WASHINGTON DC: The Sadir Affair (The Puppets of Washington Book 1) (8 page)

As expected, Samuel neared Melbourne in the early hours of the morning. He didn’t want to go to Millicent’s place just yet. He needed to rest for a few hours before he tackled that problem. If she were still in Melbourne, he would have to get her out of the way. He couldn’t kill her. That would attract too much publicity. Besides, he liked the woman. He had to find another way. As he drove past her building, he saw her car parked by the curb. He went down Caroline Street and his headlights hit a sign “To Let”. Samuel turned onto the avenue alongside the building and stopped. He turned off the headlights, rolled down the window and looked up at the multi-stories apartment block. He nodded. This was a satisfactory location; facing the river, no neighbours for hundreds of yards around and only the Yarra across the main façade. He decided he would catch a few hours’ sleep at the nearest hotel and get back here before noon.

As he turned onto the bridge crossing the river, he noticed how different the city looked since he left. Perhaps, the images he kept in his mind were fading away and being replaced by new ones. His nostalgia of home and of Australia had never left him. When he spent some years in Israel, he felt as if he was
visiting
his ancestors’ homeland, but it never felt like home to him.

He parked in the underground garage of a shopping mall, adjacent to a posh hotel, took the lift to the lobby, and registered for a two-night stay. He paid with an old credit card, bearing yet another name, and made his way to his room. He took his shoes and socks off—Australians love to walk barefoot everywhere—and lay down on the bed. Within minutes, Samuel was asleep.

As soon as they passed through the door into a long hall-type of room, Sorenson went to the desk of the officer nearest to the window. He bent down to the man’s ear and whispered a few words.

The officer got up in a shot saying, “Yes, sir, right away.” He rushed along the row of desks lining the windows that stretched the length of the room and afforded a view of the city bustle two floors below. “Carvey?” he summoned, “Would you mind coming up for a minute? And you too, Delgado, the Chief wants a word with you blokes.”

The two men abandoned what they were doing and strode to the far wall where Mark and Sorenson were waiting. The latter made the introduction and once the officers had shaken hands with Mark, the four men made their way back to the Chief’s office on the third floor.

“They say you’re a big shot in the Canadian Agency,” Carvey said to Mark as they were climbing the stairs.

“Is that a question?” Mark retorted coldly.

“No, not really, Agent Gilford, we were told you’ve had your hands full with a Saudi Prince and his fiancée for a while…”

Mark halted on one of the stairs. “Stop it right there!” he groaned. “If you are going to work with me, we’re not going to talk casually about the subjects of our investigations, past or present, in the open air for everybody to hear. Understood?”

Sorenson and Delgado had also stopped two steps ahead of the men, and looked down at them a smirk on their faces. “You’ve always been a bit of a chatterer haven’t you, Carvey?” Sorenson remarked jocularly. “Just keep your mouth shut for now, will you?”

“Yes, sir.” Carvey resumed his climb beside Mark; his eyes fixed on his feet, and followed the others up the stairs.

Sylvester Carvey was a big fellow.
You wouldn’t want to mess with him
, Mark thought. His big muscles, tapered waist, strong legs and easy gait portrayed a man who was used to workout at the gym on a regular basis. His clean-shaven jaw and closely cropped, brown hair delineated a gentle face. He was not aggressive, just overwhelming. As for Ernesto Delgado, he was the antithesis of his partner. A small, non-descript man, with short, black hair, he was thin and seemed to be light on his feet. He was quick, decisive and sharp-looking. He, too, was clean-shaven but with his Hispanic, olive complexion, he probably had a difficult time keeping the dark stubbles in check.

When they reached Sorenson’s office, the officers and Mark followed him and sat down facing him. He pulled a file out of his desk-drawer, opened it and looked at each man in turn.

“Okay, Agent Gilford, here is what we’ve got on Samuel Meshullam thus far. We know he’s arrived in Sydney seven months ago and since then he’s been living in Manly, on King Avenue to be exact. He’s rented a house on the edge of the reserve…”

“Sorry to interrupt, Chief, but what is a “reserve”?” Mark asked.

The three men looked at the Canadian Agent as if he were a child coming out of elementary school with a bad report card.

“Ah, yes, of course, you’re not used to Strine, are you?” Sorenson said, joining in the chorus of chuckles from Delgado and Carvey.

“What’s
Strine
?” Mark added another to his first query.

Delgado chortled. “That’s the Australian way of saying we talk funny.”

Sorenson shot an admonishing glance at the officer. He seemed always afraid of someone fraying his authority. “All right, a
reserve
is a park, generally small and located amid city built areas.”

“Okay, I’m sorry…, please go on.”

Sorenson nodded. “As I was saying, our Agent Meshullam has been living at No. 2 King Avenue in Manly for the past seven months. We only know this because when Ms Kartz was shot, your Chief Gibson, asked us to track him down. However, we didn’t do anything about the man’s presence here since no crime had been committed on Australian soil and we had no evidence of a crime being committed in Canada either. As far as we were concerned, until we were given different orders, we just kept watch on the bloke.”

Mark started to fidget in the chair. “What about now?”

“We believe he’s still there.”

“When did you receive the extradition order or when were you alerted that things had changed?”

Clearly, Chief Sorenson didn’t like to be questioned. He frowned. “On Friday, why?”

“Do you think he would have gone somewhere else?” Delgado asked.

“Depends... It depends on how quickly Meshullam was notified he was up for grabs,” Mark answered, turning his face to the officer on his right.

“What do you have in mind, Agent Gilford?” Sorenson asked, while the two officers turned to Mark as if waiting for him to impart a small piece of wisdom.

“Sir, I’m sorry, but I thought it was obvious. We know Meshullam is a Mossad agent. It would stand to reason then that he was advised of any move we made the moment we made it. We also know that since you’ve stopped us at the airport and that you’ve been talking to Agent Sadir in the meantime, Mossad has informed Meshullam of our arrival or even the purpose of the Prince’s visit to Australia.”

“Let me see…, Agent Gilford; are you saying Agent Sadir is a double agent?”

Delgado and Carvey switched their gazes in unison from Mark to Sorenson, a mechanical gesture that didn’t escape Mark’s notice.
These two have been together a long time
, he thought.

“Let me answer that with another question. Why would the CIA be interested in the movements of a Mossad agent that’s been dormant for months?”

Sorenson hesitated. “Well, for one thing, Prince Khalid intended to meet Meshullam…”

“You’ve become aware of that fact only because either Sadir or Chief Gibson told you it was the case, right?”

“Hum…, yes, as a matter of fact, it’s Chief Gibson who phoned me and told me that Sadir had met with the prince, and he told me that he was going to…”

“Exactly. Sadir phoned Chief Gibson and between them, they arranged for me to organize the Prince’s escapade. My assignment was to keep Meshullam and the prince alive. We could not stop Prince Khalid or arrest him, so I was to play bodyguard for a while.”

Sorenson looked at Mark intently. “And when the Canadian government realized they were going to be made a scapegoat if the Prince died or if Meshullam was eliminated, they decided to stop the charade before getting in hot water with the CIA. Does that sum it up?” Sorenson needed approbation. The spy game not only didn’t appeal to his sense of correctness but it didn’t fit with his understanding of the way the law should be upheld. No man should have to resort to lying in order to get at the truth.

“No doubt that our agency in Ottawa saw it the same way you do now, Chief.”

“All right, now that we have a handle on the problem, let me hear how you want to resolve it.”

Mark looked at the two agents on either side of him in turn. “First, I’d like to know who my two partners are.”

Delgado shifted in his chair. “What do you want to know?” He crossed his arms over his chest. He was on the defensive. Mark wondered why.

“Not much, really, I’d just like to know if you’ll have my back when things will get ugly.”

“Do you want some sort of reassurance from two decorated officers that they will protect you, is that what you’re asking?” Sorenson didn’t like this line of questioning.

“I guess that’s what I’m asking, yes. Actually, medals and decorations don’t mean a thing to me when it comes to chasing a guy the likes of Meshullam.” Mark turned to Carvey. “How many times have you had the opportunity to use a sniper rifle since you’ve been at MI5?”

Carvey put his elbows on his knees, trying to avoid Mark’s piercing eyes. “Well…, actually, a couple of times on task-force assignments…”

“I see. What about you, Delgado?” The latter looked at Sorenson for help. It didn’t come. The chief’s blank stare was leaving the bloke alone in the middle of the ocean—without a buoy.

“No rifles, just automatics...” Delgado answered ashamedly.

“Okay,” Mark declared, stretching his back against the chair, “I think we’ll go to the rifle range tomorrow…”

“Do you think that’s necessary?” Sorenson ventured.

“Necessary? Necessary?” Mark exploded. “For God’s sakes, Chief, I’m about to face a Mossad assassin and you’re asking me if my back-up needs a refresher course? Come on, guys, let’s be realistic here; or would you want your men to get killed on their first sortie?”

“Calm down, Agent Gilford, we know what you’ll be up against—no doubt—but we could deploy many more than just two men, if that’s what it takes, but right now, what I’d like to know is what you are going to do once we locate Agent Meshullam.”

“IF—and that’s a big
if
—we locate him…”

“Why do you say that? He was observed just last week…”

“What about today? Do you know where he is right at this minute?”

Sorenson looked embarrassed. “We’ve assumed he wouldn’t move…”

Mark got up and slammed both hands on Sorenson’s desk, bending over it to get his face as close as he could to the chief’s without climbing onto it. As Carvey and Delgado were about to pull him off, Sorenson held up a hand and shook his head to let Mark have his say. “I thought I’d made myself perfectly clear, Chief. Meshullam knows I’m in town. He knows me as he would his own mother, and I know him for what he is.” He sat back down. “I can tell you one thing for sure; he’s no longer in King Avenue. He’s probably moved out of there, the minute he knew we took our flight from D.C.”

Sorenson let out a breath. “And where do you think he’s now?”

“Back in his comfort zone…”

“You mean Melbourne?”

“If that’s where he used to live as a kid, yes.”

“All right…, and just for the record, Agent Gilford, you don’t need to shout in this office! I will not tolerate you raising your voice to me again.”

“I’m sorry, Chief, I’m just tired…”

“I can understand that. Why don’t we adjourn until the morning?” Sorenson got a nod from his two officers as they got up from their seats. “Will you accompany Agent Gilford to his hotel?” He got another two nods. “At 0:900 hrs. tomorrow, pick him up and you three go to the range, understood?”

“Yes, Chief.” That’s all the two men said before they walked out with Mark in tow.

Muhammad Sadir didn’t like the way things were going. Gibson’s agency had now alerted the Australians to find Samuel, and both governments had agreed to extradite the man back to Canada as soon as the Aussies would get their hands on him. “No, definitely, things are not turning the way I’d expected,” he said to himself. However, he was not alone in this sinking ship. Thomas Peterson was in it up to his neck as well. Muhammad wondered if he could shift the blame onto him—find a way to shine the limelight onto the guy for a change.

He rapped his fingers against the edge of his desk, a habit he had picked up long ago, and continued to think of what he could do to get out of this messy situation.

These days no one could be trusted; the Americans would think nothing of taking him out of the picture. He was of Saudi Arabian descent and he really couldn’t hide behind a face that told anyone looking at him, that he was Islamic.

He didn’t want to talk to Thomas just yet; the guy was not level-headed enough to plan anything effective that didn’t involve one computer or another. No, he had to do that on his own.

An hour later, Muhammad had made a decision. He poked his head at the door of his office and called his secretary. Linda picked up her tablet, practically jumped from her seat, and followed her boss back into his office.

Muhammad regained his chair behind the desk and the young lady sat opposite him.

“I’d like you to send an email to the Deputy Director, advising him that I’ll be on holidays from tonight until the end of the month.”

She wrote a few words down. She was a gorgeous woman. Looking at her shapely legs, Muhammad wondered when he would ever get a chance to get her in bed with him. Little did he know that Linda’s boyfriend, soon to be husband, a weight-lift champion, would never let him near her.

“And then I’d like you to send this passport”—he pulled Khalid’s travel documents out of the desk drawer and handed the folder to her—“back to the Hotel de Crillon in Paris.”

“Okay,” Linda said, “Do you want it to go on the overnight pouch to the embassy, or shall I send it registered mail to the Crillon?”

“Registered mail will be good enough. The man won’t be back at the hotel for a couple of days yet.”

“Very well, sir.” Linda rose from the chair and took a few steps toward the door.

“Oh, one more thing, Linda, if you don’t mind.”

“Yes?” She only turned her head slightly to look at the obese man. The expression on her face was that of someone who had looked at something disgusting for far too long.

“Book me a flight to Seattle for this evening, would you?”

“Return date?”

“Leave it open. I’ll make my own arrangements from there.”

Walking out, she blurted, “No problem.”

Back at her desk, Linda typed a short email to Dietrich Van Dams, the Deputy Director, marking it ‘urgent’.

The reply came almost immediately.

When Agent Sadir leaves his office, pack his belongings. Have them picked up by our courier and sent to his home. You’ve been re-assigned. We’ll notify you in an hour where you’ll be going next.

A satisfied gleam in his eyes, Muhammad decided it was time to tell Thomas what he had planned. Leaving his office, he nodded in Linda’s direction and told her he was going to lunch.

“See you later,” Linda said, without lifting her eyes from the keyboard.

As soon as she heard the sound of his shuffled steps decrease behind her down the corridor, she got up and went to the storage room a couple of floors below, took two or three cardboard ready-to-pack boxes and climbed the stairs back to Muhammad’s office. She grabbed everything she could find which she knew was his—books, photos, gadgets, etc.—and filled the boxes quickly and left them on his desk. She then unplugged his laptop and took it to her station. She would send it to the forensic department later. A half-an-hour later Muhammad’s office was clean, empty and as soon as the cleaning crew would have done with it, someone else would come and occupy it, but Linda would be gone by that time.

“How you doing?” Sadir asked flippantly when he reached Thomas’s cubicle. The latter raised his eyes from the screen and looked up at his colleague.

“Oh…, just fine. What’s going on?”

“Nothing special. Just wondered if you’d like to have lunch with me.”

That invitation took Thomas by surprise. He knew Muhammad was somewhat of a miser when it came to pay for a drink or even share in an employee’s gift. “Sure... That’d be great. Let me get out of this…,” Thomas said as he closed his computer program.

“Okay, I’ll wait downstairs for you.”

“Sure…, I’ll be down in a minute,” Thomas replied distractedly.

Thomas Peterson was the typical ‘Nerd’ or ‘Geek’. Of medium height, weight, stature and mild manners, his only distinguishing feature was perhaps his spiky, short hair and colourful clothes. A garish vest over a flowery shirt, green pants and sneakers, seemed to be the only pieces his wardrobe contained, in a variety of shades and patterns. He was a highly qualified technical analyst. If you were looking for something or someone anywhere in the world, he would find it. Among his successes, he counted numerous arrests due to his astute tracking of the perpetrators. Without leaving his station, Thomas was able to follow anyone’s movement any time of the day or night, a quality or talent that got him involved with Muhammad’s
other business
and with Mossad’s infiltration of the CIA. Deep down, Thomas was not a spy, he was not cut out to be anything else than a technical advisor, and he would rather never have been involved with any of Muhammad’s shenanigans, if it had not been for his interest in tracking down Mossad’s movements.

As he was about to leave, he saw something that attracted his attention on one of the side screen, a message from Prince Abdullah to his nephew. He had been tracking Khalid’s computer relays through his email service provider.

Thomas sat down at his desk again. He read the last three lines with a smile on his face.

How is she progressing? If you do see her, please give her my regards and my best wishes for her recovery. What she suffered is my fault.

Your uncle, Abdullah Saif Al-Fadir.

Thomas decided to keep this bit of intel for himself. Fuelling Muhammad’s tank of mischief was not a good idea. Thomas knew he had been too close to this affair, without alerting his supervisor, and he wanted to curb his involvement, or turn this thing around while there was still time to do so. On second thought, he decided to tell someone right now. Muhammad could wait.

“Hey…, Camy... Do you mind having a look at this?” Thomas called out to his supervisor, standing up and beckoning to Cameron Sheffield two cubicles down from his.

“Hold on…, I’ll be right there,” Cameron replied, saving whatever work he had on his screen. “What’s up?” He came to stand behind Thomas’s chair.

“This... Have a read...” Cameron did.

“Have you told anyone else yet?”

Thomas shook his head. “No. I thought you might be interested.”

“Okay. Let’s keep tracking the prince, I mean Khalid, and... Are you going somewhere?” Cameron asked, noticing that Thomas had his jacket on.”

“Yeah, Sadir’s invited me for lunch. He’s waiting downstairs…”

“Oh he did, did he? Well, sorry to have to tell you this, D., but our Muhammad is
off the board
as of ten minutes ago.”

“What do you mean?” Thomas’s sudden anxiety appeared in the beady eyes hidden in the reflection of his heavily rimmed glasses. “Is he going on holidays…?” He was hoping that’s all there was behind this strange announcement.

“You could say that. Actually, he is, but it will be an extended one. We’ll make sure of it. So, I think it’ll be better for you to quit the game with him right now, if you know what’s good for you.”

Looking up at Cameron, Thomas felt the blood drain from his face. He felt sick to his stomach. Had he gone too far?

“But don’t you worry your big head about it. What you’ve done will be very useful to us in the long run.”

Beads of sweat pearled above Thomas’s brow. “Do you want everything I got on Mossad then?” There was no need to beat about the bush; Cameron obviously knew what he had been doing.

“Sure, and everything you’ve got on Muhammad’s latest communications with anyone, and I mean anyone.”

“Yes, sir!”

“Okay... and I think I’ll have lunch with our vacationing fellow now. And you stay put, okay?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you!”

“You’ll owe me…,” Cameron said, walking away.

Thomas felt relieved. Camy had allowed him to get back into the team, a team he should never have left. As he turned to the tracking screen once again and took off his jacket, he let out a sigh of contentment. He wiped his face with a tissue he pulled out of the box on his desk, and with another, he wiped his glasses before putting them back across the bridge of his nose.
There’s no place like home,
he thought.