WASHINGTON DC: The Sadir Affair (The Puppets of Washington Book 1) (4 page)

Having changed his appearance somewhat; dressed in jeans, T-shirt and leather jacket, Khalid had boarded the evening Amtrak train in Montreal, which saw him arrive at his hotel in Washington D.C. in the early hours of the next morning. After breakfast, he made an appointment to have lunch with a friend of his uncle, a man by the name of Muhammad Sadir. Agent Sadir was high up the ladder of the CIA and had been instrumental in closing the dossier on Ben Slimane. During his meeting with Fred, Khalid had deliberately omitted to ask the assassin’s —Samuel Meshullam— precise location, not to alert the chief of his intentions. Vancouver had been his primary destination, but ever since Talya’s so-called accident, Khalid had kept a secret desire to avenge her shooting by meeting the perpetrator face-to-face, from everyone remotely interested in his agenda. However, now that his original plan had been upset and that he couldn’t possibly meet with Talya before he accomplished his goal, he had no alternative but to meet the problem head-on.

Muhammad Sadir waddled into the restaurant, looked around and finally asked the maitre d’ if he could lead him to Captain Sahab’s table. The man complied without hesitation and took him to a corner of the establishment, away from the brouhaha of the luncheon crowd.

Khalid stood up, bowed slightly to his guest and thanked the maitre d’, who turned on his heels quickly and was gone. Sadir descended into the chair opposite his host, and before uttering the first word, peered into the eyes of his friend’s nephew with a querying stare.

Khalid held the gaze for a fraction of a second before he said, “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me in such short notice, Mr. Sadir.”

The CIA man waved a podgy hand in Khalid’s face but smiled. “Not at all, not at all, I’m the one who should thank you for taking the time.” Sadir paused, staring again. “But what brought you to D.C., or isn’t it something you’re ready to tell me?”

The discussion was not off to a good start, Khalid thought. He usually would take the lead in any conversation rather than the other way round.

“Shall we have lunch first?” Khalid suggested, picking up the menu from the side dish.

“Of course. I can readily appreciate your predicament, Captain Sahab, and having lunch will take the edginess between us, yes?”

Khalid didn’t reply. The man’s discernment bothered him.

The server broke the silence between the two patrons by asking if the gentlemen would like something to drink before lunch. A shake of their heads told him to move on to the next topic. “Shall I take your order now or would you like some time…”

Another wave of Sadir’s hand stopped him in mid-stream. “I’ll have a clubhouse—no bacon—and a soda,” he replied, handing him the menu.

“The same for me,” Khalid rejoined, “and a Perrier.”

“I’ll be right back,” the server uttered, taking the menu from Khalid’s extended hand.

Stretching his shoulders against the back of the chair, Sadir placed both hands on the armrests. His rotund girth and heavy frame fitted in the ample chair, only just. “As I said, I can understand your predicament, Captain Sahab, and after talking to your uncle…”

“You talked to Uncle Abdullah…?”

Sadir smiled. “Does it bother you…?”

Khalid shook his head and lowered his eyes. “Not really, no.”

The drinks arrived at that moment, and while the server uncapped the two bottles of water and poured some in the glasses, the two men fell silent; Khalid noticeably exasperated and Mr. Sadir rapping his fingers on the edge of the table.

When the waiter had gone, Sadir went on, “Well then…, your esteemed uncle told me that he hadn’t heard from you since Ms Kartz’s unfortunate accident and although he has tried to contact you, you have not responded to his repeated calls. I would not want to intercede in your family affairs, Captain, but as your uncle’s long-time friend I am duty bound to ask you, in plain language,
what’s going on?
”

Khalid felt uncomfortable. This man had seen through him. It was as if he could read his mind. He raised his eyes to him. “That’s what I came here to find out.”

Sadir guffawed. “I see. And you think I have the answers you seek?” He shook his head. “No, Khalid Saif Al-Fadir, I don’t. You are a prince among kings, you are part of the elite of this world and in all humility, Your Highness, you can’t expect me or the CIA to ask you to do our job for us.”

“But you know where I can find him.”

“If we’re talking about someone who’s recently moved to Sydney, the answer is yes. But”—Sadir brought his forearms to rest on either side of the plate in front of him—“if you expect me to send you Downunder to get yourself killed, the answer is NO!”

“What makes you think I have any intention of going to Australia?” Khalid asked.

“Don’t take me for a fool, Your Highness. Your presence here tells me that you’ve probably been told Mossad is expecting you to make a move. They have been waiting for you to go to Vancouver or make your way to Sydney for seven months now. The minute you set foot on Aussie soil, you will be signing your death warrant. The sniper is waiting for you, Khalid Saif Al-Fadir.”

The waiter’s return to the table interrupted the conversation abruptly. While he deposited a voluminous dish in front of each man, Sadir retreated to the back of the chair again.

Khalid shot a quick glance in the waiter’s direction. “Thank you,” he said, a thin, hesitant smile crossing his lips.

Looking at the withdrawing server, and exhaling audibly, Sadir continued, “As I said and I repeat; I quite understand your predicament, Your Highness. On the one hand you want to avenge Ms Kartz’s ordeal, and on the other, should you decide to go against our advice, you’ll find yourself face-to-face with a Mossad assassin who’s been waiting for you to appear on his doorsteps for months.” He grabbed one of the sandwiches and bit a mouthful of it.

Khalid sipped on the Perrier water. The CIA man would not divulge anything of any use to him, he decided. This wasn’t a good idea. He should have known that involving a friend of his uncle in his plan would backfire. He had to think of something else that would sway Sadir into telling him what he came to D.C. to find out.

The two men ate in silence for a while; Sadir devouring his meal as if it was his last, while Khalid only picked at his dish half-heartedly.

Once the coffee was on the table, Sadir laced his fingers over his protruding belly, and decided it was time to let Khalid out of the hole in which he had fallen unwisely. “I’ll tell you what we’ve decided before I came to meet you.” He paused. Khalid hadn’t expected such an about face. He didn’t like snakes slithering under rocks. He could hear the hissing of lies reaching his ears. In turn, he stared at his guest. “My superiors think that we will not be able to prevent you from going anywhere you please and while we will be tracking you, for obvious reasons, we want you to be aware of who your adversary is. This is highly uncharacteristic of the CIA, you understand. However, last year our office made a grave mistake.” Khalid heard the hissing snake getting louder. “Your uncle was publicly humiliated because we decided to ignore the warning signs alerting us of Mr. Slimane’s treason. In essence, we have a debt to pay, and we want to remit the amount in full.”

“Are you saying you will tell me who he is and where I can find him?”

“Not quite.” The snake was slipping back under his rock. “We will ask for Mr. Gibson’s collaboration. He’ll probably know where you are by the time I’ll call him.”

“And what type of collaboration will you seek from the Canadians?” This, too, was unforeseen. Khalid wanted to accomplish what he had in mind by himself. The prospect of having anyone else involved irked him.

“At present, and until I have Mr. Gibson’s full assurance that his agency will follow our lead, I will not reveal what has been planned. I suggest, you stay at your hotel and wait for my instruction or that of Mr. Gibson.”

“How long will I have to wait?” Khalid hazarded, already planning to be gone by the time the word came.

“Not long, not long at all, Captain. Yet, I wouldn’t make any plans to travel anywhere for the next two days, if I were you.”

Khalid nodded in reluctant assent. Whatever he would do from that moment on, would be the subject of scrupulous scrutiny. Although he didn’t relish the idea of being watched, being chased by two agencies half-way across the world didn’t agree with him either.

The weather was cool. The Ides of March had come and gone, yet an ominous cloud of unease hung over Mark’s head. He had taken a cab from the airport to a hotel near Capitol Hill and not too far from where Khalid was staying. CSIS had tracked the prince down to Washington D.C. almost at the same time as the call from Muhammad Sadir had come through. Mark’s instructions were simple, nonetheless very risky, as far as he could see. He was to take the lead and let Khalid follow him to their destination—Sydney, Australia. Once Mark would have made contact with Samuel he would step back and let the prince handle the situation. Mark knew His Highness well enough to foresee what could happen. However, his mission was to prevent the killing of either or both parties in this duel. Eventually, Samuel would be sent back to Israel for Mossad to do as they pleased with their ‘defective’ agent, and Khalid would be free to return to Paris via Vancouver if he so chose.

Apparently, and to anyone outside their Washington enclave, the CIA counted on Agent Gilford to demonstrate to Mossad that whatever their intentions were toward either Talya or Khalid, they were not to make any further attempts on their lives without facing serious and far-reaching reprisals. “An eye for an eye” no longer applied here. Whether they would succeed in persuading such begrudging organization as Mossad to leave well alone, was another matter altogether.

The CIA’s ultimate purpose was quite different, however. They wanted Khalid or Agent Gilford to eliminate Samuel. They could not care less whether the prince died in the process or if there were retaliations to follow on the part of Mossad—that would be the Canadians’ problem.

As Khalid came out of the restaurant after breakfast, he bumped into a young man who excused himself and walked quickly out of sight. It was only when he was strolling through the park across from the hotel that he felt something in the side pocket of his jacket. He thought nothing of it for a moment but then stopped and took the item out of its hiding place. A glimpse at the object told him what it was. He resumed his walk nonchalantly while slipping the small booklet in his breast pocket. He returned to the hotel after completing his morning stroll at an easy pace. He knew eyes were on him.

Once in his room, he sat on the bed and took the document out once again. He looked at it, opened it and allowed a smile to light up his face. The American passport bore the name of Dickson, William; Professor. The photograph was one of a man he almost didn’t recognize at first. The fellow had grey hair and light brown eyes. When he flipped the pages, a small note and a drivers’ license fell out. He picked up both from the floor and read the note. He then tore it to pieces and went to flush it down the toilet.

This sort of game didn’t appeal to Khalid. He had to get out now. He packed his carrying case quickly, went down to the lobby and checked out. Once in the street, he hailed a cab and directed the driver to take him to the international airport, departure level.

Inside he bought a one-way ticket to Ottawa at the Air Canada counter. If for some reason he decided this was not the time to go to meet the subject of his revenge, he would have a fallback position, whereby he would return to Ottawa and from there either go back to Paris or make his way to Vancouver. He had no confidence in Sadir’s purpose behind the words. The hissing snake came to mind again. After checking his luggage on the night flight to Ottawa, he ambled from store to store, made a couple of purchases and sat down for a coffee in one of the cafeterias. He then took the escalator down to the arrivals’ level and went out. He took another cab and this time told the driver to take him to the Hyatt. He registered and went up to his room. An hour later, he was ready. He walked out, cell phone in hand.

Down in the reception hall, he sat down, flipped his cell phone open and dialled Muhammad Sadir. Their conversation was short and to the point; Khalid told the CIA man he was on his way Downunder and that he could find his ‘other passport’ in the desk drawer of his room at the Hyatt. As soon as he closed the phone, Khalid got up from the chair, walked to the men’s room and smashed it under his heel before throwing the remains into the rubbish container.

At 4:00PM, a handsomely dressed executive in his 50s climbed out of a cab in front of the American Airlines departure level, paid the driver, and walked to the business-class check-in counter, an overnight bag and laptop case in the one hand and rolling a brown suitcase behind him.

As he stood in line, someone tapped him on the shoulder.

“I thought it was you,” the young man said. Khalid spun on his heels and stared. “How are you, Professor?”

“Oh, fine…,” the gentleman replied, still stunned, but all smiles now. “…I’m sorry…, but I can’t place you... Your name escapes me for the moment, I’m sorry… Age, you see, it plays tricks on me from time to time.”

“It’s Sylvan, Sylvan Esteban. I was in your class last year at the Sorbonne in Paris…”

“Oh, of course, you were quite annoyed with my expose on dissidence… I remember now… yes, of course… How are you?”

The two men shook hands and Sylvan discreetly slipped an envelope into the professor’s hand.

Then, to the older man’s added surprise, Sylvan bid him a good trip and walked away without another word.

Not wanting to attract attention by calling him back, Professor William Dickson turned away and looked into the envelope, took out the tickets and wondered when he would see Sylvan again. He didn’t know that they were on the same flights all the way to Sydney but Sylvan was travelling economy while the professor was in business class to San Francisco and in first for the rest of the trip.