WASHINGTON DC: The Sadir Affair (The Puppets of Washington Book 1) (20 page)

Prince Abdullah Saif Al-Fadir was a man whose presence one could not ignore. He was a proud man. However, his pride had very little to do with snobbery or even being in line to the throne of Saudi Arabia. He had taken pride in raising his children and in loving the wives he married during his youth. An iron fist in a velvet glove was a description that fitted him perfectly. Since Khalid’s father died, Uncle Abdullah had taken care of his nephew and his brothers. He had never demanded of Khalid to return to Saudi Arabia or leave his home in Paris. He knew the family had banished the young prince nearly twenty years ago for indiscretion and for having the gall to oppose the decision of marrying the woman they had chosen for him. Uncle Abdullah had settled a trust on Khalid, which saw his nephew live comfortably in Paris and raise his daughter, Aisha. Since his exile, Khalid had kept in touch with his uncle and considered him as a
good man
.

Khalid was reading the paper when he heard a knock at the door of his suite. He looked at his watch—2:10PM—and went to open the door.

“Come in, Uncle. How are you?” He closed the door.

“I am tired, Khalid, but other than that, I should say, I am in good health.” He went to sit on the chair, but not before he had taken his overcoat off. Khalid took it from him and put it down on the sofa.

“What about you? Have you been able to meet with Ms. Kartz while you were in Vancouver?”

Khalid sat down opposite his uncle. “I’m afraid not.”

“Ha! Such a long journey for naught. Do you know if she is alright at least?”

“She is, I’m happy to say, even more so now that she knows an operation on her spine is possible.”

“You mean she might regain the use of her legs? But that’s wonderful…!”

“Yes, Uncle, it was news worthy of a thousand praises to Allah.”

“You say words of happiness but your face doesn’t show me the joy you should feel. What concerns you then?”

Khalid put his elbows on his knees and didn’t look up for a moment. “Until your friend, Mr. Sadir is behind bars, we cannot rest, Uncle, and Talya’s life is still in danger.”

“For all the shame that I feel right now, it does not equate my fear, Khalid.”

Khalid looked up. “What is your fear? Do you fear for your life as well?”

Uncle Abdullah shook his head. “I do not fear for my life, Allah knows that my heart is clean, Khalid, but I am in fear of what could be concluded from my friendship with Muhammad Sadir.”

“And what would that conclusion be, Uncle?” Khalid asked.

“Since Muhammad is now accused to have conspired to kill the CIA agent and to have attempted the assassination of Ms Kartz, I could be seen as the responsible party to the two felonies. Moreover, and perhaps more importantly, our family could be viewed as instigator of crimes against two Israelis.”

“And since the two assaults occurred after the Zurich incident, one could assume that you had taken reprisals against Agent Slimane and Ms Kartz.”

Uncle Abdullah nodded emphatically. “Precisely, Khalid. And there is something else that has been bothering me...”

“What else could there be? I should think this first proposition would be enough to bring you anxiety.” Khalid sounded together annoyed at this new twist in the affair and concerned for his uncle.

“Does the name Thomas mean anything to you?”

The question mark on Khalid’s face told his uncle he had no idea who he was talking about. “I can’t say that I do, no.”

“What about Peterson?” Khalid shook his head. He straightened up and leaned against the back of the chair. “Well…, Thomas Peterson is a young CIA agent whose name was mentioned twice, I believe, when the CIA sent me this secretary from their offices, which person I had in my employ until the OPEC conference in Zurich.”

“I remember the secretary, yes, but I don’t see the connection...”

Uncle Abdullah raised a hand. “Let me explain. When I returned to Saudi after the Zurich incident, I checked a little further in the man’s past. He had supposedly been employed by a couple of people in the UAE and came with good references. Yet, his leaving me stranded at the airport in Zurich left me with nothing but doubt as far as his trustworthiness was concerned. However, when I came to Paris to meet with you and when you explained who was responsible for the slight embarrassment I suffered at the time, I decided not to waste my time with the fellow.”

“…and that until the name Muhammad Sadir came under scrutiny...”

“Precisely. And that’s when I found out that we had received a couple of emails from Thomas Peterson—this CIA agent—advising my secretary of the dates at which I should be in Zurich and he, in return, sending details to Muhammad Sadir of my movements from that point on.”

Khalid lifted an eyebrow. “And you think Muhammad Sadir planned your assassination all the time?”

“I don’t see any other explanation. But this also brings me back to my first proposition, which could describe me as the instigator of Agent Slimane’s assassination and of Ms Kartz’s attempted murder.”

“But why did you say you’re afraid for Agent Peterson’s life?”

“Don’t you see? He’s the one who sent the instructions to that secretary but there’s no proof that he acted on Sadir’s orders.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure, Uncle. Did you bring copies of these emails with you?”

“Yes, of course. They’re in my suite... Shall I go get them?”

“Don’t trouble yourself for now. We’re due at Mr. Van Dam’s office in a half-an-hour, we’ll see what he has to offer before we come bearing gifts.”

Sorenson had sent Detective Constables Delgado and Carvey to meet Samuel at the Sydney airport. The Mossad agent was due to stay in Australia until called to return to Washington D.C.

Samuel knew there would be a welcoming committee when he would disembark, but he didn’t really care. Whatever happened from now on would be in the hands of God. He had come in the open, and in doing so, he was sure Mossad would
retire
him at the end of the trial. What form this so-called
retirement
would take he didn’t know. He prayed, however, for him to live long enough to be able to see Talya again at the conclusion of the trial—to be with her for a while.

Being a US Attorney on Capitol Hill is a coveted position, one, however, that requires the vote of the people to attain. Your political clout amid a very political crowd is what would put you in the seat. The people’s approval is based mostly on the number of perpetrators you succeeded in putting behind bars and on the sort of friendships you developed along the way. It is the “old boys’ band”. Attempting to drive a wedge between these highly regarded individuals could cost you your career if you were an aspiring attorney trying to forge a future for yourself. ‘The boys’ have to assist their US Attorney in any way they can without ruffling any feathers in the political corridors of Washington. “Do me a favour, will you?” is a common opening phrase heard during telephone conversations among these men.

While the US Attorney seems to reign supreme, his Assistants, his A.USAs are men and women who hold the law by the lapel of its perfectly tailored suit. They could make alterations to the garment any time they please, and they do quite often. They adjust the law, referencing case after case, citing decisions one after the other, until the entire suit fits the man,
en locurence
, the criminal.

To reach a seat behind the desk of a US Attorney is not a task for the faint hearted, and Mr. Lucien Billycan was no such person. Already in his late sixties, he stood over six feet tall, a dominant stature bearing down on his staff. His full head of white hair accented the tan face and the blue eyes; although reflective of equanimity, they were inscrutable to many. In a tradition to nickname their master, the staff had tried “Billy” on for size until Mr. Billycan had made it clear that only Lucien would be the name he wanted to hear when one would be allowed the familiarity to calling the man by his first name. For nearly five years, this forceful figure had orchestrated the prosecutions of many a felon, but none perhaps as the case of Mr. Muhammad Sadir promised to be.

He had read all of the statements, all of the primary interviews conducted either in D.C. or as far afield as Australia or Saudi Arabia. This trial was going to cost the federal coffers a fortune, but a fortune that would see him nominated for another term, Billycan was sure.

Although suspected to have committed crimes against National Security, in the first instance, the court decided to bind Sadir for trial on one count of felony murder in the first degree for the assassination of Ishmael Assor (a.k.a. Ben Slimane), and on one count of accessory before the fact in the attempted murder of that young woman, Talya Kartz. Billycan had smiled to himself when he had read her file. She was a troublemaker—no question—and he could hardly wait to get her on the stand. She would probably tell him to go sit on an egg and see how he felt if she didn’t like his line of questioning. Yet, he could not get passed the fact that she, herself, had knifed a man in cold blood. Her action qualified as involuntary manslaughter, she was now off the hook, so to speak, and Billycan thought he would try not to bother her with recounting the events that led her to plant her knife in the abdomen of yet another suspicious Arab. Personally, he didn’t see any reason in putting all Muslims or Arabs in the same bag. He was of the view that there were bad seeds in every nation. Hitler, he felt, had proved the point some sixty years earlier, not a point of view Billycan would express in the company of certain parties. He knew some of his compatriots all too well to avoid such a faux pas. Nevertheless, the bad seed had germinated already in the “Sadir Affair” as it was now called. He had read how Van Dams had thought he was an Islamic Radical but also how that trail had ran cold when the CIA Deputy Director had committed an error of judgment in leading Sadir to travel to Vancouver, hoping the guy would be forced into confessing of his
association
with an Israeli traitor. Getting the man to Vancouver, in itself had not been a mistake, yet openly showing him the CIA’s intention, had been a grave error. Billycan knew Van Dams was not a stupid man and he wondered why he had allowed his Agent Lypsick to divulge their plan. Had it been Lypsick’s own decision? In which case, he would have to have a talk with this agent.

Assistant US Attorney, Marcel Fauchet, took pride in his work. Of French descent, as his name clearly implied, the young Marcel had forged his way through the halls of Justice with relative ease. A brilliant student of the law, he graduated from Harvard, and passed the bar exam with flourish, one could say. Early in his career, he had demonstrated a real disgust for the criminals that paraded in front of the judges every day. He had no intention of ever becoming a defence attorney. He could not see himself condoning the actions of some of these men and women who vowed to do harm to another human being. For him, all they deserved was the guillotine. It was in such a frame of mind that he entered the visitors’ room at the remand centre.

Flanked by his defence attorney, Mr. David Simmons—a diminutive man who was known around the D.C. legal quarters as a
calculating
lawyer—Sadir, dressed in the regulation orange jumpsuit, looked at the young man as he sat opposite him. He thought if he could con the whole of the Mossad agency, he would easily fool this guy.

Marcel was young, and his mousy hair, together with his light brown eyes didn’t reveal the audacious trait of character he had used to his advantage on many occasions, successfully, during quite a few trials already. This audacity was dangerous when displayed in court. However, in this instance, Billycan needed someone to take risks to extract information from the suspect and that was the reason for Marcel sitting where he was now.

Simmons nodded and opened the interview with, “Alright, Mr. Fauchet, what can we do for you today?”

“I am here on behalf of Mr. Billycan. Our US Attorney thought you might be able to add a few details to your statement.”

“What sort of details are we talking about?” Simmons’s decisive manner didn’t bother Marcel in the least.
He’ll soon shut up
, he thought.

Depositing his cuffed wrists in front of him on the tabletop, Sadir thought how naïve the man was. “Would you like me to hand you the needle, too?”

Marcel shook the derision off his shoulders. “That would be helpful, of course, but if you were to plead guilty to a lesser charge and allocute in front of the judge, that would save everyone a lot of trouble…”

“And save the taxpayers a lot of money,” Simmons interjected.

“Actually, the taxpayers are the ones holding the purse-strings, Mr. Simmons, and they’re the ones who want to hear what your client has to say, but more to the point, why he did what he is alleged of doing.”

“Yet, that implies that my client will be willing to take a plea, which is not our intention at this juncture.”

Sadir guffawed. “And you think I am going to dig my own grave? If you think that way, Mr. Fauchet, you’re a bigger fool than I thought you were.”

“You may think me a fool, yes, but I am the one who could recommend offering you a reduced sentence if what we hear would lead us to the truth.”

“And what truth would you like me to utter in front of the judge; that I killed Mr. Slimane myself or shot Ms. Kartz from my desk in D.C.?”

Simmons’s admonishing glance toward his client was unmistakable. The attorney was trying to shut Sadir’s mouth.

The mocking grin on Marcel’s face told Sadir he was heading in the wrong direction with his answers. “No, Mr. Sadir, not at all. We know you didn’t pull the trigger, as you stated on a couple of occasions, but we also know that you convinced the Israelis to send their assassin to do the deed for you.”

Sadir’s reaction was one Marcel expected. The prisoner’s reddened face appeared ready to explode with the next words. “I did no such thing. I didn’t
convince
anyone to do anything.”

“You keep saying that; harping on the same words in our ears, but we have proof that you did.”

“What sort of proof? You don’t have anything to tie me to these crimes, otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”

“Hold on a little minute here, Mr. Fauchet. What are you saying?” Simmons asked vehemently. “Are you asking my client to finger someone else for the crimes he’s accused of? And if that’s true, what are you offering in exchange for such a testimony?”

Ignoring Simmons’s request for a minute, Marcel ploughed ahead. “Wrong, Mr. Sadir. I am only here to confirm that what you said or wrote is what you meant to say.”

“Don’t say anything else,” Simmons ordered.

Sadir paid no heed to the suggestion. He wrung his hands. He had no idea what Fauchet meant, or where this was leading. “I have nothing to confirm.”

“Oh but you do, Mr. Sadir. Let’s just say, hypothetically now, that you were acting on someone’s orders, what we would like to confirm, if that’s true, of course, is that someone else was the rotten apple in the barrel. You see what I’m getting at?”

“Not a clue!”

“Come, come, Mr. Sadir, you’re not a stupid man. Your career in the CIA tells me that much. So, let’s try to save you from the needle, shall we?”

Simmons was visibly impatient. “You’re tiptoeing around, Fauchet. What is it you want exactly?”

“Who’s the “Puppeteer”, Mr. Sadir? The person you mentioned in your statement. Who’s pulling the strings? That’s what we want to know.”

Simmons’s face paled. “Don’t say anything, until we hear an offer from Mr. Fauchet,” he reiterated more forcefully this time.

Sadir shot him a dismissive glare. “I didn’t say anyone was. Lypsick is the one who suggested it—not me!”

“Yes, that’s what you keep saying, but I put it to you—you know who the puppeteer is.”

“Mr. Fauchet,” Simmons interrupted again, “if you suspect that my client is not this “puppeteer”, why do you want to keep him in here? He should be out there helping you…”

Marcel held up a hand. “It’s a simple case of evidence pointing to your client’s guilt, Mr. Simmons. You remember those little things call evidence, don’t you?”

The disdain in Marcel’s voice was designed to irritate Sadir. He wanted him to talk. Sadir knew who had succeeded in putting him behind bars, piling up evidence against him, and making sure that the ex-CIA man wasn’t going to escape a guilty verdict. However, Sadir didn’t seem ready to give up the name of the person who had pulled the strings.

Sadir was visibly uncomfortable. “Listen, Mr. Fauchet, I’m better in here than out there. You and your US Attorney have no power over the entire CIA. If they’ve got their minds made up to make me the scapegoat in this affair, so be it. I prefer facing 25 years in prison than having my family killed for accepting to make a deal with you.”

Marcel’s jaw lines tightened. “Are you saying that someone has threatened you with doing harm to your wife and children? Do you have proof of that?” He wondered if this wasn’t another way of leading the US Attorney’s office down the garden path again.

“I guess you need reading glasses, Mr. Fauchet,” Simmons put in. “My client has told you—and I believe it’s in his statement—that he was forced to travel to Vancouver against his wishes…”

“Yes, I’ve read that, but nowhere does it say that Mr. Sadir here was menaced in such a way.”

“But, I was!” Sadir blurted. “Lypsick told me that if I didn’t do what he wanted, he would make sure I’d come home to an empty house—or something like that.”

“And you thought you were in danger for your life and that of your family, if you didn’t comply with his request, is that it?”

“Shit, Fauchet, wouldn’t you be if someone in the CIA told you something like that?” When Marcel walked out of the centre toward his car, he had the feeling to convict Sadir was going to be harder than ever. Lypsick was definitely another question mark. How could this CIA agent make such mistakes as to menace the lives of a family openly unless he had other designs in mind?
Or the “Puppeteer” did, maybe?