanked her and handed her jacket to Aziz. “Yes,” she added, “and some eggs Benedict for me...” She looked at Aziz. “Oh and some fruit, and maybe…”

He took her hand. “Let’s see how you’re doing with that for now…, okay?” Talya nodded.

“And for you, sir?” the young woman asked, pen poised on her order pad.

He let go of Talya’s hand, grabbed the menu quickly and ran his eyes down it. “I’ll have bacon and eggs, pancakes and strawberries.”

“Toasts with that?”

“No, thanks.”

As the waitress retreated, Aziz noticed that Talya’s hands were trembling. She had them folded in her lap and was looking down at them. “Do you want to go home?”

She shook her head. “No, no. I’m just cold…, maybe...”

“Okay, let’s wait until you get some food in you.”