WASHINGTON D.C.

******The Sadir Affair**

The Puppets of Washington Series Book 1

LAVINA

GIAMUSSO

Blue Shelf Bookstore

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Washington, D.C. – _The Sadir Affair_

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The localities, including Sabodala, landmarks and government organizations mentioned or described in this book do exist. The characters and events are fictional. Their resemblance to actual events or people, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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I would take flight in the morning air,

With my memories of better days,

With sighs of hopes in every breath,

Clearing the ground of desperation,

I would soar above the grey skies of sadness

Into the arms of the love, I once embraced then lost.

#

# PART 1: Resentment

## Chapter 1

Her once vibrant, blonde curls lay flaccid around her head like a scarf of despair. Her once lovely face was now the portrait of the all-consuming pain she had endured for the past several months. Looking at the North Shore Mountains from the terrace of her apartment, Talya Kartz was lost in thought, almost absent. She was revisiting the places of her youth; the places where she had found solace amid the tiresome memories of days filled with anger and regret. She spared some thoughts for the man responsible for her misery, a man she had loved, a man who had become an assassin. He could have killed her, but he didn't. _Why?_ had been the question that had superseded every other since the shooting. She couldn't get him out of her mind. She loathed the sight of him now. Yet, she wanted to see him again. She wanted to unreel her vengeful torment upon him. The rage she felt was oddly intertwined with the memory of the times they'd spent together—the beaches, the sunshine...

The winter had dragged on forever and she was happy to be outside without a coat or a blanket wrapped around her legs. Confined to a wheelchair, her main pleasure appeared centred on being alone outside. Unable to get out of bed at night, she would roll herself onto the carpet in the early hours of the morning to drag her body to the terrace door. The nurse would find her on the floor, staring at the ocean or asleep, her head leaning against the windowpane.

Her apartment had become her cage. She had concentrated mainly on learning to move about without the use of her legs as much as was possible. Ultimately, she had given up on the idea and got used to her wheelchair, although she still preferred sitting on the ground when she was alone. It was as if the floor or the barren ground gave her a sense of vitality, absorbing her pain and restoring her will to live.

"I'm home! What's for dinner?" Aziz erupted jokingly, as he came through the door late that evening. Hearing no response, he rushed to the terrace. There, Talya was again; sitting on the ground, her back against the stone wall, watching the ocean. "What are you doing here? I thought you had gone out. Come on, let's get you inside. It's getting cold."

Talya looked up at him but didn't reply.

"Come on, Milady, I've got your favourite pizza for dinner..."

Returning her gaze to the ocean, "Is swimming good for me?" Talya asked.

"I'd say so. It's a muscle stimulant, but you know that. They've put you in the pool at the hospital many times."

"Yeah, but that's not the same as really swimming, is it?"

"No, it isn't. I'm sure by the summer; you'll be able to go swimming."

"Can we go now?"

"Now? I don't think so. You need to get a little stronger before you venture in open waters, maty. Remember your legs won't help you anymore."

"I know, I know, but I thought we could go to Second Beach in the kiddies pool. I just want the feel of the water around my body. Can you understand what I'm saying, Aziz?"

Talya extended her left arm, grabbed the cushion of the wheelchair, lugged herself to where she could hold onto the armrest, and heaved her body into the seat. Beads of sweat pearled on her forehead while Aziz turned her hips into the chair.

"I need to be somewhere where having legs doesn't matter. Somewhere I could move without having to manoeuvre a stupid wheelchair and somewhere no one needs to help me lie down, get up, or roll around."

"Okay, let's plan something for next weekend, okay?" Aziz suggested.

One of her rare smiles appeared on her face. Aziz could have lifted her to the sky for one of those smiles. He waited every hour of every day now to see a smidgen of pleasure light up her face.

"What kind of pizza did you get?" Talya asked, wheeling herself to the kitchen.

"Mushroom and cheese, and I bought a tin of anchovies."

Talya looked up at him in surprise. She loved anchovies but he hated them.

"I know, I know, I don't like them, but I thought I could put some on half of the pizza and I'll eat the other half..."

"You didn't have to do that! I love pizza anyway." She shrugged and turned her chair around. "Whatever..."

The smile had disappeared. The joy or the promise of better times had dissipated once again. Aziz shook his head and watched her roll her chair back in the direction of the terrace.

Aziz was reaching a point where he did not know what to do to please her anymore. Yet nothing displeased her; the neutrality, the idleness, the irresponsiveness, the inertia were the most unnerving to him.

Strictly speaking, Talya was not Dr. Aziz Hendrix's patient. She had been his lover, friend and companion for some three years. He had seen her reduced to a mangled and frail invalid, literally shrivelling in size, while her mind focused only on mastering the art of indifference.

Talya used to be a fighter. She used to battle her way through life, but this battle she was not fighting it. The surgeons, physiotherapists, nurses, and medication were fighting it for her. If her treating psychologist had asked him if Talya was suicidal, Aziz would have said no. To him, she had no desire to kill herself, but would she eat or drink if no one was there to feed her? He didn't think so. Now that she was able to go out, drive her 'racing wheels'—the nickname she had given to her motorized chair—to the shops and stores, or even take a bus, Aziz had yet to see her pass through the front door of her apartment of her own accord. It was as if she had decided to shut the world out.

After dinner, Aziz went home as usual, once he had put Talya to bed. The nurse would be there in the morning to take care of her for a few hours and leave her after lunch. He would come back at night. That routine had been going on for months, and Aziz was getting tired of it. As much as he loved Talya, he didn't think he could continue looking after her now that she was well on her way to becoming independent — if she wanted to be.

## Chapter 2

Captain Khalid Sahab, as friends and acquaintances knew him, was an inveterate pilot. He had lived at the _Hotel de Crillon_ on the Place de la Concorde since his father died many years ago. Although not flaunting his noble background at anyone's face, Khalid was an Arab fellow who enjoyed the Parisian life and the luxury that came with his blue blood ancestry. Not a pretentious man by any means, Khalid had an acute sense of his fellow human beings. He was intelligent, well educated—in England—and he displayed a deep-seated wisdom. Tall and handsome, he was not flirtatious or even interested in befriending the opposite sex. Originally raised as a Touareg, his beliefs led him to maintain his distances from women. His greying hair at the temples revealed his age and when people saw him in the company of his daughter, Aisha, they somehow gathered that he was serious about his family ties and beyond the age of chasing the alluring Parisian skirts.

He had been thrown in the midst of an international affair two years ago, which had almost ruined him financially and had left him emotionally scarred. He had met Talya at a time she was herself in deep trouble. Together they evaded their enemies and thwarted or even foiled the operations of a drug lord in France while uncovering an arms' trafficking ring spanning three continents.

He deplored Talya's injuries. He knew that, ultimately, she had blamed him for what happened. She had been shot, and his absence at the time had made it all the worst for him and for her. He had left her to her own device in Miami and he knew the move had ignited a pursuit by a Mossad agent that ended up in disaster.

He had not heard from Talya in many months. He'd phoned James Flaubert, her boss and founder of Carmine Resources, on many occasions. James had told him she wanted to see no one and she lived a secluded life now.

Khalid was again reminiscing of the happy times he had spent with Talya when the phone on his desk rang and startled him back to the present.

"Yes, Marie, what is it?" Khalid answered tersely.

"A Dr. Hendrix is on the line for you, _Capitaine_. Shall I put him through?" the woman replied quietly.

"Yes, Marie, please."

"Khalid?" Aziz asked as soon as he heard the phone being picked up.

"Yes, Aziz. How can I help you?"

"No, not me, Khalid—you'll never be able to help me—it's Talya who needs your help."

Paying no heed to Aziz's comments, "How is she?" Khalid asked.

"Physically, as well as can be expected, but psychologically, she is irresponsive."

"What do you mean with 'irresponsive'?"

"I guess you've lost your perspicacity while ignoring your friends..."

Khalid was reaching the point of annoyance very quickly. Aziz had put him on the defensive. "All right, and what do you want me to do about it? She wouldn't even pickup the phone when I tried calling her. She does not want to see me—you know that!"

"She might not pickup the phone, but if she knows you're at her doorsteps, she'll see you. I'm sure of it."

"What makes you think so?"

"Khalid, don't play games with me. I know you're still in love with her and if anyone can get her out of that bubble of hers, it's you."

"Listen to me, Aziz. Let's say I get her out of her torpor and she finally starts living a normal life again; what would happen if she decides to come back to Paris with me? Because that's a possibility. Have you thought of it?"

"I would prefer seeing her going to Paris with you for ever—if that's what she wants—than seeing her the way she is now."

"All right. Let me make some arrangements and I'll contact you with an arrival date."

"Thank you, Khalid."

"I hope that was as sincere as your plea on her behalf was," Khalid said.

"Yes, it was. Yet, I would like to hear the story from your lips one day."

"By all means, Aziz, you should."

When Khalid hung up, he was thrilled. Not only because he was going to see Talya again, but because he was finally going to be able to open the book that had been closed too soon in his opinion.

## Chapter 3

Sabrina the receptionist announced that Khalid was on the line.

"Good morning, James," Khalid replied to James's quick and frosty greeting.

"Good of you to call again," the president of Carmine Resources replied stretching his lanky frame to the back of the chair.

"I am not going to ask you to give me the latest report on Talya's recovery. I know you're tired of giving me the same answer." That was true; James no longer knew how to tell Khalid that Talya didn't want any visitor or that she seemed to be retreating into a solitary world. "The reason for my call is simply to inform you that I should be in Vancouver the day after tomorrow."

James passed his fingers through his wavy, grey hair. "Should I be concerned...?"

"No, not at all. Dr Hendrix is the one who called me and asked for my assistance."

"To do what?" James asked.

"He thinks I could help Talya in getting her out of her self-imposed seclusion."

"It's not only seclusion, Khalid, that's ailing Talya. You must realize it's much more than that."

"Yes, I do realize it, and this is perhaps why I want to see for myself what can be done about it, if anything."

"Are you a psychiatrist now?" The obvious scoff had its roots in James knowing that Khalid was a good judge of character. He had seen him handle Talya's difficult traits on many occasions, but this was different; Talya was drowning into some sort of lethargy, from which she didn't want to come out.

Khalid chuckled. "No, James, I couldn't begin to pretend to have such knowledge of the human mind, yet and maybe, I could look into the reason for Talya's wilful retreat."

"Okay, if you think your presence will make a difference, I'm all for it, of course. Do you want me to tell her you're coming?"

"No!" The word resounded over the line loud and clear. The firmness in Khalid's voice took James aback. "I'm sorry, James, but I don't want her to know that I come to her aid. She would not react well."

"Very well then, when should I expect you? And where will you be staying?"

"I should be at your office on Wednesday and I have made reservations at the Sands for now."

"Wouldn't you prefer staying at the 4 Seasons...?"

"No, not this time. I need to be in walking distance of her apartment."

"Quite. I understand."

Replacing the receiver, James thought of the first time Khalid came to Vancouver; it was again when Talya needed someone to help her—out of a depression.

## Chapter 4

Samuel Meshullam was a man of means. He lived comfortably, had money to spare although no one had ever heard him talk about his job—if he held one, no one knew. He lived in a house at the edge of the ocean and abutting a 'reserve' or park in Manly, a suburb of Sydney, Australia. His dark hair and sharp facial features, partially hidden under a shadowy beard, told of the man's strength of character. His eyes darted at the smallest noise. He seemed to be on the alert all the time. His neighbours had tried to befriend him when he first moved to the area, but he'd soon distanced himself from everyone. By all accounts, the man didn't like company. He often walked across the park, crossed the little bridge and made his way to a secluded beach bordering yet another reserve. He was used to walking traveling long distances and preferred traveling on foot to using any mode of transport, even though he owned a sports car, which he used mostly to travel to Melbourne or other towns north or south of the city.

Although no one had ever seen him go to work, Samuel had an occupation, which paid him very well. He was a consultant; a man that you hired when you needed a job done — and done well. His kind of consulting was not in high demand, but one contract could see him living in the lap of luxury for years. Besides, Samuel had no parents or family to encumber his life with questions or queries as to his means of living or even lifestyle. Perhaps, the only characteristic that could distinguish Samuel from many other fellows was that he had been trained and was now in Mossad's employ: the Israeli equivalent of the American CIA.

The reason he was currently living in Sydney or in Australia for that matter, apart from the fact that he had been born and raised in Melbourne, was that he was now in hiding and would remain so until 'further orders'.

His last job had seen him shooting a woman in Vancouver. He was already back in Sydney when he'd learned that his target had nearly died from his bullet, which was exactly what had been required of him. He had been assigned to 'slow the woman down' but not to kill her. Like him, Talya Kartz was Jewish, and killing a Jewess would not only have weighed heavily on his conscience, but would have put him in God's bad books—if there were such a thing.

Of course, the police and various intelligence agencies on two continents had been on his tail since the incident, which had occurred seven months ago, to no avail. Not only was Samuel a master of disguise, but Mossad had always covered his tracks very well. As a result, he was now free to roam as he pleased in a country he loved.

The fall months in Australia were now upon the countryside and the accompanying tranquillity of autumn seemed to appease Samuel's keenness.

Sitting on a towel at the water's edge, he thought of Talya. They had been friends once. And lovers. She had a head of white-blond, curly hair, deep blue eyes and a smile that had shaken him to the core. He had really enjoyed looking at her or being with her again when they had traveled together for a couple of hours in the States. From the time she lived in Australia, he remembered her spunk, her kindness and her determination. That last trait of character had landed her in a wheelchair now, he was sure, and for that, Samuel was sorry, deeply repentant in fact. He had never allowed the emotions that his job would arise in him to deter him from accomplishing his various assignments or to cloud his judgement. Yet, on this occasion, Talya's beauty and inner strength had touched him in ways he could not even comprehend.

He looked at the waves rolling gently onto the beach for a few more minutes before getting up, making his way into the water and diving into the ocean. He swam to a rocky ledge nearby and heaved himself onto it. He recalled Talya loved to swim, and he would have enjoyed having her at his side at that very moment.

## Chapter 5

Alerted of Khalid's latest travel plans, Pierre Masson, the pilot, and John Viblickovitzian, the navigator, were waiting for the prince to board his Lear jet.

"Good morning, gentlemen," Khalid said, poking his head at the cockpit's door.

"Good morning, Khalid," the two men replied in unison.

Pilot and navigator were a team. They had been in Khalid's employ since he bought the Lear—correction—since his uncle had bought the aircraft for him. "Talk about a rich uncle" had been Talya's first comment when Khalid had told her of uncle Abdullah Saif Al-Fadir's gift. Khalid would never forget her reaction that evening.

He smiled at the two men at the controls and nodded. "Let's get her off the ground then," Khalid said, closing the cockpit's door and going to sit down in one of the six seats that furnished the comfortable cabin.

He knew this journey would take about six hours' flying-time before they would land in Ottawa. Khalid had arranged to meet with Fred Gibson at the Canadian Security Intelligence Service before flying to Vancouver. He wanted to get an update on Mossad's movements since Talya's _accident_. However, Fred Gibson had probably closed the file on what they had called 'The Ben Slimane Affair', and had resumed their normal course of business—if 'normal' could ever describe the running of an intelligence agency. The year before, Talya had stumbled onto this hornets' nest, which consisted in the exchange of drugs for weapons; weapons that had ended in the hands of Israelis in Gaza. The head of this government-sanctioned operation had been none other than a CIA undercover agent, and alleged traitor, by the name of Ben Slimane. Shortly before Talya being shot, Slimane's death had seen the end of this sordid business.

The Lear needed to make a refueling stop somewhere between Paris and Vancouver, and Ottawa seemed to be the best place to do that—less air traffic and quicker service.

## Chapter 6

Sitting at the table of the conference room, Fred Gibson and Namlah Badawee, his legal advisor in international law, were waiting for Khalid's arrival. Fred was a down-to-earth man. Of Afro-American descent, the pleated lines of his face, large, black eyes and burly stature would remind anyone looking at him of Louis Armstrong. He was not the most astute or clever of men, but he surrounded himself with the best agents in the land. His strength of character and inner wilfulness had seen him climb the rungs of the intelligence agency's ladder at a steady and unrelenting pace. Through his fatherly, yet firm attitude, he had gained the respect of his peers both in Canada and abroad. Although no longer a young man, he could run the best off the race.

As for Namlah Badawee, a name meaning 'nomad ant' in Arabic, he was an unassuming fellow. His value to the agency resided in his knowledge of international law. He was the one who had put Fred on the scent of Ben Slimane's treason while the latter was working for the CIA.

Escorted by Fred's secretary, Khalid strode into the conference room, and faced the two men who stood up as he entered.

"Welcome to Canada once again, Your Highness," Fred said, extending a hand for Khalid to shake. "I would have hoped this meeting to be held under better circumstances; nevertheless, it is still a pleasure to seeing you again."

Shaking Fred's hand, Khalid replied, "Thank you, sir," looking at each man in turn.

Namlah had not pronounced a word yet. " _Sabahol-khayer_ , (good morning) Mr. Badawee," Khalid added in Arabic.

" _Ahlan wa sahlan_ (welcome), Prince Khalid," Namlah uttered visibly preoccupied, which attitude puzzled the prince.

They sat down. Khalid reclined in the chair and crossed his legs. "As I said on the phone, Mr. Gibson, the reason for my visit is simple; I would like to know if there has been any recent development in Mossad's activities of which you would be aware, of course."

Fred stretched his forearms over the table and continued fiddling with his pen. "We have closed the file on this affair, as you know, Your Highness. Officially, Ms Kartz's shooting tied our hands and the government didn't see the need to take the case further, since it could have led to an international incident, not only with our neighbor but with Israel, which no one wanted."

"Yes, I expected such an answer, Mr. Gibson. Yet, I am sure that unofficially you have kept an eye on their movements, am I right?"

Looking slightly uncomfortable, Namlah nodded to Fred before he said, "You are quite right, sir. We have been aware of certain parties resuming their activities in the CIA. Our sources have informed us that the exchange of drugs for armaments in South America, in particular..."

_They are skirting the issue_ , Khalid thought.

"What about Mossad?" Khalid cut in. "Do you know of anyone picking up where Slimane left off?"

Again, the chief and his lawyer exchanged conspiratorial glances. "No, not exactly," Fred said. Khalid unfolded his legs, slid the chair closer to the table and put his elbows and forearms on it. "We have not been able to trace anyone infiltrating the CIA since last fall, but we have received reports from Australia, that a man corresponding to Isaac Whittlestein's description is now living in a suburb of Sydney under another name. As you know he's the only link we could establish between Ben Slimane and Mossad."

"I am glad to hear that you have followed my suggestion to trace the man in Australia." Khalid smiled with satisfaction. "And what is the man doing now? If you know..."

"Nothing, Your Highness," Namlah replied.

"I see. He's dormant then? But I should think this hibernation will only last for a while longer."

Fred nodded. "My thoughts exactly, Your Highness."

Embarrassed, Namlah lowered his head. He raised it to say, "You see, sir, it is my opinion that Mossad is waiting for _you_ to make a move."

That statement took Khalid by surprise. "Me? Could you explain how you came to that conclusion, Mr. Badawee?"

"By all means. Mossad, as we know, is Israel's eyes and ears. They are looking for an excuse to spark an incident that would reignite ill feelings between Saudi Arabia and its allies. The Middle East has an infected wound at Gaza. Since Hamas took control of the strip, the area is a disaster waiting to happen. In my opinion, should the conflict worsen, Geneva would need to take a firm stand and enforced a cease-fire between Palestinians and Israeli forces."

"I understand. But how do I fit into this?"

"Mossad would love nothing more than for you to rekindle your relationship with Ms Kartz, thereby demonstrating your affinity or your ties with Israel. This, in turn, would show that Saudi Arabia is befriending an enemy of Islam and would engender an array of questions on the part of its neighbours."

Khalid had listened to these warning words with sadness in his heart. The only thing he wanted to do at present was to help the woman he loved. His birthright or his faith, or even the political backdrop that had been part of his existence to date, were only asides, hurdles in his pursuit of happiness. Mossad had indeed an ace up their sleeve. They had been playing with Talya's life, hoping he, Khalid Saif Al-Fadir, would join her once again. They wanted to use them for political reasons; reasons that could result in international tension, not to say war in the Middle East.

Khalid knew that his staying away from Vancouver had been the right decision initially. However, now Talya needed him. She had not called for him to help her, yet he knew he could get her on her feet, so to speak, and get her back to working and enjoying life again.

"I appreciate your frankness, gentlemen. My family owes you a great deal for your foresight, Mr. Badawee. Nevertheless, I feel an obligation toward the woman whose deliberate pursuit for justice has resulted in her being chased like an animal and ultimately being shot. At this point, I don't know what my decision will be. According to your conclusions, if I were to show myself on Ms Kartz's doorsteps, it would demonstrate to the Middle East community that my family is entertaining some sort of relations with Israel, thereby reigniting resentments on the part of my country's allies."

"Yes, that sums it up pretty well," Fred agreed with emphasis. "But this is only a conclusion that we have drawn from keeping an eye on the situation in and around Gaza. Your family has not taken a stand in this conflict. It has stayed impartial and unwilling to take sides, which is totally in character, actually. Yet, we would be remiss in our relations with you and the Saudi royal family if we did not advise you of the possible consequences a visit with Ms Kartz would have, should you choose to go to Vancouver."

A short time later, the official car took Khalid to his hotel where he had reserved rooms for himself, Pierre and John. They had arranged to meet for dinner at the restaurant, but as Khalid closed the door of his suite, he didn't feel like dinner or keeping company to his pilot and navigator. He felt oppressed and despondent. In the past, his movements or decisions had borne no consequence for anyone other than himself, but this time, the wrong decision would have had an inevitable impact on Saudi Arabia's political status in the Middle East. Short of disowning him or endangering the life of his daughter, while perhaps using her as a bargaining chip, his distant uncles would see to Khalid abiding the rules imposed on him long ago, whether he remained in exile or not. He would have to steer clear of Talya and have no contact with her in future.

If he didn't go to her, he would not be able to abide idle her downward spiral to self-destruction— because that was exactly what she was doing. She saw no reason to live. Talya had lost everything once, and now she was losing her very soul.

Rather than unpacking his bags, Khalid carried them out of the suite, went down the elevators, walked through the lobby and came to stand in front of the clerk at the registration desk.

"I'll be checking out now. Would you prepare my bill and have a taxi wait for me out front?"

"Certainly, sir. Any problems with the service?" the young lady asked. She was surprised. It was unusual for a guest to check out before he even used the room.

"Nothing. My schedule has changed, nothing more."

While the clerk prepared his bill, Khalid walked to a corner of the foyer, took his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed the hotel number. The operator put him through Pierre's room.

"Pierre?"

"Khalid? Are you downstairs already...?"

"No. Just listen. I want you and John to take the Lear back to Paris in the morning. I'll contact you tomorrow or when I want you to know where I am."

"Okay, Khalid, but why?"

"No time for explanation, Pierre. Have a good flight."

With these words, Khalid hung up, went back to the desk, paid his bill and made his way out of the hotel and into the waiting cab.

## Chapter 7

Given that he had not heard a word from Khalid since he had called on Monday, on the Wednesday afternoon James decided to check with the Sands to see if the man had checked in. To his surprise, he was told the guest and his two friends had cancelled their hotel reservations the night before. James put the phone down and sat there looking at it for a minute before picking up the receiver again. This time he dialed Aziz's clinic. The doctor's response was short but worrisome: he had not heard from Khalid in the past 48 hours either.

James's next call was to Fred Gibson.

"Mr. Gibson, how are you, sir?"

"Fine, Mr. Flaubert. What can I do for you?" Fred was non-committal; he sensed this was not a courtesy call.

"I won't interrupt your day with long explanations. I'd just like to know if you've seen Khalid lately."

"Yes. He was in Ottawa for a meeting yesterday. Why?"

"Do you know if he planned to make it to Vancouver afterward?"

Fred didn't want to or couldn't elaborate on the answer to that question. He hesitated. "Well..., yes, he was planning to visit Vancouver. Hasn't he shown up already?"

"No, he hasn't. He was due in this morning but it's now three o'clock and the hotel told me that he cancelled his reservations. Should I be worried? Or have you said something to him that made him change his plans?"

"I may have made a suggestion to that effect..., yes," Fred admitted, feeling relieved that Khalid had apparently returned to Paris.

"Could you tell me why then, he has not contacted us to let us know what he was doing?"

"I don't know, but from what you've just said, I think I should find out. This sounds unusual and we need to keep tab on the man in any case..."

"Why's that?"

"Precautions, Mr. Flaubert, nothing more. Let's not forget he's royalty and we have a duty to see to the well-being of such visitors. Besides, any surveillance measure on a Muslim fellow is designed to protect him. You never know what could happen to him these days."

James had to admit that since nine-eleven Muslims in general were not welcomed with open arms in North America.

After he hung up, Fred asked his secretary to get Agent Gilford on the line.

Mark Gilford was relaxing on the terrace of his apartment in Ottawa when he heard his cell phone ring on the table beside him. He looked at the screen and swore under his breath. Fred calling him was never a good sign.

"Yes?" Mark was purposely curt.

This young man had a talent for divorcing himself from emotions that could interfere with his job — a job he did well. Besides being an intelligence agent, a spy, to put it simply, he was a skillful sniper and an assassin.

Fred knew Mark very well and didn't need to give long explanations or reasons for calling on him. "Would you mind getting yourself prepared for a surveillance detail?"

"Who?"

"Khalid."

Mark moved the phone away from his ear and looked at it for a second. He wasn't sure he had heard the name correctly. "Did you say Khalid?" He pressed the speaker digit.

"Yes, the very same. He was in town yesterday and after our meeting he checked out of his hotel and... well..., he simply vanished."

"And what was he doing here? Or should I ask?"

"We'll talk about that when you get here."

Hanging up, a puzzled look on his face, Mark went to the kitchen and opened a cupboard. The back of it resealed a safe in which he kept several weapons of choice. He took the smallest one, placed a cartridge of ammunition in the grip and inserted it in its ankle holster, which he tied mid-calf. He locked the safe and closed the cupboard. Walking down the hall to his bedroom, he swore aloud this time. "...What the hell is going on? Why doesn't he stay away?" he grumbled, while he changed into a suit and tie. His wardrobe contained nothing but the best apparels. To look at him—in his late twenties, blond curls and blue eyes—one would have never guess that Mark Gilford was a dedicated killer.

## Chapter 8

If one were reading a brochure describing Bowen Island off the Vancouver coast, it would tell this small blob on the map was a mere twenty minutes away from the port of Horseshoe Bay, and its craggy landscape only allowed for a few clustered houses to be built along the shores or in the more accessible meadows. Main Street ran from the ferry's dock up the hill to a crossroad, where one of the _streets_ would take the tourists to a park descending gently toward the marina. Many beaches skirted the pine-covered hillsides, nestled in delightful coves at the end of the few roads crisscrossing the island. Typical of the chain of isles populating Howe Sound, Bowen Island was one of the favourite hideouts for the rich-and-famous who wanted to escape the hassles of the city.

Aziz knew Talya had spent many a weekend on Bowen Island during the first summer she had returned from a lengthy stay in Australia. She and he had spent their vacations there, before the troubles started and before Talya had become the pawn in a deadly chess game of intrigue.

He wanted to take her away, not to Second Beach, but to Bowen Island.

In his mid-thirties, Aziz was an earnest soul. He was devoted to the well-being of his numerous patients and anxious to make their lives easier as much as possible. His father had passed away when he was in high school, leaving him and his mother with enough to live a comfortable life and for Aziz to go to med school. He was a good-looking man; he had inherited his mother's dark, wavy hair and his father's hazel eyes and chiselled face. Standing tall at nearly six-foot, beside Talya, walking down the street, they would turn heads. They always felt comfortable in each other's company. Like socks and shoes, they fitted well together.

That night, when he passed the threshold of Talya's apartment, Aziz felt disappointed, not to say frustrated. Khalid, once again, had not shown up. His resentment toward the man had grown now into utter disgust. He had _abandoned_ her in Miami, which unaccountable move had provoked a series of incidents that had seen Talya knife a man and the FBI chase her across the States. As far as Aziz was concerned, Khalid was a typical Arab, in only for money, women and grandstanding appearances when the chips were down. Granted, he had saved Talya's life on several occasions, but since his unexpected disappearance from Cayenne — where he had evaded yet another of Slimane's devious schemes — and his admission that he knew of his uncle's involvement in a drug and arms' trade in the Middle East, Aziz no longer trusted the man.

Talya was sitting at her desk. She had not neared that corner of the apartment in weeks.

Aziz couldn't contain his amazement and joy at seeing her in front of her computer, typing away. "Hello, milady," Aziz said, kissing the top of her head.

She only acknowledged his presence with a mumbled, "Hi!" which told Aziz to retreat. If Talya was concentrating on her writing, she allowed no one to disturb her. Yet, before making his way to the kitchen to prepare their evening meal, he looked quickly at the screen. What he read sent him down a stream of recollections, which he didn't want to visit. Talya was recounting the events that ultimately landed her in that wheelchair.

Maybe she needed the release. Maybe she would find solace in pouring her memories onto the pages of a book. Maybe distancing herself from the experiences, by describing them and reliving them through a fictional character, would get her back to the present and move her out of her lethargic state. And maybe... there wouldn't be any need for Khalid to intervene, which thought delighted Aziz no end.

Opening the fridge, Aziz's reaction was one of wonder. There were fruits, vegetables galore, yoghurt, flax bread, a bottle of orange juice, and other items that he knew the nurse would not buy. She was there every morning only to bathe Talya, administer the daily meds, dress her and take her out for a half an hour. They would fetch Talya's racing wheels from the garage, and take a stroll along the beach promenade; that would be all. The nurse was not to go grocery shopping with or without her charge. She would prepare lunch for Talya and if some things were missing from the cupboard, she'd leave a note for Aziz to purchase them.

Taking some fruit out of the fridge, Aziz walked back to Talya's desk and deposited it under her nose. "What's this?" He grinned, as Talya lifted her gaze to him.

"I'd say this is an orange and this looks like a banana." A veil of joy had draped over her face. "I could give you a more accurate or detailed description of each if you like."

"But where did they come from...? That's what I'd like to know."

Giggling and even laughing, Talya shook her head. "From a tree and from a plant..."

"I don't believe it!"

"What? I tell you that's where these two came from..."

"Stop it, Talya! Did you go shopping?"

"Yes, I did, my dear Aziz, and I must say, it's much easier now than before. I don't have to carry the grocery bags anymore."

Aziz was still incredulous. He couldn't believe the change that had occurred in the last 24 hours. Talya must have been coaxed into returning to normality. He couldn't believe that such a drastic, yet most welcomed transformation had taken place without someone's intervention.

"Did Khalid call you?" Aziz hazarded to ask.

"How could he? And why would he? The phone plug is still off the wall."

His butt resting against the desk, his arms crossed over his chest, Aziz looked at the opposite wall. "So it is..., but something must have happened between last night and today. You are different. Did someone come for a visit or something?"

"Well, yes, something did happen..."

"What?" Aziz blurted, suddenly worried. For an instant, he thought Khalid had gotten in touch with her somehow and 'ordered' her to get ready for his arrival, telling her he wanted to see her the way he remembered her. Such an imposition would have had the desired effect, knowing Talya. In the past, she would have done almost anything to please him.

"I asked you to turn on the TV in the room before you left last night, remember?" Talya asked.

"Yes..., so?"

"Well, since I couldn't sleep, I watched a program where a woman in a wheelchair was abusing her husband..."

"Doing what?"

Talya glared at him. She didn't appreciate the interruption. "He was responsible for putting her in that wheelchair and she was taking revenge on him by abusing of his kindness. She literally transformed him into her servant. I didn't want that to happen to us, Aziz. You've been a model of kindness and generosity since I came out of the hospital and I could not see the two of us living a life of resentment. That's when I decided to use my racing wheels this afternoon after the nurse left and get some groceries for the fridge."

Aziz was all smiles now, the smile turning quickly into uncontrollable laughter. He bent down to her and kissed her feverishly. Talya, for the first time since her accident, didn't push him back. On the contrary, she responded excitedly and had to take a breath when their lips finally parted.

She looked up at him. Tears glazed his eyes. He was overwhelmed with emotion.

Then, taking a deep breath, Aziz ventured a proposal, "How about we go to Bowen Island this weekend?"

"Yes! Yes, yes... _Please!_ " Talya screamed with delight.

## Chapter 9

Outwardly relaxed, Mark was sitting opposite Fred in his office. The agency's chief had briefly explained the reasons for Khalid's visit and the conclusions they had drawn during the meeting.

"So, you've warned him that if he paid a visit to Talya, it would create trouble for his family, is that it?" Mark asked.

"Yes... The visit itself would be innocuous," Fred replied, "but we believe that Mossad would use it to demonstrate to the Palestinians that Israel has a powerful ally, which in turn would create unrest amongst Saudi's neighbours."

"And what do I do when I get him between four eyes?" Mark was afraid to hear the answer to that question. He was very much aware of what the agency could do in comparable circumstances. They could order the elimination of the meddling or unwanted party.

Fred looked at Mark with knowing concern. He knew what his agent had in mind. "No, we're not going there, Mark, and you know what I mean. We need to know what his intentions are and we need to convince him to go back to Paris."

The word 'convince' had a dozen connotations when it came to steer an individual in a particular direction.

"Okay...," Mark said, not wanting to dwell on the subject any further. "Have you been able to locate him? He's got almost 24 hours on us already..."

Fred waved a dismissive hand. "We know where he is not. That should give you a head start."

"Oh sure," Mark chortled, "I'll get a bicycle from the garage..."

The chief couldn't help but explode in roaring laughter. He was picturing Mark, in his Armani suit and silk tie, saddling a bike and chasing after his pedalling prey, clad in his princely, Arab garments, down the riverbank.

A grunt shook the folds of his jaw, and his laughter receding quickly into a low moo, Fred resumed, "Hum..., we know he sent the Lear back to Paris."

"He did?" Mark was knocked for six. Khalid wouldn't do that if he intended to leave the country in a hurry.

"Yes, and we've checked with the airlines: no record of any reservations made under either of his names. We've also checked with the car rental companies..."

"What about trains?" Mark asked.

Fred's mouth fell open. He couldn't picture Khalid taking a train anywhere. "No, we've not checked with any of the railways... What makes you think that our prince would take a train? He couldn't get anywhere fast..."

"And that's exactly why we should check with Via Rail. Khalid would have time to reach his destination undisturbed, without leaving much trace of his passage anywhere between here and wherever he's going."

"But we know where he's going..."

"No, we don't," Mark cut in. "We only assume that he's going to Vancouver because that was his original intent. But now, and after what you've told him, he could be going anywhere."

"You mean we've got to chase a ghost again?"

During the investigation geared to finding Ben Slimane, the year before, the agency had been forced to chase the man across three continents until everyone concluded he was a 'ghost' and that until he was found dead in Michigan.

"Not quite, Chief. This time we've got a definite departure point and we've got a possible destination—Vancouver."

"But from what you've just said, he might not choose to go to Vancouver at all."

"Yes, but he might choose Vancouver as a stopover..."

"On his way to where?" Fred asked.

"I'll answer that with another question; where did he intend to go right after Talya was gunned down?"

"You mean Honolulu?"

"And...?"

"Of course!" Fred erupted, "He's going Down Under."

"That's what I think. You've mentioned during your meeting that you told him about Isaac, or whatever his name is right now..."

"Samuel Meshullam..."

"Yes, him. And you told him where he was."

"So, you think Khalid has taken a train to Vancouver and from there he'd be sailing for Australia?"

"That's a possibility, yes, because Khalid is an obstinate fellow. He won't let matter rest until he gets rid of any or all hindrances that would prevent him to reach his goal."

"And as long as Samuel—or Mossad—is in the picture he won't rest?" Fred paused. "But taking on Mossad by himself would be suicide. Do you think that's what he wants—get himself killed?"

"No, I don't think so, Chief. I think he wants revenge. He wants to do away with the man who destroyed Talya's life, first."

"And then what? He'll be a sitting duck..."

Mark shook his head. "Not quite. Again, from the summary of your discussion with him, killing a Mossad agent would prove to his family that he has no allegiance to Israel and that he wouldn't hesitate to kill any of them. He's looking for approval, for support from his uncles, and the only way to do that and to avoid unrest in the Middle East is to demonstrate that he wouldn't hesitate to kill another Israeli and a Mossad agent at that."

"Jimmy!" Fred yelled, pressing the intercom button on his phone.

"Yes, sir," the voice replied immediately.

"Get the departure schedules from Via Rail and Amtrak for trains going south or west from Montreal, will you? I'm waiting!"

"Yes, sir, right away."

"And make that from Tuesday afternoon..."

"Okay, no problem."

"Satisfied?" Fred asked, pressing the intercom button off, and locking his eyes on Mark's face.

"That's a start..., but I think we should look at flight departures from New York and San Francisco, too."

"You mean he would bypass Vancouver altogether?"

"I'm not sure. I'd just like to cover all the bases."

Fred grunted. "Do you want to do this alone, or do you want Benny with you?"

"Alone, Chief."

## Chapter 10

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. 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 manager if he could lead him to Captain Sahab's table. The man 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 manager, 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 around.

"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 waiter 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 waiter 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 waiter 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 to Australia 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 waiter, 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 halfway across the world didn't agree with him either.

## Chapter 11

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 reprisals. 'An eye for an eye' no longer applied here. Whether they would succeed in persuading such begrudging organization as Mossad to leave them alone, was another matter altogether.

The CIA's ultimate purpose was quite different, however. They wanted Khalid or Agent Gilford to eliminate Samuel.

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. 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. 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 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 dialed Muhammad Sadir. Their conversation was short and to the point; Khalid told the CIA man he was on his way to Australia 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 fifties 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, 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 traveling economy while the professor was in business class to San Francisco and in first for the rest of the trip.

## Chapter 12

When Samuel closed his laptop, he sat looking into space absent-mindedly. 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 had 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 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 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. 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. 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 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 favored 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.

## Chapter 13

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 Down Under. 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 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 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.

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, 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.

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. 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.

These considerations 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.

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, 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.

## Chapter 14

"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?"

Moving 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 they?"

"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.

## Chapter 15

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. There was something wrong with this deal. Moreover, a few minutes ago the call from Sadir served to reignite 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. Agent Mark Gilford 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 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 to Australia 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. "I see. This is quite complex," he mused.

"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.

Fred swiveled the visitor's seat around, his eyes following Namlah's progress across the room.

The attorney took a marker pen 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 is 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? 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 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 she is eliminated in the crossfire. 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.

## Chapter 16

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, hiding 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.

"I got a call from Fred Gibson last night," Aziz said when their entrées 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. "I mean..., I didn't say yea or nay. I just told him that traveling was not in the cards for you yet. That's all."

"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; 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.

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.

Forcing his face into a happier expression, Aziz nodded. "But let's get to Bowen Island first, shall we?"

## Chapter 17

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

"May we see your passport, sir?" the short one 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 other 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. "All right, 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?"

"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.

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 on the Formica tabletop. 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's 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?"

" _Prince Khalid,_ please..." Visibly taken aback, Khalid stared at his interlocutor. He hadn't expected being called by his 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. "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, 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."

"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 and 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 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.

## Chapter 18

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.

"Can we stop?" Talya asked, as they were halfway up the hill leading to their B&B.

"Sure. Why don't we have a bite to eat? 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.

At the table, he took her hand and smiled at her.

The waitress was soon at their side, taking the order.

As the waitress retreated, Aziz noticed that Talya's hands were trembling. "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."

## Chapter 19

As soon as Khalid reached his room; he unpacked his laptop, plugged it in and waited until he could get on the Internet. For the past several weeks, he had learned and had grown to enjoy the technology. He could search for anything and get an instant response, and he could get in touch with anyone readily enough. The programs' feature even allowed him to write his emails in Arabic. Once on-line, he took no time to contact his uncle Abdullah in Riyadh. He had no idea of the time difference, and he was not even sure his uncle would respond after Khalid's deliberate silence for the past months, but he had to try.

Following the usual introductory sentences, he wrote:

I am in Australia until tomorrow night. The authorities are seeking to arrest Samuel Meshullam (a.k.a. Isaac Whittlestein) in the next few days. There is an order of extradition for him to be returned to Canada as soon as he is captured.

From what I can gather at this point, Muhammad Sadir's involvement in this affair has been put into question. Since he is your friend and he has interceded in the locating of Ben Slimane, the question that has to be asked is whether he was himself a Mossad agent. How far did your friendship go? Be prepared to be questioned some time soon.

Your devoted nephew, Khalid Saif Al-Fadir.

He left the computer open, just in case his uncle would respond immediately, and went to open his suitcase. He wanted to get out of the suit and tie and into more appropriate clothes. Distractedly, he took the envelope that Constable Strickland had given him at the issue of their interview. He opened it and looked at the tickets. To his surprise, he was booked on a flight to Singapore and then on a connecting flight to Paris. His heart sank. He sat down. He had expected to fly back to San Francisco, from where he had planned to make a detour via Vancouver. Again, he felt trapped. He could not figure out how or when he was going to see Talya. He thought of Aziz's call. He had let him and Talya down.

He shook his head, dismayed. He rummaged through his suitcase and found the clothes he was looking for. He got up from the bed, and as he was about to go into the bathroom to have a shower, he heard the jingle alerting him that ' _he got mail_ ' from the computer.

He dropped his clothes on the bed, sat down in front of the screen, open his uncle's email and read:

Khalid,

Although very happy to hear from you at long last, the news your message brought me is indeed troublesome. Muhammad's reputation was never a cause for me to worry. Admittedly, he was well informed when we first contacted him regarding the whereabouts of Mr. Slimane, which was surprising at the time. However, as a CIA agent for some years, I had no qualms regarding the information he provided. Are you suggesting he is then a double agent? If he is, you are right in assuming that I will be questioned regarding my association with him. All I can tell you, at this point, is that I have never known him to be involved with the weapons' trade that was uncovered last year.

Not wanting to sound remiss in my concern, I must ask you if you have been able to see Ms Kartz lately. 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.

Khalid read the last sentence again. _Uncle Abdullah should not feel responsible for Talya being shot,_ he thought. At the time, his uncle was himself entangled in a web of deceit that even saw him being declared persona non grata in Switzerland and subsequently dismissed from his OPEC secretarial position. Apparently, Mossad, together with the CIA, had used him as well as countless others in pursuit of their ultimate goal—defeat the Palestinians at Gaza.

Khalid replied:

Dear Uncle,

I have not been able to visit Talya yet. Dr Hendrix has called on me to go to her, but the events that followed his telephone call interfered with my intention to fly to Vancouver and saw me land in Sydney this morning. I was intending to go back to Paris via Canada, but the authorities are preventing me to do so at this time. I will be in Singapore tomorrow and from there I am to take a direct flight to Paris.

As soon as I reach my apartment, I will contact you again and perhaps then, we could discuss the possible involvement of Muhammad Sadir at length.

Khalid.

## Chapter 20

It was all he could do to contain his curiosity or amazement in front of the two constables. During the last 30 hours since he had left Ottawa, decisions had been made, measures taken and orders given that contravened everything he had heard prior to his departure. Mark was glad to hear that Samuel was up on charges and that extradition papers would be ratified as soon as the Aussies would put the guy behind bars. Yet, how did the wheels of his _spydom_ suddenly spun into action when they had virtually grinded to a halt since Talya had been shot?

What's more, he wasn't ready to open his mouth and give these two underlings any information he had regarding what preceded his trip to Sydney. He wanted to speak to one of his peers or to the man in charge.

"As we told the both of you," Strickland began, "we've got to find this Samuel fellow and surrender him into your custody as soon as we can. And to do that, we will need your assistance."

"What do you expect from me, exactly? It's not like I've been here before..."

"It's not your first time in a foreign country and carrying out orders either," Damien countered.

"No, it isn't, but generally I'm well briefed _by my superior_ before I go anywhere _._ I never went blind anywhere..."

"Sorry to contradict you again, Agent Gilford, but you've been to Florida and more precisely up the Jackson River, without orders, instructions or briefing, haven't you?"

_Wow,_ Mark thought, _these two have quite an update on my dossier._ "Well..., yes, you're quite right, but that was an exception..."

"An exception that landed Ms Kartz in deep trouble, didn't it?"

Mark didn't like to be interrogated—certainly not by police constables. He decided to stop while he was ahead.

Strickland realized almost immediately they had made an enemy of Mark; their direct and obviously undesirable approach had turned him into a clam. They still needed him to get to Samuel. They thought of themselves as good officers—and they probably were—but they were not trained to track down a master of deceit or one of Mossad's more famous spies. Even with the latest technology at their disposal, they were at a loss when it came to chase and capture a slippery customer as Samuel was.

"All right, Agent Gilford, we understand we're only two coppers at our Majesty's stipends, but we've got to get to this bloke before he slips through our fingers and vanishes before our eyes."

"Okay," Mark relented, "I know what you're saying, but I can't talk to you or even answer your questions or allegations, without talking to my boss first. If you wish, I can go to your office, get on line with him and see what he says. And we can take it from there..., how's that?"

Both men nodded. "That sounds fair enough," Damien said, replacing his cap atop his head. "Come on, Strick, let's get him to headquarters."

Strickland got up, grabbed his cap from the table, and led the way out of the room.

Mark felt relieved. Something must have gone horribly wrong in the agency's relationship with the CIA for getting everyone turned around so quickly. _Did Mossad activate a sleeping cell when they observed Khalid taking off from Ottawa?_ he wondered. However, he was relatively sure their undercover movements had not been discovered. They would have been stopped in San Francisco if that had been the case.

It didn't take them long to clear customs, security and all the rest of it, and for the three men to be on their way to the New South Wales police headquarters in Sydney. Expecting their new building to be completed in the next few months, their offices were still located somewhere downtown; exactly where, Mark could not say. They were driving on the left side of the road, which, for one thing, scared him. As Mark was getting used to the traffic moving on the 'wrong' side of the road and to the car fumes that seemed to choke the city, they arrived at their destination.

Mark was ushered directly into a large anteroom and asked to sit down in one of the old leather chairs. Damien disappeared into an adjacent room and Strickland sat beside him, cap in his lap this time. The two men remained silent until the door on the far wall opened and an officer in uniform appeared in the threshold.

"Agent Gilford, please come in," the man stated, waving to Mark to follow him back into the room. "I'm Chief Constable Sorenson." He extended a hand to Mark, which he took in a firm handshake. "Have a chair." Mark felt out of place straight away. Not only was the office spacious and well-appointed, but Sorenson's speech and presence were intimidating. Mark looked down at his scruffy jeans, his wrinkled T-shirt and would have liked to hide under the man's desk rather than talk to him. He sat down between Damien and Strickland, and opposite Sorenson, feeling totally out of his element.

"As I understand it from Constable Damien here"—he nodded in his direction—"you are requesting to place a call to your superior in Ottawa, is that correct?"

"Yes, sir."

"Chief Gibson has explained the matter quite plainly to me, and I believe my constables have transmitted the message in as many details as were pertinent and necessary." He stopped, frowning and scrutinizing Mark's face. "So, why would you feel the need to obtain more information at this juncture? Or verify my instructions as it were?"

_Good God,_ _the man has the ego of an elephant and if I start going against his tsunami of orders now, I'll be unable to move an inch._

"I have no intention to contravene your instructions or orders, sir, not at all. I wanted to contact Chief Gibson to obtain the latest information on the CIA's movements and on one person in particular: Agent Sadir." Sorenson's eyes grew wider. Mark continued, "Agent Sadir, I believe, holds the thread that could lead us to our Mossad fugitive."

"What makes you believe that?"

_The man is a prick,_ Mark decided. "Sir, if I may..., your constables told Prince Khalid that he would find his passport at the Hotel de Crillon upon his return to Paris."

"Correct."

"Well, sir, that tells me that you have been in contact with Agent Sadir or that you will be shortly, since Agent Sadir was the last person in possession of our prince's passport."

"And?"

"And what?" To Mark it was obvious; Sadir had probably changed his mind about Khalid meeting Samuel and the duel had been called off. Sadir had called Ottawa, and in turn, the Chief had called Sorenson to stop them. The only hole in this story was why. What had happened that had made Sadir take a 180-degree turn? "Agent Sadir must have encountered some problem at his end and called off the whole deal. That's all."

Sorenson chortled. "I see why you would want to talk to Chief Gibson. You don't know what happened, do you?"

"No, sir, I don't. I have been in a plane for the best part of 30 hours and now that my instructions seemed to have changed, I'd like to know why." Mark caught himself. He sounded like a criminal trying to defend his alibi with a lie. He had to get out from under this guy's eyes, and grip.

"All right, Agent Gilford, you shall have your wish." Mark couldn't believe his ears. "Let's get to the other room and see if we can contact Chief Gibson."

When Strickland opened the operation centre's door, and let his Chief, Damien and Mark pass ahead of him, Mark stopped in awe on the threshold. In the semi-darkness, the multiple monitors lining the walls of the room were relating instant, simultaneous information about various operations in the field. The multi-dimensional screens overhung a semi-circular _pit_ where a number of technicians were conducting their particular operation from their keyboards. No one turned when Chief Sorenson came in. These officers were totally absorbed in their tasks.

"I see that you are impressed, Agent Gilford," Chief Sorenson said, visibly pleased with Mark's reaction.

"Yes, sir. We've got about the same thing in Ottawa, but the degree of sophistication of these computers hasn't reached our shores yet."

"That's one of the advantages of being close to our Japanese neighbors. Mind you, it took quite a lot of convincing on our part to arrive at this result. Our government would have preferred to build these computers on Aussie soil, but that would have delayed progress by five or more years, which was not a viable proposition. Anyway, we're not here to discuss politics. Let's get you on line with Chief Gibson." Mark nodded and sat down in one of the chairs facing a larger screen and beside Sorenson.

"Jim, would you get Chief Gibson in Ottawa on line for us?" the chief said to the back of the officer closer to him.

The young man turned around, nodded, and returning his attention to his screen, he typed a few words on the keyboard. He waited, said something into his Bluetooth and then looked at Sorenson, shaking his head. "It's 3:00AM in Ottawa, sir. Chief Gibson is not in his office."

"Very well then. Get him on the phone at home."

Mark cringed. Fred never liked to be awakened in the middle of the night.

Jim turned to his screen again and amid multiple mini-screens, Fred Gibson's number appeared. Sorenson picked up the small earphones and mike that hung over one of the armrests of his chair, and nodded to Mark to do the same. They slipped them into their ears and switched the microphones on. Within seconds, they heard Fred's grunts of annoyance over the line.

"Gibson here," he grumbled.

"Chief, Mark here..."

"What? Where are you, boy? What, what's going on? Have you got him?" As his brain got in gear, the words came out of his mouth clearer.

"I'm still in Sydney, Chief. I've got Chief Sorenson here and he _authorized me_ to call you from headquarters..."

"Did you say 'authorized you'? Since when do you need anyone's authorization to call me? What have you done? Have you been arrested?"

"No, nothing like that. I'm the one who insisted on calling you at this hour..." He saw Sorenson smile gratefully from the corner of his eye. "I just wanted to know why you've stopped us and how come Samuel is to be arrested and extradited."

"And you call me at 3:00 in the morning for that?" Fred bellowed. "Listen, Mark, it's simple; you've got to find him asap, stay alive and bring him back. The rest I'll explain later when I'm dressed and able to make sense of what I'm saying, okay?"

"Okay, Chief, I'm sorry."

"Okay..., talk to me tomorrow..., I mean today... Whenever."

Sorenson turned to Mark as he took his headset off. "I'm sorry, Agent Gilford. It appears that I have overstepped my authority. I guess your attire had a lot to do with my doubting your status or rank. Let's go downstairs now and I'll introduce you to the two men who will assist you in this assignment."

"But I thought Constables Damien and Strickland were assigned to this case already," Mark uttered, rising from the chair.

"My mistake, Agent Gilford, I should have told you earlier, but the two constables will make the arrest ultimately, yes, however, the locating and apprehending of the felon will be the responsibility of our agents. They are well trained, by MI5 no less, but they know very little when it comes to dealing with a Mossad spy, and that's where you come in."

## Chapter 21

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-story apartment block. He nodded. This was a satisfactory location; facing the river, no neighbors 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 there before noon.

As he turned onto the bridge crossing the river, he noticed how different the city looked since he'd 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'd spent some years in Israel, he'd 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 an expensive 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 and lay down on the bed. Within minutes, Samuel was asleep.

## Chapter 22

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, nondescript man, with short, black hair, he was thin and seemed to be light on his feet. He was quick, decisive and sharp-looking.

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.

"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 backup 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..."

## Chapter 23

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, 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 weightlifting 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 gleam of satisfaction, 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 boxes and climbed the stairs back to Muhammad's office. She grabbed everything she could find which she knew was his—books, photos, gadgets—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, build 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 talent that had gotten 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. Fueling 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 was 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.

"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 taking off his jacket, he let out a sigh of contentment. He wiped his face with a tissue, 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.

## Chapter 24

As Mrs. Allison opened the door for her guests, she stared down at Talya. "My Dear God, Ms Kartz, what on earth happened to you? Please, come in..., both of you. Dr. Hendrix, good to see you again. But tell me... I really don't know what to say..." She couldn't keep her eyes from Talya's frail-looking body, the chair, the blanket... It was all too much for the old woman.

Amid this babbling, incoherent welcome, Aziz and Talya tried to put a word in, to no avail. They went through an archway to a large room, the former parlour of the house, where Aziz sat down across from the woman and Talya, depositing the two shoulder bags to the floor.

The handsomely furnished room reflected the décor of the entire house. The walls lined with bookshelves, entertainment centre, and a couple of antique desks flanking a large fireplace made the whole room inviting and comfortable. The sofa facing the hearth and the couple of chairs set apposite added an accent of warmth to the entire place. You wanted to sit and relax in this room.

"I've got the room on the ground floor ready for you, dear," Mrs. Allison said, tapping Talya on the arm compassionately. She was an elderly woman, but her hospitable attitude, her grey hair and her soft regard made one forget that she was the owner of the house.

"Thank you," Talya replied. "I'm sorry if we've put you out..."

"No-no, not at all, dear. We're still in the low season, and I've got only one other guest apart from you two, so you're no bother at all. But I had to put you upstairs, Doctor. We haven't got two rooms on the ground floor, I'm sorry."

"No problem," Aziz said, "we'll manage."

"Would you like some coffee or tea?" Mrs. Allison was already on her feet. Clearly, she wanted to keep her guests in the parlour to hear what happened to Talya. Curiosity was gnawing at her thoughts. She could not imagine what could have happened to such a beautiful woman; nothing short of a car accident, she was sure.

However, Talya didn't feel like talking. She wanted to go to her room, lie down and sleep. After a delicious and filling brunch, she felt more tired than ever. "No thank you, Mrs. Allison, I just need to lie down for now. Do you mind?"

"Not at all, dear, you go right ahead. I'll show you where it is." Mrs. Allison led the way down the corridor, stopped in front of a double door, which she opened wide to let Talya roll her chair into the spacious suite. The décor reminded her of the room she had had in Khalid's apartment in Paris. Shooting an appreciative glance to the tall wardrobe and the four-poster-bed opposite, she went to the French windows and looked out. The view was all encompassing and quite pleasant. It overlooked part of Snug Cove and faced the Sunshine Coast, north of Vancouver on the opposite side of the sound. The light-blue silk drapes that framed the window were the one thing that made Talya think of Paris. Similar drapes had framed the window of her room there, too. She stretched a hand and caressed them. The memory of Khalid and their time at the Hotel de Crillon came back to her mind so vividly; she had to turn away. As she did, she found herself facing Aziz.

He smiled gently at her. "Do you want to unpack and freshen up before lying down?"

The question brought Talya back to the present. She looked down at her legs for a moment and nodded.

"Okay, I'll leave you two kids alone," Mrs. Allison said from the doorway where she had remained while observing the couple. _They're so good together_ , she thought. "I'll be in the kitchen, if you need me."

"Thanks," Aziz replied, not watching the woman as she closed the door behind her.

## Chapter 25

When the elevator doors opened, Cameron Sheffield, a man in his thirties, always proud of his appearance and good looks, noticed Muhammad Sadir sitting in one of the chairs of the reception hall. He looked up at Cameron over the rim of his newspaper and returned to his reading. He was far from expecting Agent Sheffield to stop in front of him. He put down the paper in his lap and raised his eyes again.

"Thomas couldn't make it," Cameron said, "he's busy tracking _your_ friend..., so I thought you wouldn't mind having lunch with me instead."

Muhammad was stunned. This wasn't good. He extracted himself from the chair, dropped the paper on it and grunted, "Sure..., by all means, why don't we...?"

Leading the way out of the building, Cameron turned to the waddling agent and opened the door for him. "Where are we going?"

The two men headed in the direction of Sadir's car.

"I had in mind to take Thomas to the Chinese place around the corner. Would that be okay with you?"

"Sure, and that seems to be a good place to start...," Cameron replied, climbing in the front seat.

"Start what?" Sadir brushed a puzzled face past his colleague, as he turned on the ignition. He had no idea how much the man knew or how much he was authorized to tell him. He would have to tread carefully. _Say as little as possible_ , he thought.

"Your vacation... I hear you're going to Seattle..., nice place. I've been there a few times when I was working in Canada."

"You did? I mean you worked in Canada. I didn't know that."

"Yes..., actually I was on assignment in Hong Kong in '97 when the colony was returned to the Chinese government. Vancouver was my home-base for about a year then."

"I see," said Sadir, although he didn't see at all where this was going. Both men fell silent for a moment.

"They've got a large Asian community in Vancouver; did you know that?" Cameron said.

"Yes, I've heard. But what's that got to do with me?"

"Oh, plenty, Agent Sadir, plenty..."

Muhammad was at a total loss. He had no idea what this meant. He had only alerted Van Dams of his intention of leaving on vacation an hour ago. "What does that mean?" He pulled into the mall's parking lot.

Cameron waited until they were at the restaurant's doorsteps to say anything. "Let's go in, shall we?" He opened the door of the establishment and let Sadir pass ahead of him.

A little Chinese woman escorted both men to a table in a corner, poured some tea in their cups, and retreated quickly after she handed them the menu.

By this time, Sadir was worried. He wanted to know where he stood, or what Cameron had heard. "Okay, let's have it. What's going on?"

Cameron shrugged, not lifting his eyes from the menu.

"Come on, Sheffield..., what have you heard?"

"I haven't heard anything, Agent Sadir. I've simply been informed that you were going on an extended vacation to China, Shanghai to be precise."

Sadir's face passed through the colours of the rainbow in a matter of seconds. He was floored. The Deputy Director must have been on to him. Or was that a Mossad move? He felt like a trapped animal.

"Don't worry, though," Cameron went on, "China is quite interesting—lots of things to see. Only one thing, though, they don't like Arabs too much I'm told."

That was the last drop. Muhammad got up in a brutal rustle of the chair and walked out of the restaurant. Cameron shrugged, waved at the little waitress and ordered lunch.

## Chapter 26

"China?" Sadir muttered under his breath, as he drove down and parked his car in the garage. "What the hell am I going to do in China?" He climbed out and locked his car.

He was about to step into one of the elevators when a security officer stopped him.

"Agent Sadir?"

"Yes? What do you want with me?" he blurted when the officer grabbed him by the arm.

"This way, sir." He led him to the security room at the back of the bank of elevators, Sadir gesticulating and trying to get his arm free. "Don't make a fuss, Agent Sadir. It won't take long."

"Long for what?"

"Not here, Sadir. Get in there," the officer ordered, pushing the agent in front of him.

"I demand to know what this is all about," Sadir shouted.

Once in the room, another officer sat him down forcefully and handcuffed his left wrist to the arm of the chair.

"Okay, Sadir, here's the deal; you surrender your handgun, badge and everything that belongs to us and we let you get out of here in peace."

"You've got no right to treat me like this. I demand to see the Deputy Director."

"He doesn't want to see you, sir," a third man said, coming out of a dimly lit corner of the room. "Actually, he asked me to have you sign your resignation." He handed Sadir a letter-size sheet of paper.

Sadir took it with his free hand and read it. "I won't sign this," he growled. "I won't resign!"

"Well, it's your choice, really, but if you don't we could make life miserable for you, if you know what I mean, and China would be a good place to start doing that."

Sadir glared at the man. He had never seen him around the office or anywhere else for that matter. He was a little fellow with a strange look on his face, something between vicious and sadistic.

"What about my stuff upstairs...?"

The man's mouth morphed into what resembled a smile. "Don't worry about it. We've shipped it to your house already. And your wife's got your tickets to Shanghai." Since Sadir didn't answer, the agent went on, "Consider yourself lucky. The Deputy Director is only asking for your resignation now, and as far as everyone else is concerned you're on extended leave. You should thank him, really. You could be going somewhere much darker than China." He cackled into a sombre laughter and then stopped abruptly. "Okay, enough talking. Here's a pen. Sign the darn letter so I could go back to what I was doing. You're messing up my day."

Sadir grabbed the pen from the man's hand, and putting the letter on his knee, he signed it.

"Very good, Mr. Sadir. Now empty your breast pocket and give your wallet to the officer here." The agent nodded in the security officer's direction. He took the wallet from Sadir's shaking hand, extracted the CIA identification and returned it to him.

The second officer unlocked the handcuff and lifted the ex-agent out of the chair by the arm. The small man retreated into the darkness of the room, putting Sadir's letter in his pocket.

As soon as the two officers had taken Sadir's gun and badge from him, they led him out of the room and into the street.

It had taken a little less than five minutes to shatter Sadir's life to pieces.

He knew that if he didn't take the flight to Seattle, or tried to hide somewhere else in the States, they would eventually catch up with him. He didn't relish the thought of rotting in prison awaiting a trial that would never eventuate. Besides, he had his wife and two daughters to think about. Maybe he could contact Samuel in Australia. Sadir shook his head. _Not a good idea_. He knew Samuel was already on the move. _They_ wouldn't have waited to contact him. He felt abandoned, which he was, in fact. Better that than having to deal with anything else the CIA had in mind. Maybe when he arrived in China, he could turn back.

He went back to his car, drove out of the parking lot and headed to the airport. He didn't want to end up shackled in some Chinese dungeon, never to be heard from again.

_They_ hadn't taken his credit cards, so there was still a chance he could go somewhere else than China.

In the CIA's security room, the little man was looking at one of the screens. On it, there was a background map of Washington D.C. and a moving dot showing where Sadir was traveling. He sniggered. "Let's see where he's going," he said to the officer sitting in front of the set of computers.

"He's not going home, that's for sure," the fellow replied.

"Let's hope he chooses the correct destination. I would hate to have to pull him back. Feeding him would cost a fortune." The renewed cackling laugh had the officer turn his head and smile.

When he reached the airline counter, Sadir asked if he had a reservation for Seattle.

"Yes, you do, Mr. Sadir," the young lady said. "Will you be flying onto YVR right away or staying a few days in Washington State?"

Sadir stared at her. He hadn't understood what she said. "What's YVR?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. That's Vancouver, in Canada."

The surprise on Sadir's pleated face was unmistakable. It reduced his speech to a stutter. "I..., I don't know... I, I mean..., I don't know..."

"Don't worry; we can leave that leg of the trip open if you like."

"Well..., yes..., I guess." Sadir was thinking about his passport. He didn't have it on him.

Looking at her screen, "Would you mind waiting for a moment, sir?" the attendant said suddenly.

Sadir began to fret. Sweat beaded above his brow. He took his handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his face. He had been happy to hear that Linda had made the reservations after all, but to hear that his trip had been extended to Vancouver worried him. _Who made those reservations?_ he wondered. He waited.

When the attendant came back to her seat, she handed him a large envelope saying, "We've had this package waiting for you, and I almost forgot to get it for you before you left. Sorry about that."

Sadir's hands were trembling when he opened the envelope. Inside he found a passport and a letter. He didn't bother reading the letter—time for that later. He said to the young woman, "On second thought, why don't you book me on the connecting flight to Vancouver right away?"

"No problem, sir. Any luggage?"

"Umm..., no..., my wife is bringing it with her. She's supposed to meet me in Seattle."

"That's fine then. Your flight is departing tonight at 8:15PM and you should be at the security gate an hour prior to departure."

Sadir nodded, visibly relieved, and thanked the young woman when she handed him his boarding passes.

"Lypsick here, Deputy Director. Sadir is on his way to Vancouver, as planned," the little man said into the phone, and hung up.

Feeling very uncomfortable, hot, sweaty and harassed, Sadir went to sit in one of the airport's restaurant. He ordered a soda with plenty of ice and sat back to read the letter that accompanied the passport he found in the envelope.

Mr. Sadir,

You are now on your way to Vancouver, Canada. When you arrive, you will go to the Hyatt on Burrard Street, where a room has been reserved for you. In the room, you will find your luggage. We will know when to contact you. Wait for further instructions.

Your friend, JL

PS: Do not, under any circumstance, try to contact Ms Kartz.

How did they know he had intended to go to Vancouver ultimately? How was his luggage going to get there, was his next question.

Sadir got up and went to the payphone near the men's room—he had left his cell phone in his desk drawer. As he pulled out a few coins from his trousers' pocket, he noticed a little item, which he recognized immediately. "Bastards!" he muttered under his breath. They had put a bug in his pocket when the security men searched him before he left. He dialed his home number feverishly.

As soon as he heard his wife's voice, he knew something was wrong.

"Moh, where are you?" she said anxiously. "I've got your colleague here... A Mr. Lip..." she hesitated. Sadir heard a man say "Lypsick" in the background. "...Yes, Agent Lypsick is here. He wants me to pack your bags... and... he says... to pack enough clothes for you for a month. What's going on, Moh? When are you coming home? Where are you going...? You said..."

"Jocelyn... please... let me talk to Lypsick... Hold on. Wait. When did he get there?"

"A few minutes ago..., why?"

"Never mind. Just put him on."

"He says you're going to Vancouver... and..."

"Just put him on," Sadir snapped.

He heard his wife say, "No... I want..." as Lypsick took the receiver from her.

"Listen, Sadir. You've got your instructions. Now, leave your family in peace. You'll get your stuff in Vancouver as arranged. Talk to you later."

Sadir didn't have time to answer before he heard the click. Lypsick had hung up in his ear.

## Chapter 27

The weekend was well on its way now. Fred wasn't due back in the office until Monday, but Mark's call bothered him. He wasn't so worried about the phone call itself; it was the fact that Sorenson seemed to be ordering him around, which annoyed him the most. Nicknamed "the cat", Mark Gilford needed to be guided but not to be put on a leash. He wouldn't be able to function if anyone restricted his movements with orders or suggestions as to his behaviour. As he was about to send an email to Sorenson, he saw the message from the CIA in Washington. It read:

Be advised—Agent Muhammad Sadir has taken a leave of absence. All inquiries should be directed to Agent Cameron Sheffield.

Signed: D. Van Dams, Deputy Director.

"Badawee was right," Fred muttered. However, this message was worrisome to say the least. It meant that Mossad had put things in motion. If they were the ones who had organized Sadir's departure so quickly, it would not be too far-fetched an assumption they were onto Mark and the Prince. By now Samuel was probably aware that his CIA contact had been removed from active duty and he would be on the move or even gone from Australia altogether. Besides, there was Talya to consider. She was in danger again. Mossad would have to get rid of her before she had an opportunity to reach the stand at Samuel's trial. He remembered how difficult it had been to keep her in protective custody the last time she had been a target. The Saudi royal family had intervened and she had been released in Prince Khalid's personal custody then. This whole situation was moving too fast for Fred's liking. He swore under his breath. _Why don't they leave the poor woman alone?_

Namlah had gone shopping with his wife and kids that afternoon, and had his arms full of grocery bags when he came in and heard the phone ring in the hallway of his home. He dropped one of the bags on the chair beside the telephone table and picked up the receiver, the second bag still in his other arm.

"Hello, Mr. Badawee here."

"Counsellor, Gibson here, I'm sorry to bother you, but would you mind coming in...? I know it's the weekend..."

"Has something happened?" Namlah asked, depositing the other bag beside the first one.

"A lot, Counsellor, and I need your assistance before making a decision."

"All right..., I should be able to be in the office in an hour."

"Good. I'll see you then."

When Namlah hung up, he heard his wife call from the kitchen. "Who was that? Is everything okay?" She came to stand beside her husband.

"Sure. That was the Chief. He wants me to go in for a while."

"Has something happened, did he say?"

Namlah shook his head. He didn't want his wife to start worrying. "Not really, but he's got to make some decisions before Monday and he's asked for my input. Do you mind?"

Salina Badawee picked up the bags from the chair, saying, "No, of course not. I just thought of Thelma and Bob; remember they're coming for dinner. Do you think you'll be back by six?"

"Oh, I'm sure it won't take that long."

"Okay..., you go ahead," Salina said, already on her way back to the kitchen.

Within the hour, Namlah knocked on Fred's office door. "Come in, come in," he heard the chief say.

"Have a seat, Counsellor." Fred beckoned to the lawyer to sit down across from him. "Thanks for coming in."

"What happened?" Namlah asked, lowering himself into the chair.

"Plenty. You were right. Mossad seemed to have reacted as soon as they were alerted of the Aussie issuing a warrant for Samuel's arrest... and... Sadir has been sent on leave."

Namlah stroked his moustache. "Hum, I didn't expect they would move on Sadir so fast. That's a bit surprising."

"Surprising?" Fred's quizzical face told Namlah he didn't understand.

"No-no... It's not the fact that they reacted, but the fact that the CIA ordered Sadir's removal is surprising. In my mind, Mossad would shut down all communications with him, yes but not _remove_ him until they were sure his usefulness ran out. But, if the CIA thought he'd stepped out of line somehow, then yes, they would send him away rather quickly."

"And inviting Ms Kartz to follow the Prince to Australia had a lot to do with the speed at which they _disposed_ of him, I'd say."

Namlah pushed on the armrests and straightened up in the chair. He seemed a bit restless. "That was a mistake, yes. Sadir should have stayed put. The CIA had him under observation probably since Ben Slimane's elimination. But he had ideas of grandeur, I guess, and he wanted to gain points with Mossad, perhaps, by having Prince Khalid, Ms Kartz and our agent killed in the one go."

"Okay, I understand that, but again the question is what do we do about it? And what about Ms Kartz! I think she's in danger..."

"No doubt she is, along with everyone who was remotely involved with the arms' provision to Israel, outside of the Mossad cell, of course." Namlah returned to stroking his moustache. "Have you called her lately?"

"Yes, but I didn't get her on the line."

"Did you talk to someone...?"

"Yeah, I got the doctor. He was the one who had called on Khalid to come to Vancouver. He wanted his help."

"To do what?"

"Well, you've heard him when he was here. He wanted to help her out of her post-traumatic depression, if he could."

"Yes," Namlah nodded, "I remember. And what did the doctor have to say?"

"He just said he would relay the message. They were on their way to some island apparently for the weekend..."

"Do you know where?"

"No, I didn't check, why?"

"I think it would be a good idea to know exactly where she is from now on. Mossad has eyes everywhere and they've probably kept tabs on her."

Fred's big heart was nudging at his brain. He didn't want to admit the obvious. "But she's an invalid for God's sake. They wouldn't..."

"Oh yes, they would, sir. No doubt whatsoever. She can talk, can't she?"

"But why didn't they kill her right off the bat then?"

"Good question. I think the answer to that is buried in Mossad's intentions."

"What intentions? What are you talking about?"

"Keep in mind; she is Jewish, Chief."

"What's that got to do with anything? Jewish or not she's a liability."

"Yes, but for whom?"

Fred said, "Are you trying to tell me they want to enrol her or get her to switch camps? I don't see it."

"Again, let's look at the big picture. Prince Khalid is partly responsible for her trouble and for the death of her friend Hassan Sangor; she's not a forgiving woman, you know that. Then, you've got Khalid's uncle dwelling in arms trade or in drug smuggling; and both men are Muslims."

"So, you're saying it would be easy for her to be swayed into joining Mossad's camp if they demonstrated to her that they spared her...? But that's tantamount to ask her to commit treason. She wouldn't."

"Frankly, I don't know her well enough to tell you what she'll do. Besides, and I'm sorry to contradict you, Chief, but being a Mossad agent in this country doesn't amount to treason. Israel isn't on our enemies' list, not that I know of. And the fact remains that Samuel has eliminated the man at the bottom of her troubles."

"Wouldn't she stay quiet then?"

"Maybe, but the point is her memory of Slimane being a Mossad agent and Samuel (or Isaac at the time) would be very accurate. She could identify him... and so could the doctor, as I understand it."

"You think the doctor is in danger as well then?"

"Of course he is. He was a witness to the killings on the trawler, and he was in Paris when Slimane identified himself for the first time. Besides, now that we're bringing Samuel back to stand trial, both Ms Kartz and Dr. Hendrix will be on the list of witnesses for the prosecution. Mossad cannot afford to have anyone on the stand that could destroy their infiltration cells in the States."

"Wouldn't it be better then to have Samuel taken out?" Fred didn't like the idea, but if that were the only solution to protect Talya and Mark, and now the doctor, he wouldn't hesitate to order Mark to assassinate Samuel Meshullam.

"And have Agent Gilford arrested for first-degree murder?" Namlah shook his head. "No, Chief. That would be a huge mistake. The Australians would not view this as a case of self-defense. Believe me. They would even call on Prince Khalid to testify at Agent Gilford's trial to demonstrate that the Saudis were involved in this as well. You don't want to open that can of worms, Chief."

"Okay then, but what do we do? I can't just sit back and let the chips fall where they may, now can I?"

"Why not? We've done what needed to be done a long time ago. You've applied for Samuel's extradition, which will see him come back to Canada—and not the States—and stand trial for attempted murder, as he should."

"I guess you're right. So, you suggest we put Ms Kartz and the doctor under protective custody?" Again, that was an idea Fred was reluctant to contemplate.

Another shake of Namlah's head riveted Fred's gaze on him. "No, Chief. She and the doctor need protection, but it will take weeks for us to bring this to trial and you can't expect to keep these two cloistered for months at a time. I suggest you have a qualified agent, someone with a nurse's background perhaps, who would stay with Ms Kartz and keep an eye on the doctor meanwhile."

"That's a tall order, Counsellor. I don't think we have an agent like that on the payroll. Even if we did, she wouldn't be able to protect two people at the same time. Besides, I don't think Ms Kartz in particular would be too pleased to have someone with her 24/7."

Namlah crossed his arms over his chest. He seemed lost in thought for a moment. "What about Slimane's murder in Flint?"

"What about it?" The aggression in Fred's voice was unambiguous; he didn't want another problem added to the list. He sat up and brought his ample frame closer to the desk, and extended his forearms across it. He looked as if he were ready to pounce on the lawyer.

"Are we sure Samuel is the perpetrator of that crime?"

"Fairly sure," Fred said, reclining in the seat once again. "According to Mark, Samuel told them that's where he was going when they were driving through Georgia..."

"But we haven't gotten any evidence that Samuel was in fact the one who pulled the trigger, do we?"

"No, we don't, but Sadir has proofs, or so he said at the time."

"Ha-ha, there you have it, Chief; that's why Sadir was taken out so quickly. Mossad didn't want him to divulge that information to anyone."

"I can see that, yes, but Samuel is not to be tried in the States, is he?"

"No, but the CIA is not a bunch of ignoramuses either. Since we've made a move on Samuel, they've kept an eye on Sadir—if they hadn't already—and decided he was an abetting party to this crime. I'd say they're looking for evidence incriminating Samuel at this very minute."

"And what are they going to do with this evidence when they find it?" Fred was getting irritated.

"They are probably going to use it to get Samuel across the border to stand trial for murder."

"You mean we'll have to fight for 'who's on first'? I don't like it, Counsellor, not at all!"

Fred got up, went around his desk, and hands in his trousers' pockets, walked to the window. He didn't want to look at the lawyer. He knew the man was right, but this whole thing was quickly turning into a morass of conjectures and possibilities from which he couldn't see an issue. He turned around, rested his back against the windowsill and crossed his big arms over his chest.

Namlah had remained silent, watching the Chief, but now he spoke. "You may not like it, but the murder in Flint occurred before Ms Kartz being shot; they may want to exercise their right of priority at prosecution of the accused."

"And if they do, and succeed in putting Samuel behind bars for life, we'll never see him here, is that it?"

"Pretty much, yes."

"I hate to repeat myself, Counsellor, but what do we do about it?" Fred glared at the attorney. This was getting the two men nowhere near a decision.

## Chapter 28

When Samuel sat down, opened his laptop and read the latest of Mossad's coded message, he couldn't stop staring at it. He was well versed in decoding these emails but this one was not only unexpected, but also startling in itself. It read:

Son,

Your uncle's gone and your aunt needs some looking after. The family is waiting for your arrival. Dad.

_Uncle's gone_ meant Sadir was out of the picture, maybe dead. _Your aunt needs looking after_ meant Samuel was to go to Vancouver to _look after_ Talya. _The family is waiting for your arrival_ meant that there was a warrant out for his arrest. Samuel got up and began pacing the length of his room. He was glad he hadn't rented the flat overlooking the Yarra yet. This message meant he needed to go back to Vancouver. That's what he couldn't understand. Why would they want him to go to Talya? It didn't make sense. He wasn't surprised that Sadir had been _removed_. He was a fat blabbermouth anyway, Samuel told himself. The warrant for his arrest was no surprise either, but to ask him to return to Vancouver was the one part of the message he couldn't accept as a wise move.

He sat down again and wrote a reply.

Dad, I will be on English Bay soon. What does aunt need? Your son.

The answer was only five words' long.

Come back to the fold.

Samuel shook his head. _What would they want from her?_ He was at a loss for an answer. Talya was never going to accept to return to Israel, let alone become a Mossad informant or agent. That was ludicrous. To ask him to get her _back to the fold_ was unthinkable. Yet, now was not the time to ask for an explanation. The Aussies and the Canadians were probably on his tail right now. He had to move and the quicker the better.

He packed his bags, got down to the lobby and checked out. His first stop was at a motel near the Melbourne airport. The flight was not leaving for a few hours. He had time to change his appearance again. Once ready, he drove his car in the long-term parking lot and left it there. He got on the shuttle to the Japan Airlines' departure level and bought a ticket to New Zealand. He used his Canadian identity—passport, driver's license, and another credit card—to book his flight and pay for it.

When he passed through the security gates, he was dressed in jeans, blouson jacket over an open-neck shirt, and his bald head together with his clean-shaven face made him unrecognizable to anyone who had met him in the past months. He passed through customs, and went to sit in the first-class lounge.

All the while, he kept thinking about the strange message. He could not find an answer to the question as to what Mossad wanted with Talya. The only plausible reason was if Talya were to accept to join his ranks—which was highly improbable—she wouldn't be able to testify at his trial if he were ever arrested. He shook his head. "Unbelievable" was the word that came back to mind repeatedly.

## Chapter 29

Mark was standing by the window of a room at the NSW police station. He didn't like what was going on. He had taken the two Australian officers the day before to the firing range and his instincts told him these guys were far too smug and comfortable in their own skins, not to say full of it, to be effective. Their brains were somewhere between Mars and Pluto, navigating through a brilliant image of their own worth or capabilities. They were probably very good at what they were doing at some level, but in this particular instance, Mark couldn't see their value in chasing and apprehending a professional killer like Samuel. All they talked about was having a beer and shrimps on the barby after they would have captured the Mossad agent. He had not heard one word about a plan. They seemed to rely entirely on Mark's guidance, which was something he could not, or wanted to offer under the circumstances.

The door burst open suddenly; Sorenson came in, and sat at the table. "Agent Gilford, please sit down," he ordered when he saw that Mark was not moving from his spot.

Reluctantly, Mark walked to the table and sat down, facing Sorenson. "What's up?"

"I've just received a message from the CIA in Washington."

"What did it say?" Mark couldn't be more uninterested, and it showed.

"I know, you're a bit at odds with us, Agent Gilford, but I think this little bit of information will get us back on track."

Mark put an arm over the back of the seat. "All right. What is it?"

"In short, Agent Sadir has been removed..."

"Say what?" Mark yelled, bringing his arm back and onto the tabletop. "Do we know why?"

"Apparently—and that's only my deduction—the fact that we are tracking Samuel and intending to extradite him back to Canada, ignited suspicions on the part of the CIA."

Mark shook his head vigorously. "No, Chief, that's not the reason." He brought his upper body closer to Sorenson across the table. "You've been wallowing into believing that you could just go to Samuel's place, hand him a warrant and get him to follow you..."

"We're not..."

"Let me finish," Mark blurted in the Chief's face. He was fuming. "I've been with you people for two days now, and we've done nothing but talk about the problem and not the solution. Your two officers have no idea what or who they're up against. Neither of them has had any training in sniper attacks. They're probably very good at their policing work, but I have my doubts as to their ability in the field." He leaned against the back of the chair again.

Sorenson was staring at him. His face was flushed; he didn't like being told his men were not making the cut. He had picked them out of the bunch specifically for this mission.

"This message is nothing but a notification for us to look for Samuel somewhere else."

Mark's eyebrows went up. _The man is really a jerk,_ Mark thought. "Yes, Chief, he's gone. No doubt whatsoever. As I told you, he'd probably gone to Melbourne before we even arrived on the scene, and now, I'm sure of it, he's already out of the country."

"How can you be sure of it?"

"Look..., when Sadir was around, he was the one who sent Prince Khalid to chase after Samuel, right?"

The Chief nodded.

"Then it's fair to conclude that he alerted Samuel of our intentions. After that, your government agrees to issue a warrant for Samuel's arrest and for us to extradite him, right?"

Sorenson nodded again.

"Well, since Sadir was still around at the time, he probably sent another message to Samuel saying that things were getting too hot Down Under and to get his ass out of here. And if it wasn't Sadir who sent the message, Mossad did."

"But Sadir was on leave as of last night; I mean yesterday afternoon in Washington; he couldn't have sent anything..."

"Don't you see...? Good God, man... I'm sorry... Sadir was a double agent, we agreed on that, and he didn't have to say anything. Mossad kept a tab on him and when he started this whole thing by sending the Prince on a wild goose chase, they got the wind up and had the CIA remove him as soon as they could."

"Fine, but how can you be sure he is not in Australia still?"

"Because he couldn't sit anywhere here and wait for you to arrest him, now could he?"

"All right, but where does that leave us then?"

"I'm out of here, Chief. Book me on the first available flight to Vancouver. Ms Kartz is next. Please, Sorenson, get a move on. I'm telling you, if I don't get to Vancouver before Samuel does, Ms Kartz is dead."

Mark was at the door before the chief could say another word.

## Chapter 30

The sunlight shimmered over the wavelets clapping against the boats of the marina. Talya was waiting for Aziz to return with their hamburgers. She was ravenous, and the prospect of eating what she considered the best hamburgers she had ever tasted was making her hungrier. Yet her impatience was soon allayed when a young man in jeans and T-shirt approached her. He sat on the bench near her. His dark hair, bronze complexion and gorgeous blue eyes aroused Talya's senses.

"It's a nice spot, isn't it?" the young man said to her, jovial.

Talya was not surprised with the man's forwardness. People on Bowen Island felt at ease talking to strangers. They often did away with formalities. "Yes, it is. Have you been here before?"

"No, this is my first time....I'm sorry, I haven't introduced myself. The name is Jay, Jay Kravitz."

"Talya Kartz." She extended her hand.

He took it and brought it close to his lips, which gesture made Talya burst into laughter.

"Oh, I see you're not used to gentlemanly manners." He let go of her hand, smiling.

His remark had her melt into a stammer. "It's not that... it's just that... well... no, you're right. I haven't had my hand kissed before... I mean not in a long time." Talya blushed.

Coming back, his hands full with hamburgers and pops, Aziz noticed that Talya was chatting with the man he had met already. He grinned. He was pleased to see her enjoy someone else's company.

"Hey, you two... I see you've met Talya," Aziz said to Jay. "Here's your soda, and lunch." He handed Talya a hamburger and a can of Coke.

Talya put the Coke in her lap and unwrapped the hamburger avidly. "Thanks. So you two know each other?" She looked at each man in turn.

"Yes," Jay said, "we've met on the stairs this morning. I'm staying at Mrs. Allison's B&B, same as you guys."

"Oh, you're the other guest then," Talya said, biting into her hamburger.

Aziz took a seat beside Jay and opened his can of pop. "What brought you to the island?"

"I just needed a break. I've been working six, seven days a week this winter and I had to take a breather."

Talya looked at him appreciatively. _He must be an athlete of some sort_ she thought, _with these muscular arms and legs_. "What do you do?" She was full of curiosity.

"I'm a physiotherapist. I work in Whistler at the skiing clinic."

Aziz's ears perked up. "Wow! No wonder you're busy. Skiing is not a sport that comes without injuries."

"You're right, but it's not the sprained ankles or dislocated shoulders that give me the most work; it's the training before these guys go down the slopes."

"Are you telling me that you get people in shape _before_ they tackle the mountains?" Aziz asked.

"Sure. That's the bulk of my clientele. I've got dozens of people in training before the season starts, and dozens more throughout the winter months."

"That must be tiring," Talya put in, munching on her hamburger.

"More demanding than tiring really. When I get guys who exercise year in and year out, that's okay, but when I get the old fogy wanting to get on his skis after lazing around the pool all summer, I've got my work cut out for me."

"Yeah... I... hear what you're saying," Aziz said, biting another mouthful.

Both arms on the back of the bench, Jay watched Aziz eat away for a moment, a smirk on his face. "You know, Doc, these hamburgers are not really good for you?"

Aziz tried to laugh, but could only mumble, "Yeah... You can blame our lady for that. She insisted on coming here especially for this particular luncheon delight."

"Oh no, I didn't!" Talya giggled. "You wanted it as much as I did. You know how good they are."

Putting his elbows on his knees while they were bantering, Jay focused discreetly on Talya's legs. "Can I ask you something?"

His attitude immediately reminded Talya of Hassan taking the same position when he was embarrassed to put a question to her. "Sure, what?"

"What brought you down to a wheelchair?" Talya's face froze. Aziz saw her flinch. "I'm sorry... I shouldn't have asked... It's just... Well, I'm curious because... because it's my profession."

Talya lowered her gaze to her legs and then lifted her eyes to Jay with a timid smile on her lips. "How I got in the chair is not important anymore..."

Jay raised a hand to stop her. "Okay... no problem..."

"No, what I mean is that what happened cannot be undone, but I want to walk again and maybe there is a chance I will... I'm not sure." She looked at Aziz for an explanation of some sort or a way to get out from under Jay's gentle but questioning stare.

"Yes... You see, Jay, Talya's spine was slightly damaged but when the inflammation receded, her x-rays showed that there was perhaps a chance to replace a vertebrae and she would regain the use of her legs, much like removing a vertebrae that has been damaged by an invasive tumour." Jay nodded and waited for the rest of the explanation. "But the operation is risky. The surgeons have not agreed yet on what should be the best course of action."

The lines of Talya's face receded into outward sternness. "And you didn't tell me about this...?"

Jay saw annoyance turn into sheer anger in her eyes.

Aziz shook his head. "I didn't tell you, because nothing has been decided yet."

"You people are all the same," Talya flared. "You've got my life, my very existence into your hands, and you don't even tell me what the score is! I can't believe you've kept that from me." She put her chair in motion and turned it in the direction of the path along the water at full speed.

Jay tapped Aziz on the knee, saying, "Stay here, I'll get her back." He ran after her and halted in front of her chair, grabbing the handles and switching off the motor.

"Get out of my way," Talya yelled, wanting to reach for the switch.

He pushed her hand back. "No, I won't and you're not going anywhere until you hear me out!"

His resolute stance got Talya to return her hands to her lap. She looked up at him.

"Okay, Talya Kartz, as I see it, you've got a heck of a stubborn streak in you, and Dr. Hendrix didn't want to get into a battle of wits between you two before the surgeons had made a decision."

"But, it's my body, for heaven's sakes," she argued angrily. "I've got the right to know."

"Yes, you do. But you don't have the right to treat your friend the way you do. He's your physician and he knows where shattered hopes would send you, right?"

"I guess so."

"So, stop being so petulant about it, and come back." Bending down to her ear, he whispered, "Let him know that you're sorry, for once." She looked up at him, obfuscated. "Yes, you've probably been blaming everyone around you for what happened to you, and in that blame there's no place for remorse, is there?"

She glowered. His blue eyes were penetrating. Talya felt as if she was sinking aboard a boat without a rudder, engulfed in his captivating eyes. "No there wasn't...," Talya said quietly.

"Let's go then." He walked around and without looking back he went to regain his seat beside Aziz. The two men observed Talya manoeuvre her chair around and come back to face them.

"I was doing it again, wasn't I?" Talya said, looking at Aziz ruefully.

He smiled and shook his head. "Yes, you were, milady, but that's okay..."

"No, Aziz, it's not okay! Jay here is right, I've got to recognize when someone's trying to help before I insult you."

"Let me ask you something else, Talya," Jay interrupted, "would you mind if I had a look at your legs, back at the B&B, of course, so I could tell you how much work we'd have to do to get these pins of yours back in shape, if or when the surgeons make up their minds?"

"But don't you have something else to do?" Talya objected. "I mean aren't you supposed to go back to Whistler sometime?" She was trying to avoid an examination that would reveal how much she had neglected herself for all these months.

"No, I mean yes, I'll have to return to work sometime, but I'm free for the summer. I'm only on contract for the winter."

## Chapter 31

Khalid boarded the flight to Singapore feeling angry. He was furious, and not against anyone but himself. He had not seen Mark since he had left him at the airport with the officers. Mark had only called him to say that he was going to stay in town for a bit and to have a good flight back to Paris.

Being unable to untie his hands, or unable to contact Talya, drove him nearly crazy. He had tried to send her an email, but got no answer. Next, he tried contacting Aziz. No response. When he finally reached the Hotel de Crillon, nearly 24 hours after leaving Sydney, he rushed to Mrs. Marie Dobonnet's desk.

" _Capitaine_!" the good woman exclaimed when she raised her eyes to him. "It is so good to see you've made it back."

That statement was nothing less than puzzling. Khalid was about to speak when Mrs. Dobonnet added, "You know, when your Mr. Flaubert called from Vancouver, I didn't know what to say. I thought you had been delayed somewhere or worse—you had had an accident."

"No, Marie, nothing of the sort..."

"But your pilot phoned a couple of times last week. He said to tell you that the Lear is back at Orly. And from these messages, I really didn't know what to make of it all. I was worried, I can tell you."

Khalid couldn't help but smile at the dear lady. "As you can see, I am back and not a scratch on me. I had just been called to make a detour to the States, that's really all there was to my unexpected absence."

"Hum, yes, well..." Marie Dobonnet didn't believe a word of it. "Mr. Flaubert left a telephone message for you, though."

"Oh? Do you have it or did you leave it in the apartment?"

"No-no, here it is," she said, taking an envelope out of a little drawer of her desk.

"Thank you," Khalid replied distractedly, opening the note quickly. It read:

Don't worry anymore. Talya is going to be fine. Phone me when you get back.

"Thank you again, Marie," Khalid said, unable to wipe the grin off his face as he made his way to the elevator.

He hardly took the time to set his carrying case down before picking up the phone and dialing James's number at the office. He looked at his watch. It was about 10:00AM in Vancouver.

"Carmine Resources, how can I direct your call?" he heard Sabrina, the receptionist say.

"Is James in?" was Khalid's answer.

"Oh Goodness me," Sabrina screeched over the line, "Khalid! How are you? Where are you? We've been looking for you all over the place. What's happened? You know about Talya...?"

"Sabrina..., my dear, not so fast... I'll tell you all about my latest adventure when I get to Vancouver..."

"When...?"

"That, I don't know..., but would you mind if I talked to James now?" It was good to hear such a bubbly, friendly voice at the other end of the line. It abated some of Khalid's inner irritation.

"Yes, of course, I'm sorry. Let me transfer you."

Khalid heard the click, and within seconds, James was on the phone.

"Khalid! At long last. Where have you been? Obviously you got the message I left at the Crillon..."

"Yes, I did..."

"Well then, let me tell you... this is so unbelievable..."

"James... please...."

"Okay..., here it is; Talya has turned the corner; she finally got out of the apartment on her own and went shopping."

"You don't say!" Khalid couldn't grasp the meaning of that little event. "Does that mean she's feeling like herself again? What about her legs—any progress?"

"No, not yet. But now that she'll be trying and be more positive about everything, there is hope yet."

Still perplexed and unconvinced, Khalid sounded somewhat reserved. "That's great news, James. I really wish I could see her..."

"Then why don't you? I thought, we all thought, you were on your way here actually. What happened to you? Did Fred send you somewhere?"

"You could say that..."

"All right, I hear you. You can't talk about it, right?"

"Yes, that's right."

"But, I think you should know that I spoke to Fred myself. I was wondering why you didn't show up last Wednesday and when I found out that you had cancelled your reservations at the Sands, I called him."

"Did he say anything...?"

"Nothing, except that he didn't know where you were and that he would look into it. That's all."

"I see." Khalid was unwillingly terse, but he couldn't bring himself to tell James why he had made such a fool of himself in running after Isaac—or whatever his name was.

"Okay, now that you're up-to-date, the question is: when can we expect you?"

"I wish I could be in Vancouver tomorrow, but at this point, I have no idea when I will cross the Atlantic again."

That statement took James aback. Khalid's voice was that of a man who had come at the end of his tether. "Okay, Khalid. You must be tired. Maybe you could call me again... soon I hope."

"I'll do that," Khalid replied evasively. "Oh, I almost forgot. I'll be able to write to you now. While I was in the States... I bought a new laptop... and if you wouldn't mind, I will email you." This childish remark came out of his mouth and he regretted having said it the moment he uttered the words. To admit that he was thrilled with his acquisition was so out of character for him. Being happy about buying something as common these days as a computer, put him among the uneducated people of this world, he thought. He was annoyed with himself.

"Good! Glad to hear it." James paused again. "I better let you get on with whatever you were doing. Just keep in touch, okay?"

"I'll do that, yes, of course..."

When Khalid hung up, he went to sit in front of the fireplace. He was exhausted. The enormity of his error dawned on him; it crept inside his brain as if a disease had slowly invaded his mind. He couldn't believe what he had done. He had gone through this malefic plan on the spur of the moment. Although guided by the words of Mr. Badawee, he was the one who had built this whole castle of cards—a vengeful, evil construction of deceptions that he thought would appease his anger—that had come crashing at his feet in Sydney.

He got up, went to the phone again, picked up the receiver hesitantly at first, but then more decisively dialed Pierre Masson's number.

"Pierre?" he said as soon as the pilot said hello.

"Ah, Khalid, you've made it back. How was your stay in Canada?"

"Well..., it was a bit eventful, but interesting, shall we say." Khalid wanted to bury his Australian jaunt among the memories to be forgotten as soon as possible.

"Good. Are we going somewhere else then? Because you're not calling just to say you're back, I guess."

That remark told Khalid that he had ignored the friendship he had developed between him and Pierre for too long. "Yes. Actually, I'd like to go back to Canada. Say by the end of the week. Could you be ready by then?"

"No problem. Are we going back to Ottawa?"

"No, not this time, Pierre. We'll stop over in Montreal and then go on to Vancouver as originally planned."

"Sounds good..." Pierre hesitated. "Would you want to take the controls this time? It's been some time since you've put in a few hours."

"Yes, I think I will. And you're right, I need to put in the hours."

"Do you want to take a dry run during the week then?"

"Do you think that's necessary?"

"Yes, Khalid, I do. You've been away for months now, so I think it's absolutely necessary, yes." The firmness in the pilot's voice didn't escape Khalid's notice.

"All right then, let me know when."

"I'll call you as soon as we're ready."

Throughout this short conversation, Khalid remembered the words of his uncle; " _If you do see her, give her my regards. What she suffered is my fault_." Not only did the wish demonstrated that his family was not holding any grudges against Talya, but it also gave Khalid pause. Why was his uncle saying what she suffered was his fault?

## Chapter 32

Auckland was not Samuel's only and last stopover before reaching Vancouver. He knew he would have to get lost for at least a week while traveling in the direction of his ultimate destination. The best way to do that in the middle of the Pacific was to take a cruise. Seven days at sea would give him time to plan his next move once he landed in Vancouver. He had left his laptop and cell phone in Melbourne at the hotel. Even if the police would ever get their hands on either item, they would not be able to track him down. He had destroyed the hard drive from the computer and taken the memory chip out of the phone. He bought another laptop and disposable cell at the airport's duty-free shop in Auckland, and since there was still time to get to the cruise line's office, he took a cab to the port. He looked at the board of departing ships for that night or next morning and opted for a cruise that would take him to Fiji. From there he could take another cruise either to Vancouver or to Central America, depending on how he felt at the time. Mossad had taught him a long time ago never to rush to a destination or let any pursuer deduce where he was intending to go in the end. Costa Rica would be another option, he thought.

Since he didn't want to be noticed amid the favorite passengers, or being asked 'to the Captain's table' anytime during the cruise, he decided to book the trip traveling on the lower deck of the ship. He got a cabin with bunk beds, shower and private lavatory. That arrangement suited him just fine since there wasn't anyone else booked in the same cabin.

The ship sailed at 7:00PM that evening. Samuel was aboard a half hour prior to sailing, which allowed him the time to make it to the upper deck and watch the farewell dance on the pier performed by the local Maori dancers.

## Chapter 33

As soon as Mark reached the Sydney airport he went to the Qantas counter and got his boarding pass. He rushed through the security gates and got to a payphone. He slipped his credit card along the slider, got a dial tone and punched Fred's number at home. He didn't care what time it was; he needed to let the Chief know what he was doing and get him to detail someone to Vancouver asap. Samuel had almost 24 hours on him.

"Fred Gibson," the man groaned. It was 5:00AM in Ottawa.

"Chief, listen, we've got to move fast..."

"Mark?" Fred said his voice gruff with sleep. "Where are you?"

"I'm boarding a flight to Vancouver in a half-an-hour. Samuel is already gone. Get someone to Vancouver as soon as you can, Chief. Talya is Samuel's next target..."

"Hold on, Mark..." Fred's unease was audible now.

Mark paid no attention. "No time, Chief, I've got to go..."

"Don't you hang up on me, boy!" Fred roared, flinging the covers aside and sitting on the edge of the bed. It was too late, though; Mark had already hung up.

Fred looked at the receiver in his hand, then banged it in the cradle and went to take a shower. He knew it would take Mark at least 15 hours to reach Vancouver, if he got a direct flight. If not, it would take him maybe 20 hours or more to get to the BC coast.

As soon as he was dressed, he got down to the kitchen and took the time to gulp down a large glass of orange juice before heading down to his car. He knew he was in for a long day, but he would grab something to eat after he would have set the wheels in motion.

On the one hand, he thought Mark was right, Talya was next in line to be eliminated, yet there were two issues about it that bothered him. Why would Mossad choose Samuel to take her out? And Badawee's words rang through his brains repeatedly; "She is Jewish..."

Could it be that he was right? Mossad was trying to enrol her and not kill her. "But why?" he yelled, slamming his big palms on the wheel of his car as he was driving to his office. Thank goodness she was tucked away somewhere on that island. They wouldn't know where she was, or so he hoped.

When he got to the car park, he slid his window down and stopped beside the security officer. "Get her parked in my spot, Dex; I've got to get upstairs."

Although a bit surprised to see the Chief come in so early, Dex only nodded. "No problem. Shall I get the keys upstairs to you?"

"Sure," Fred said, extracting his huge body out of the front seat.

"Okay." Dex slid in behind the wheel as soon as Fred had climbed out of the vehicle.

Once he was sitting behind his desk, Fred called Jimmy, his assistant, and told him to get to the office on the double. "Oh, and get me a tall latte with something to eat on the way, will you?" Fred added before hanging up.

Next, he dialed Sorenson's number. He smiled to himself, knowing he would be interrupting his evening meal. "My turn, buddy," he mumbled.

"232-45-056," Sorenson said as he picked up the receiver.

"Chief Sorenson, please," Fred said, with overstated politeness.

"Sorenson speaking. Who's calling?"

"Sorry to bother you, Sorenson, but if you've got a minute, I'd like to confirm something with you. This is Fred Gibson, but I think you knew that..."

"Yes, Chief Gibson, I knew that, as you say. What is it you want me to confirm?" Sorenson's voice was as dry as an emery board.

"Simply this; have you been able to determine for a fact that Agent Meshullam has left Australia?"

"The simple answer is no, Gibson. Your Agent Gilford _demanded_ to be relieved of his duty and to have free passage back to Canada. We granted his request because he made a good argument to the effect that Agent Meshullam had been informed of being the subject of a warrant for his arrest, besides which, he must have been advised already of Mr. Sadir's removal. More than that I couldn't say."

"Thanks, Sorenson. Would you do me one last favor? And then I promise I'll leave you alone for the next century."

Sorenson chuckled, noticeably mellowing. "All right, Gibson, what is it?"

"If you know anyone in Sydney or Melbourne where Meshullam grew up or where he was staying lately, would you interview them for us?"

"Hum..., let me think... No one really comes to mind, although I went through his dossier thoroughly, but let me give it another check and ring you back. May I ask why? Why would you need such information?"

"Call it a hunch. Something tells me there has to be a reason behind Mossad sending Meshullam to eliminate Ms Kartz. And if they're not after her hide, I'd want to know what the possible connection between the two is."

"I see. As I said, let me see what I can do. I'll ring you back in a day or so, when I have something to report."

"Great! Thanks again, Sorenson. I'll owe you one."

"That you will, Gibson, you can be sure of it."

A roar of laughter out of Fred's mouth accompanied his putting the phone down.

"The guy is priceless," Fred said aloud as Jimmy appeared at the same moment through the door.

The young man was carrying a bag of what looked like bagels and lox in the one hand and a tray with two coffees in the other. "Did I hear you correctly? Did you say someone is priceless? Who was that?"

"Chief Sorenson."

"Oh? Has something happened to Agent Gilford?" Jimmy deposited his load on the Chief's desk.

Fred grabbed the bag, rummaged through it and pulled one of the bagels out. "No, nothing happened..., yet." He took the coffee from the tray and handed the bag back to Jimmy. "But he's flying back to Vancouver today and he thinks we should dispatch another agent to watch over Ms Kartz before Meshullam gets there."

Jimmy sat down, took the second bagel out of the bag and laid it on a napkin in front of him. "But why would _they_ choose Agent Meshullam to harm Ms Kartz? Isn't he the one who shot her?"

Chewing contentedly, Fred said, "Exactly, my dear Jimmy. Exactly my point. See, if Mossad really wanted her out of the picture, they wouldn't go to the trouble of sending Meshullam to do the deed. Any agent on their payroll could do that."

"Hum... Yes. So, what's the reason?" Jimmy drank some of his latte, and began eating. "What about Agent Sadir? I heard he's been removed."

"Yeah, and that's another mystery. The CIA has been very cagey about that. I don't know what they're hoping to accomplish. And I don't know where he is, and that bothers me."

"Well then, if I may suggest, sir, wouldn't it be a good idea to get in touch with your contact in Washington?"

Fred wiped his mouth, drank a bit more coffee and reclined in his seat. "Yes, Jimmy, it would be a good idea if it were not for the fact that I know the CIA is concocting something and they're not ready to let me in on it."

"Why would that be?"

"Because, that's the nature of the beast. They do not tell anyone what they're doing until the very last moment or until it's too late for us to do anything. They think they've got the world by the tail until they face a catastrophe."

"Like nine-eleven."

"Yeah. And now that you've reminded me of something, would you mind verifying if Prince Khalid has returned to Paris and if he's staying put?"

"No problem," Jimmy said, then hazarded "May I ask you something?"

"Sure, go ahead."

"What if Mossad wasn't after Ms Kartz after all?"

Fred frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Well, sir, from where I'm sitting, it seems strange that Agent Meshullam is going to Vancouver..."

"And...?"

"Well..., if we suppose that Mr. Sadir has been steered to the Pacific Coast, maybe the two men have been ordered to meet somehow... Or maybe Mr. Sadir had told Mr. Meshullam to meet in Vancouver. I don't know..."

Fred was staring, his eyes fixed on Jimmy's face. "I think you've got something there. Let's hear the rest of it."

"I don't really know, but I should think the CIA wants Sadir to fall into Mossad's hands somehow. Maybe, they've got an idea that we could catch Sadir red-handed and try him in Canada..." He shook his head. "I really don't know how to piece this all together, sir. I'm just seeing everybody wanting to go to Vancouver all of a sudden. It's like waiting for Apostle Peter in Rome's arena..."

"As I said, Jimmy, you've got something there. If you're right, Sadir is on his way to BC. Get Badawee in here. He's got to hear this."

"But it's only 7:00AM, sir."

"I don't care if it's 2:00AM—get him in here!"

Grabbing the leftovers of their breakfast, Jimmy got to his feet and nodded. "Right away, sir."

"Oh, and tell him we'll meet in his office. He's got that whiteboard he loves so much..."

Jimmy smiled and walked out.

## Chapter 34

"Sergeant Phillips, would you ask Officer Carvey to come to my office as soon as possible?" Sorenson said on the phone. "I have something I'd like him to do for me."

"Right away, sir," the sergeant replied. "Did you want to see Delgado as well?"

"No, not at the moment. I'll be expecting him as soon as he's free."

"Yes, sir."

Putting the receiver down, the sergeant shrugged and called Carvey.

"What's up, Sergeant?" Carvey answered distractedly, his focus remaining on whatever he was doing.

"Get your butt upstairs on the double. Sorenson wants you."

When he heard the chief's name, Carvey jumped up. "Yes, Sergeant, on my way."

Being aware that the door of the chief's inner office would probably be wide open, Carvey adjusted his tie, passed his fingers through his hair and checked there was no speck of dust on his trousers before he entered the anteroom.

He knocked on the open door. Sorenson didn't lift his head, but said, "Come in, Officer Carvey. Close the door."

Carvey did as he was told and came to stand at attention in front of the chief's desk.

Still not looking up, Sorenson said, "Sit down, Carvey."

Carvey did, and waited.

Finally, Sorenson raised his gaze to him. "Here is what I want you to do. Take this ticket." He handed the officer the airline's folder and a note with a name and address typed on it. "Get yourself down to Melbourne on the noon-flight and go to that address." Carvey looked at the piece of paper and wondered what it all meant.

Sorenson fixed his gaze on his man and pulled out of an envelope a recent photo of Talya. "I want you to interview Millicent Harsinai. I want to know what her connection to Samuel Meshullam is. Moreover, I want to know if she recognizes Ms Kartz from this photo" —he continued handing him the picture— "or if the name means anything to her."

"May I ask why we are doing this, sir? I thought we were done with this Mossad agent."

"Well, you thought wrong, Officer Carvey. Until I say the file is closed, it will remain very much open. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir, perfectly clear. Thank you, sir." At these words, Carvey got up, and took his leave.

But before he reached the door, Sorenson called him back. "One more thing, Carvey..."

Pivoting on his heels, Carvey retraced his steps to come to stand in front of the chief's desk again. "Yes, sir."

"Take an overnight case with you. I may want you to stay in Melbourne for a couple of days, depending on the information you obtain from Mrs. Harsinai."

"Yes, sir, I'll do that, sir."

"All right, on your way then."

As soon as Carvey had left his office, Sorenson called the sergeant again. "Would you send Officer Delgado to see me now?"

"Yes, sir, right away, sir." As the sergeant hung up, he saw Carvey come back. "What's up?" Not waiting for an answer, he called out to Delgado. "You're up next, Delgado."

"All right, Sergeant." As Carvey reached his desk, Delgado took the time to ask, "What did he say?"

"I'm on the next flight to Melbourne."

"Bloody hell, what's going on?" Delgado blurted in disbelief. "What will you be doing there?"

"Interviewing a Millicent Harsinai."

"Really? Mama mia! You've pulled the right number there, mate."

"Why? Has she got good knockers?"

After the laughter from their mates died down, Delgado said, "No, mate, she's on the bestsellers list. She's an author. Didn't you know?"

"What did you expect from Muscle Man?" a constable asked.

"He knows nothing about poetry, mate. He hasn't got your Italian blood," another officer remarked from a neighbouring desk.

"All right. No, I didn't know she was a bloody author. All I know is that I've got an interview with her and..."

"All right, Delgado," the Sergeant said. "Get going. Sorenson is probably having kittens by now."

When Delgado sat down opposite the chief, he had no idea what was expected of him. They had quite a few cases open at the moment; any of them could be requiring particular attention.

"All right, Delgado, what I want you to do is rather simple. I need you to go to King Avenue, verify that Samuel has left the premises, ascertain when he left, and find his car at the airport."

Delgado's eyes grew wide. "Sir..., do we know what sort of car he drove?"

"Yes, we do. You will get the details from Sergeant Phillips."

"And what do I do with the car, once I find it?"

Sorenson looked at the officer as if he were a child visiting the principal's office for the first time.

"You ring the SOCO team to have it towed away back to the lab and then you come back here."

"Is that it?"

"Yes, that's it, Officer Delgado, apart from writing a detailed report of your findings in King Avenue."

"May I ask why we're doing this?"

"Because I'm asking you to do it."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

"Close the door behind you," Sorenson added when Delgado was about to leave.

When he reached the Incident Room again, Delgado noticed Carvey was already gone. "He hoofed it off already?" He looked around him for anyone who cared to pay attention to him.

A constable looked up. "What did you expect? You two are not attached at the hips, are you?"

Delgado shrugged. He gathered his note pad, car keys and was about to make his way out of the Incident Room when the sergeant at the head of the row of desks called to him.

"Yes, Sergeant?"

"Here's the information you needed about that car." Sergeant Phillips handed Delgado a note with license plate number and description of Samuel's Jaguar on it. "And when you get in Meshullam's house, don't touch anything. We'll get the SOCO team on site as soon as you've determined the house hasn't been occupied since the bloke left."

"Okay, mate. Thanks for that."

"Don't mention it. We've lost a lot of time. We should have been on top of that bloke since we've had his warrant. Anyway, let's get this thing settled properly now..."

"Yes, Sergeant."

## Chapter 35

As soon as Namlah Badawee reached his office, carrying his coffee, he sat down, punched the intercom button and waited until Gibson picked up the phone.

"I see you've made it," Fred said. "Thanks for coming in early. Jimmy and I will be right over. Stay where you are."

"I'll be waiting," Namlah answered, sipping on his coffee. He wondered what could be that urgent to be called so early in the day for a meeting. He shrugged, deposited the large latte on the side of the desk and opened the Meshullam file.

Gibson knocked on the lawyer's open door.

"Come in, come in, Chief. Good morning. Have a seat. And you too, Jimmy," Namlah invited.

"Okay," Fred began, "Jimmy here gave me an idea, and I'd like you to hear him out."

"Sure. What's on your mind, Jimmy?"

"Well, sir, I've been thinking of all these people popping out of nowhere and suddenly going to Vancouver..."

Namlah held up a hand. "Sorry to interrupt you, but what 'people' are you referring to?"

"There's that Agent Meshullam, then there was Prince Khalid, and then I suspect Agent Sadir could also be on his way there."

Namlah's eyebrows shot up. "What would make you think Agent Sadir is going to Vancouver?"

"Well, sir, I'm thinking of the way he's been removed, and why."

"Okay, go on."

"See, he's the one who supposedly found Slimane's location—when no one had any idea where the man was. Then, he is the one who sent Prince Khalid to Australia. I'm sure, though, the prince had the same thing in mind. I mean he probably wanted to avenge Ms Kartz's attack at some point. He already wanted to do that ever since she was shot. Anyway..., then, as soon as we decided to bring Agent Meshullam back, Sadir gets nervous and tells everyone he's going on holidays..."

It was Fred's turn to look surprised. "How do you know that?"

"Well..., the message, sir..., it said that he's taking a leave of absence..."

"So?"

Jimmy shook his head. "Don't you see? If he's the one who's alerted Agent Meshullam that things were going south on him, he probably decided to get out before the CIA got the wind up."

"But it's the CIA who removed him...?"

"No, that's not the way I see it. The CIA probably did in a way, yes, but all they really wanted to know is where he intended to go when he said he was taking a holiday."

"And when did you figure out Sadir was going to Vancouver, or how did you come to that conclusion?" Namlah asked, stroking his moustache.

"Well, this is the thing, sir, I don't know it for a fact, but since the CIA is onto Sadir for some time now and since they're keeping tabs on Meshullam, they probably put Sadir where he would find Meshullam..."

"You mean they're trying to force a confrontation?"

Jimmy nodded vigorously. "Yes, sir. That's what I think. By my way of thinking, if Meshullam has been ordered back to Vancouver it's not only to get Sadir between four eyes, but to protect Ms Kartz."

"But why?" Fred blurted.

Namlah decided to answer that one. "Chief, if Mossad spared Ms Kartz once, they're not coming back to finish the job. From what you said, Jimmy, and I would have a tendency to agree, Sadir is the target—not Ms Kartz."

"You mean Mossad wants to get his hide?"

"Absolutely, Chief, if we go by Jimmy's surmise. And I think we should."

"And that thing you said the other day about the CIA trying to find proofs of Sadir's involvement in Slimane's death; is that what Mossad is afraid of?"

"Yes and no." Namlah lost him. "What I mean is this; if Mossad got rid of Slimane is most likely because he took matters in his own hands when he sent faulty weapons to Israel..."

Fred said, "You mean the CIA was in on Slimane's killing?"

"Yes."

"But then why would they need proof, if they were in it together with Mossad?"

"Simple. They want proof _against_ Sadir. Evidence that he knew where Slimane was, and organized his killing."

"But isn't Mossad the one who sent Meshullam to kill Slimane?"

"Yes, but, they only did when Sadir revealed his location."

"Good God! Are you telling me Sadir was the one behind the faulty arms' shipment?"

"I guess that's what I'm saying," Namlah concluded. "And for a Mossad man to be involved in arms shipment to Israel is one thing, but when Slimane allegedly began shipping faulty weapons, Mossad got angry. The only one who was liable to do that was an Islamic Radical. So, when they followed the lead back to its origin they found none other than Agent Sadir—a Muslim man."

## Chapter 36

Carvey arrived in Caroline Street at about three o'clock. He had been told Millicent was home in the afternoon generally. He parked the rental car nearby and made his way up the street and down the laneway leading to the entrance of the building. He looked up at the row of tall pines lining the lane and facing the apartments' terraces. _Well hidden from any peeping Toms_ , he thought, _but climbing these trees would give any burglars easy access to the flats._

He rang the doorbell marked "Harsinai" and waited. When he heard an aging woman call down to him, he looked up at the third floor balcony.

"And who might you be?" Mrs. Harsinai yelled to Carvey.

"I am Officer Sylvester Carvey, ma'am, from the New South Wales Police Headquarters."

"And what would a New South Wales Police Officer be doing at my door?"

"If I may come upstairs, ma'am, I shall explain."

"All right, Officer Carvey, come up," Millicent said, turning toward the inside of her flat.

Once on the top floor landing, Carvey waited for a couple of minutes in front of the door. He heard the woman rummage through things and wondered what she could be doing.

Millicent Harsinai flung the door wide-open, stood stock-still, and looked up and down at the man facing her. Her long, flowery dress enveloped her body perfectly, without enhancing her ample curves. The salt-and-pepper hair and grey eyes gave one the impression this lady was as sharp as they come.

"Aren't you an Adonis!" Millicent said to him with a broad smile lighting her face.

"I'm sorry?" Carvey blurted. "I'm Officer Sylvester Carvey. Were you expecting someone else?" Obviously, _Adonis_ didn't mean anything to him.

Millicent burst into laughter, putting one hand in front of her mouth and tapping the officer on the arm with the other. "No-no, dear, nothing of the sort... But do come in, come in."

"Yes, ma'am, thank you."

"Have a seat." She pointed to a sofa along the far wall of what Carvey thought would be a very nice lounge room if it weren't for the table and computer encumbered of papers, folders, books, and for the files being strewn about the floor or being piled precariously atop the other pieces of furniture. "And don't be surprised with the mess, I'm a writer, as you probably know, and this is my office..."

"Not to worry, ma'am, I understand." Carvey sat down, no longer looking at the mess but at the pictures that adorned the walls. There were several of flowers, a couple depicting a street scene, and another three—landscapes, apparently of the same area.

Millicent cleared a chair of the books that filled the seat, and plopped herself into it.

She noticed his eyes traveling around the walls of the room. "Ah, yes," she said, "my paintings. Do you like them?"

"I'm no connoisseur, Mrs. Harsinai, but they're very beautiful."

"Indeed. I love them. A dear friend of mine painted them for me. I mean, not exactly _for me_ , but she left them to me when she passed."

"Oh, I'm sorry..."

"Don't be..." Millicent waved a hand in front of her. "She's in a better place now."

Carvey didn't know how to reply, so he said nothing and lowered his eyes to the floor.

"But, I'm sure you didn't come all this way to talk about my friend's paintings, so what brought you down to Melbourne and to my home?"

He looked up. He didn't know how he would tackle this. "Well, ma'am..." He hesitated. "It has come to our attention that you have a friend by the name of Samuel Meshullam."

Millicent's face paled. She seemed frozen in time and place. "What happened?" Her voice was trembling. "Has there been an accident? Is he all right?"

"Yes, ma'am, as far as we know, he is fine."

She let out an audible sigh, placed a hand on her chest, and reclined in the chair.

"I'm sorry, Officer Carvey, but you see, at my age we seem only to expect the law to come knocking when bad news need to be delivered."

"I understand," Carvey said, yet he didn't. "The reason I'm here is because we thought you might be able to give us some insights as to where he could be at this time."

"You mean you're looking for him? Is he a fugitive? Don't tell me." Millicent waved an open hand in front of her in denial. "He can't have done whatever he's accused of, I'm sure."

Carvey shook his head. "No, ma'am, nothing like that." He had no idea how he was going to get out of that one, without antagonizing the woman.

"Then what is it?"

Carvey looked down at his feet.

"All right." Millicent appeared all of a sudden to sympathize with the officer's obvious plight. "You probably can't divulge the reason behind your query, is that it?"

"Yes, ma'am, that's correct."

"Well then, why didn't you say so?" She stared at him for a moment. "Well, far from me to impede your investigation, because I'm sure that's what this is, let me tell you as much as I can about Samuel."

Carvey, without a word, took his notebook out of his pocket, and, pen poised, looked at Millicent expectantly.

"Let me tell you first that I have not seen Samuel for almost two years now. In itself, that fact is not surprising. He's told me that he's working for a large organization in Israel, and he only comes home for a few weeks from time to time."

"You think he has not come back for the past two years then?"

"That's right. You see, I leave this apartment every winter and take myself up to my house on the Sunshine Coast until October. I find the winters in Melbourne too enduring for me. While I was away, Samuel stayed at my place when he was in town. He would always give me a ring before he would come in, so I would know how long he would be staying."

"And this year, he has not rung you to tell you he was coming to stay?"

"No. So far he hasn't."

"Would it surprise you if I told you that he's been staying in Sydney for the past several months then?"

"That it would. Yes, indeed it would, Officer Carvey. Yet, if I think about it, he might have wanted to stay near the Manly beaches...."

Carvey was all ears now. "And why would you say that, ma'am?"

"Well, you see, for one thing, Samuel is an avid swimmer and one must admit that Melbourne's surrounding waters are nothing compared to those of Sydney, wouldn't one?"

"Yes, ma'am, I'd say you've got a point there," Carvey replied, grinning.

"On the other hand, Samuel often visited my friend, Eugenie..."

"Who's that?"

"Oh, I'm sorry..., didn't I say?"

"No, ma'am, you didn't."

"Well then..., Eugenie is the artist who painted these" Millicent ran her extended arm around the room. "Eugenie did all these from her flat in Sydney."

"And Samuel was acquainted with the artist?"

"Oh yes. Actually, he was more interested in her daughter, Talya."

In a jerk, Carvey dropped his pen. He could not believe what he had heard. It had to be a mistake.

"You look surprised, Officer. Have I said something curious?"

Picking up his pen from the floor, Carvey uttered, "Yeah..., I mean, yes, ma'am. Would you mind if I ask you if you recognize this woman?" Carvey pulled out Talya's photo from the back of his notebook and handed it to the lady.

"Oh my! After all these years! Yes, yes, that's Talya Krist."

"Pardon me, but did you say 'Talya Krist'?"

"Sure, she was the daughter of Eugenie Krist. Why? Does she have another name now?"

"We know her as Ms Kartz."

"Oh yes, of course. How silly of me. Talya married a man by the name of Moses Rubenstein. The marriage didn't last but a year or two, and then Eugenie told me that she chose to revert to her grandmother's name—Kartz. Her grandmother was from Poland, you see, and she always wanted to observe the Jewish tradition of keeping the family name."

"Why not Krist then, since that was her birth name?" Carvey asked with curiosity.

"As I understand it, she didn't want to live in the shadow of her father. She admired him; oh yes, there was even adoration in that young woman's heart, but she needed to be her own person."

"May I ask how you know Ms Kartz so well?"

"Oh of course, you don't know... Talya Krist, as I knew her, was a very talented writer. She was amazing. I tell you, she wrote poetry and prose like no one else I knew. To this day, I have not met another child like her. And her mother asked me if I could take her under my wing, sort of thing, and I did. For a few years, while they stayed in Melbourne, Talya would come to me and I tried to teach her." Millicent paused. She seemed to be lost in her recollection of the time with her pupil. "Teach her, is not quite correct," she went on musingly. "You see, she had it in her. It was very much an innate talent, a gift, if you prefer. All I did was to help her forge her knowledge."

Carvey could not believe his luck. Sorenson had been right. There was a connection between Samuel and Talya. "And Samuel was well acquainted with Talya then?"

Millicent nodded, still lost in thought.

"But you said she married someone else; that Moses bloke. How did that happen?"

"I don't exactly know. Talya wanted to escape, be her own woman, as I said. I guess this marriage provided an opportunity for her to be away from a very protective, even possessive mother, enabling her to blossom into the marriage."

"I gather she didn't get what she wanted"

"You're right. Moses expected a lot from Talya and she had nothing to offer. I mean she couldn't have children and all she cared about was to travel; to re visit some of the places where she grew up. Yet, Moses was a sedentary man. He was everything Talya wasn't."

"Why didn't she marry Samuel then, if he was so taken with her?"

"Ah, yes. Well, Samuel had a lot of travel in his blood as well, and he really didn't want a marriage to tie him down. Besides, Talya felt she needed to look after her mother—before she met Moses that is. She was getting on in years by then. She gave birth to her daughter very late in life and she relied very much on Talya for everything."

As he was finishing taking down what Millicent had told him, Carvey raised his head to her. "One last question, Mrs. Harsinai, if you have no objection"

"No-no, go ahead, but I don't know what else I could tell you about Samuel or Talya."

Nevertheless, Carvey decided to try. "Do you know if Talya and Samuel kept in touch after Talya's divorce, in particular?"

"That, I wouldn't know. Besides, when Moses signed the 'Get' for Talya..."

Carvey fixed his gaze on the old woman. "Sorry to cut you off, Mrs. Harsinai, but what is a 'Get'?"

"Oh, of course, you don't know. It's a letter. According to Jewish law, the man who accepts or wants to divorce his wife writes a letter that releases her from her bonds to him."

"I see, and Talya got this letter?"

"Yes, she did, and right after that, I think Moses went back to Israel... Oh, I remember now; he was killed in a car crash. I'm sorry I had completely forgotten about that."

"That's all right, ma'am."

Millicent didn't seem to have heard his comment. She went on, "You see, Talya left Australia soon after her mother's death. That would be three years ago now. She went back to Vancouver, I believe. As for Samuel, he was already gone to assume his function in Tel-Aviv, some three or four years before that. And I didn't hear Talya mention correspondence of any sort between the two before her mother died."

"Well, thank you so much for your assistance, Mrs. Harsinai. It was a pleasure meeting you."

"The pleasure was all mine, young man. It's not often I get the visit of _Adonis_...," Millicent joked. Carvey looked at her curiously. "I can see you don't know Adonis, do you?"

"No, ma'am, I don't. Is he someone else I should know?"

Millicent giggled. "No, dear, no-no, he is a mythical man of great beauty—just like you!"

Carvey didn't know what to do. He decided to ignore the remark and just smiled. "Thank you." He got to his feet.

"Don't mention it, Officer Carvey."

When Carvey left the building, he was elated. He had never felt so thrilled during his career. He had not made a long awaited arrest of a famous perpetrator; he had not participated in an overwhelming task force of any sort; yet he had interviewed an old woman, and in less than an hour had unlocked the door to making the connection to an international plot between the powers of this world. He knew now how Mark Gilford felt and why he was such a good agent.

## Chapter 37

Within minutes of the news reaching Sorenson's ears, he was on the phone with Fred Gibson. Once again, unfortunately, he had awakened the big man in the middle of the night.

"I'll be damned!" Fred uttered when Sorenson told him what Carvey had learned in Melbourne. He was sitting on the edge of the bed and had a hard time grasping the impact this news would have on what they knew of Talya and Samuel. "Thanks, Sorenson. Have a good night then."

"Same to you, Gibson, and I'm sorry to have woken you."

"Anytime, Sorenson, anytime."

As he put the phone down, Fred shook his head and lay down again. He had to think what he needed to do next. Samuel was not going to kill Talya, and the only reason he had shot her last year was possibly to protect her from going any further into the investigation or from finding out Sadir was a man to be feared. He thought of Mark. He had to stop him as soon as he landed in Vancouver, which would have been in a couple of hours. There was no time to send anyone to meet him at the airport. He would need to get the customs' office involved. Fred smiled to himself. Mark was in for another _apprehension_ by the authorities. He was not going to like it.

## Chapter 38

The landing at YVR was one of the roughest Mark had ever experienced. The aircraft seemed to bounce over the tarmac several times before finally rolling down toward the airport. As soon as he cleared the gangway, happy to be out of that overloaded cattle carrier, he saw the two officers who were waiting for him. _Not again,_ he thought, when the two men approached him.

"Passport, sir?" the taller of the two said to Mark.

He dropped his shoulder bag to the ground and showed him his travel documents.

"Welcome home, Agent Gilford. This way, please."

"Do you have any luggage that you would want to retrieve?" the second customs' officer asked him as they were taking the escalator down toward their offices.

"No, I usually travel light," Mark sniggered.

"Do you have any weapons with you or on you?"

"That's another no, Officer. I usually use the weapons given to me by the authorities of the country I visit. And Australia didn't need me to do anything which involved weapons of any kind."

Gilbert nodded and said, "Agent Gilford, we have been instructed to ask you to remain in Vancouver until Mr. Samuel Meshullam disembark at this airport." Mark's jaw fell open. He thought Samuel would have been ahead of him. "I see that you thought Agent Meshullam had already reached our coast."

"Yes, that's right," Mark replied.

"Well, I am sorry to disappoint you in that regard, but no, Agent Meshullam has not crossed any of the borders in and around Vancouver."

"Is Ms Kartz all right?" was Mark's next question. He figured he would ask since these two seemed well informed.

"Yes, she is okay. She's still on Bowen Island. We've had reports from our police department that she's been seen in company of a Dr. Aziz Hendrix at quite a few locations on the island."

"Okay then, that's great news. Would you know which is the shortest way to that island and where I could find her?"

"We would, sir, but the orders from Ottawa are for you to remain in Vancouver. You should contact your boss as soon as you reach your hotel, but you are to stay at the Hyatt on Burrard Street meanwhile."

"Well, thanks, Officer... What is your name?"

"Gilbert, sir, and this is Officer Jacobin." He nodded in the direction of his colleague.

"Nice to meet you guys," Mark replied, standing up.

"One more thing, Agent Gilford, before you go..."

"Yes?"

"You will have no access to any firearms while you are in the city, or until the police tell you otherwise. Is that clear?"

Mark was surprised. _What if Samuel comes after me, what then?_ "Perfectly, Officer Gilbert, I'll keep that in mind. Can I go now?"

"Yes. Thanks for stopping by," Jacobin replied, a smirk on his face.

Mark was not listening. He was out the door like a shot. _What had happened?_ he wondered. No rifle; no going to the island; no moving until further orders; and why the Hyatt? That was all too strange for an exhausted agent to figure out.

## Chapter 39

Talya was relaxing on the terrace of her room. The prospect of being alone on the island was far from a pleasant one. She was getting bored. She had left her writing aside for far too long. It was high time for her to get back in front of her computer. That thought reminded her of the time she had spent with Millicent in Melbourne. _What is the woman doing now?_ she wondered. She gripped the armrests of the chair fiercely. She had blocked out the memory of Isaac since the shooting, but now, and quite suddenly, his face came to mind. Isaac was Samuel. No matter how many times she had tried to deny the fact, there was no escaping it; Samuel was the one who had put her in that wheelchair. She looked at it and wished she could have kicked it out of sight.

The double doors were slightly open. Jay Kravits was about to knock when he heard Talya scream. Not waiting for an answer, he swung the doors open and ran to the terrace. Talya was yelling for all to hear. " _I know it's him. I know it's him! But why did he do that to me?_ "

## Chapter 40

"Chief, this is Mark," he said when he heard Fred pick up the phone. He had arrived at the Hyatt a half hour earlier. He had dropped his shoulder bag on the bed, and had rushed into the shower. Still finding this whole thing very odd, Mark wanted to stay alert when he would be talking to Fred.

"Ah good! You've made it. How you feeling?"

"Never mind that, Chief, what's going on here?"

"The short answer is you're staying at the Hyatt and put Muhammad Sadir under surveillance."

"Sadir? What would he be doing here? What about Samuel? Where is he?"

"He'll come in his own good time, don't worry about him."

"Come on, Chief, what's happening? Has the world turned upside down while I was in that _frigging_ plane?"

"Language, boy! I've told you before, none of the 'F' words with me, okay?"

"Okay, Chief, I'm sorry. Just tell me what's going on."

"It's a long story, Mark, and I don't have time right now. But I'll tell you this; Samuel is a friend of Talya. He's known her almost since the first day she was in Australia."

Mark was dumbfounded. "If that's true, why would he be here? Wouldn't he want to be as far as he could from this place?"

"No, Mark, not quite. See, we've finally come up with an answer as to who was behind the sale of faulty weapons to Israel. And Sadir appears to be that person."

"And Samuel is after him now...?"

"Right."

"But what about him killing Slimane if Mossad knew he wasn't the traitor?"

"Because Mossad didn't know—or Sadir managed to convince the powers-that-be he was a traitor to Israel. When we get to talk to Samuel, we'll know better."

"And I gather that's why it was so easy for Sadir or Samuel to point the finger at Prince Abdullah," Mark suggested.

"Yes, although, that's not as clear-cut as you'd think, because there was a lot more involved in that affair than sending faulty armaments to Israel." Fred paused. "Anyway, right now, we've got to worry about Sadir. If he came to Canada, it's for a reason, and we want to know what that is. We're hoping it's not to tickle a terrorist cell along the West Coast."

"Am I going to work alone on this one?" Mark asked somewhat anxiously.

"No, you're not. We've been asked for you to work with Jack Lypsick."

"Who's Jack Lypsick?"

"The shrewdest agent in the CIA. He's dealt with terrorists even before it became a household word."

"What does he look like?"

"Get yourself a new cell phone and I'll send you his photo along with that of Sadir as soon as you're on line."

"What about Talya? How is she doing? Does she know about all this?"

Mark heard the chief chuckle. "One question at the time, boy."

"Sorry, sir."

"Okay. She is fine. Actually I phoned James Flaubert this morning to let him know you were back in town and to get the lowdown on her condition since Khalid came here, in Ottawa, you remember?"

"Yes, and then?"

"Well, he told me that she'll be staying on Bowen Island off the Vancouver coast for a while. There is a physiotherapist with her and if the surgeons agree, she might have an operation on her spine and she might recover the use of her legs after that."

"Wow, that's great. But why staying on Bowen?"

"Because that physio guy is staying at the same B&B and there's no hassle to have their physio sessions, when they'd live at the same place."

"What does the doctor think about it, or do you know?"

"Apparently, he's all for it. It's the best way for her to regain strength in her legs for when she'll walk again."

"Okay... Is Sadir in town already?"

"Yes—according to the report I got this morning. Anyway, Lypsick will give you the intel you'll need when you show up tomorrow morning for breakfast at the restaurant of the hotel..."

"What, or who am I supposed to be this time then?"

"A vacationing billionaire. You're waiting for Prince Khalid..."

Mark nearly dropped the phone. "Say what?"

"You heard me."

"What is he gonna do here? I don't think that's a good idea, Chief."

"Let Lypsick explain why, Mark." Fred paused, and since he heard no reaction come out of Mark, he went on, "Okay..., any more questions?"

"No, no, Chief, I don't think so. I just think Khalid shouldn't be here..."

"And I think you'll change your mind once you'd heard Lypsick... Okay, I've got to get some work done... Anything else?"

"No, I don't think so. I'll call you as soon as I've got the cell."

"Good."

"Thanks, Chief."

## Chapter 41

Sadir went through the hassle of several stopovers between D.C. and Seattle, which took him down to Denver where he had to spend the best part of the night waiting for his connecting flight to SeaTac in Washington State.

When Sadir finally reached his room, slid his electronic key in the lock, opened the door and switched on the lights, he saw Lypsick. He was sitting in a chair near the window.

"Welcome to Vancouver, Mr. Sadir," Lypsick uttered, joining the tips of his fingers in front of him.

Sadir stood in the hallway, glaring at the man. "What are you doing in my room?" The aggressiveness in his voice was undisguised. He took a few steps into the room and glanced at the two suitcases lying on the side of the desk.

Lypsick observed him walk in. "As you can see, we've got your luggage as promised."

"Yeah, but what I'd like to know is what you're doing here." Sadir dropped the key card on the dresser, and went to plop himself down on the bed.

Lypsick looked at him and sniggered. "This is probably the last time you'll see me, Mr. Sadir. I was waiting for you to let you know that from now on end, I'll be your shadow."

"What for? I haven't done anything wrong!"

"That's what they all say, Mr. Sadir. You know that better than most." Lypsick lowered his hands onto the armrests of the chair, extended his legs in front of him, and crossed them at the ankles. "In any case, we're not here to talk about others but about you. You are the one who wanted to come here. And we want to know what you have planned."

"I just wanted to go to Seattle. I never meant to come here..."

"I see. And you renting an apartment for the summer on English Bay a month ago was just a coincidence then? Was the apartment for someone else maybe?"

Sadir stood up. He looked like a trapped bear, about to stretch his big arms and throttle his assailant. "I don't know what you're talking about," Sadir growled as he took a step toward Lypsick.

The CIA man grabbed his gun out of its holster in a swift move, sat up and pointed it to Sadir's chest. "That, too, is a comment we've both heard. Sit down!" Lypsick shouted.

Sadir backtracked to the bed and sat down again, carefully this time, his eyes riveted on the barrel of the gun.

"Consider this; I could eliminate you right now—no questions asked. I would even get a bonus for getting rid of one more terrorist, but I won't do that."

"Why don't you, and be done with it?" Sadir blurted, not leaving his eyes from the gun. "You're going to do it anyway, aren't you?"

"That's where you're wrong, Sadir. What we have in mind is not as quick and as painless as a bullet through your brain would be. Remember, how long it took for Ms Kartz to get from her hospital bed onto a wheelchair? Do you?" Sadir's eyes grew wide. "Yes, three long months before she could stop screaming from the pain."

"But I wasn't the one who shot her..."

"You're right; you were not, but that's not my point. It took months for her to stop screaming and that's how long it will take for you to see any relief in our pursuit of the truth."

"What do you mean?"

"Simply this, Sadir; we're going to find out what makes you do the things you do, what makes you tick, and who's the puppeteer. And once we've find that out, we're going to try you in open court for every one of your crimes along with your cohorts. Ultimately, and unlike Ms Kartz, you will not find relief and walk free, but you'll only stare at a needle before you close your eyes forever."

"What if I were to give you what you want right now...?"

"Oh no, you don't... Besides, we would be spending months chasing our tails, again, verifying your allegations, and in the end, we would be back here wondering why we believed you, no. Sadir, your game stops right here. Now, I'm the dealer, and the hand I'm dealing you is made up of only face cards. You play your hand, and we'll see how many chips you win, that's all."

A roar of laughter escaped the fat man's mouth. "And you think I'm going to dig my own grave and give up the names of my collaborators, just because you're dealing me a hand of face cards?"

"That's exactly what you're going to do."

"You've got to be kidding me. What makes you think I would do that?"

"Ah! Very good question. I think your lovely wife and your two girls would prefer to see you rot in prison than being subjected to an accidental death, don't you think?"

Sadir shuddered. His big frame seemed to crumple into a heap of fear in front of Lypsick's eyes. "You wouldn't...!" he groaned.

"Well then, you just watch and listen to CNN while you're here. Lie to us, make one false move, and you'll hear of their demise. You got that?"

"That's blackmail! The CIA would never agree to do that..."

"Who's talking about the CIA? Don't forget our counterpart. They're really waiting to exact Moses Law on you and your family right now. Remember 'An eye for an eye'? You've got so many deaths on your conscience as far as they are concerned; they wouldn't mind giving you a taste of the same—any time now, actually."

Lypsick replaced the gun in its shoulder holster, stood up and walked out shutting the door behind him.

## Chapter 42

Mark had to get himself 'equipped' for his grand entrance as a billionaire the next morning at the hotel's restaurant. He was glad the meeting had not been scheduled for the night of his arrival. The way he felt and looked at the moment could be compared to an overdosed junky in quest of his next fix. His greasy hair, red eyes, and the sweaty smell emanating from his tired body, didn't make it easy for him to walk into the most expensive clothier in town and asked to be shown a couple of their best suits. Since he didn't have time to have the trousers altered and the jacket taken in, he chose whatever was on offer and fitted him. The sales clerk, who looked more like a personal valet than a store's assistant, frowned several times, but as etiquette demanded, didn't say a word when Mark asked to try on some of the ready-to-wear garments. He bought all of the necessary accessories, down to driving gloves and even a cane to take on his morning stroll. He thought he could give it to Talya once she would be out of her wheelchair. The thought of the cane becoming a gift drove him to choose it with superfluous care, to the gentlemen's gentleman ultimate surprise.

Once his purchases were concluded, he went to the third floor of one of the department stores and rushed into the hair stylist's salon. The young woman at the desk looked like the dominatrix of a late-night show. Leather corset, tight-fitting pants, spiky hair, offensive red lipstick and silver jewellery complemented her somewhat frightening, pale face.

"How can I help you, sir?" the woman asked.

Mark came to stand in front of her after he had dropped his many shopping bags into a nearby chair. "I'd like your stylist to give my hair a rinse to get rid of the color."

"Very well. Would next Friday at three suit you?" She scrolled down the appointment list on her computer screen.

"No."

She threw him a quick glance and returned her eyes to the screen. "How about Thursday at five o'clock?"

"How about right now?" Mark said with the firmness of one who couldn't be denied.

"I'm afraid that's impossible, sir," she replied politely, "our stylists are busy till closing today..."

"Make it possible then. You get one of them unbusy and there is a hundred in it for you."

She was all smiles now. "Bribery will get you everywhere..." While she let the remark hang in the air, she walked inside the salon and called out, "Alain? Would you mind...?"

Mark didn't hear the rest and waited until an effeminate fellow showed up through the archway.

"Ho my! What a mess," the stylist exclaimed, rounding Mark as if he were a side of beef on display at the butcher. "What have you done? Did you color those locks by yourself?"

Turning to face him, Mark finally uttered, "Yes. I was in a hurry. And I'm still in a hurry."

"Of course, my dear man, of course. Follow me. My name is Alain, by the way, and what's yours?"

This was definitely getting too friendly for the about-to-become billionaire. "Mark," he replied curtly. "Shall we get on with it?" He was already walking into the salon under the amused gaze of the receptionist. _She should get her whip out to him_ , Mark thought.

An hour and a half later, Mark reappeared, paid his bill and left a hundred dollar note on the counter, which the dominatrix swiped off, quickly saying, "My name is Belinda, Mark. If you'd like to come back sometime, I'd love to show you what I can do with the rest of you!"

Mark had enough. He walked out, shopping bags in hand, without a word.

When he got back to his room, he didn't bother unpacking. He took out the cell phone he had bought first as he got into the shopping mall, opened it, registered it with the service provider, and finally dialed Fred's number.

Already at home, Fred looked at the call display on the phone in his den and grunted.

"All right! You've got it. Good. I'll send you Lypsick right now."

Surprised that the Chief didn't let him place a word edgewise, Mark sat back and waited.

"Have you got it?" Fred asked once he got back on the line.

"Yes, thank you. What about Sadir's?"

"Yes, that's next, but it's not a very good one. Anyway, he's fat, that's really all you need to know about him."

Mark smiled to himself. Although the chief was not fat, he counted among the gigantic men of this earth—he was sure.

"Okay, Chief. I think I'll turn in now, otherwise I'm gonna fall asleep on this sofa."

"No problem. We'll talk in the morning before your first meeting with Lypsick. Phone me."

"We'll do."

Mark shouldn't have been sitting down. It took him less than thirty seconds to fall asleep where he was.

## Chapter 43

When Samuel reached Suva, he disembarked with the rest of the passengers and decided to spend the morning at the market. He wanted nothing, he needed even less, yet he wanted to lose himself among the people and maybe sit somewhere in front of a tall, refreshing juice. While walking down the street, he noticed a man sitting at a shaded terrace. He noticed him because of his white beard and his detached attitude. He climbed the couple of steps separating him from the terrace and approached the old fellow silently. He bent down to his ear and whispered, "May I join you?"

The man didn't reply but waived a hand to the chair opposite his.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, sir," Samuel began as he sat down, "but you remind me of someone I knew a long time ago and I wonder if you wouldn't mind a bit of company."

The blue eyes met Samuel's in a gentle but steady stare. "Why did you shave your head and beard?"

Samuel passed his hand over his scalp and smiled. "I needed to do it."

"Ah," the old man said, "it should have been a great need to subject yourself to such a disfigurement. Would this need be that you wanted to hide from undesired scrutiny?"

The perspicacity of the man surprised Samuel. "You're right. I didn't want some people to recognize me."

"Ah, yes, of course. And your manner of dress does not match your presence. Was that part of the need to disguise yourself, too?"

"Yes."

"Why? Why would you need to hide behind a mask that is as revealing as your eyes?"

"Yet, you do not know me. How could you tell? My appearance is all but a disguise, albeit a transparent one."

"Because, dear boy, same as you, I have known you all my life."

"That's impossible!" Samuel exclaimed. "I have never been here..."

"But this is assuming that I have lived here since birth, isn't it? And if the premise is wrong then the theorem must be false."

"May I know your name?"

"You know it already, but your mind has yet to acknowledge its recollection."

"Have you been to Australia?"

The old man shook his head, and when he did, the beard moved aside and let the pendant around his neck reflect the sunlight. It was the Star of David.

"You are Rabbi Joshua."

A thin smiled crossed the old man's lips. "Indeed I am, dear boy."

"I guess the beard and the long hair had me fooled."

"Unlike you at present, people do not often know who I am, or recognize my station in life."

"I thought a balding head would be the perfect disguise..." Samuel let the words trail off when he saw the Rabbi look at him reprovingly.

"God has given you a mind to think—nothing more, nothing less. Yet, what you do with your mind and the thoughts you engender within is up to you. The consequences of your thoughts and actions are yours to bear."

"I need to protect someone from harm, Rabbi, but before I can reach her, many men will want to stop me; that's the reason for my disguise."

"Your chivalry has rendered you blind and deaf, my son. You have expressed your wish to God in prayer, have you?"

"Yes, Rabbi, I have. And I have expressed the reason for my wish in recitations."

"Very well then. Let me assure you that your disguise however sheer it may be will not be necessary. God has seen your way to her already."

"How would you know this, Rabbi?"

Joshua's eyebrows lifted slowly and his eyes peered in those of Samuel. His regard was penetrating. Indeed, Samuel felt as translucent as a veil floating before the Rabbi's eyes.

"Do not doubt my word, child. Have the juice you wanted when you climbed those steps, when you joined me, and then go on your way. You need to be there shortly. The sooner the better, I would even say." The Rabbi then raised a hand and a little Fijian woman appeared at his side instantly, as if by magic. "Samuel here would like a papaya and mango juice, my dear. Would you mind bring it to him?"

" _Bien sûr, Rabbin, tout de suite_ ," she said in French.

Samuel had not listened to anything after Joshua had pronounced his name. "How did you know my name?" He had whispered the question as if afraid that his voice would attract attention.

"Would you prefer I call you Isaac?" the Rabbi replied, leaning to the back of the chair.

Samuel was stunned. "No, not really. I would prefer to erase that name from my memory forever."

"There is only one person on this earth who can do that. I think you know who that is, don't you?"

"Yes, Rabbi, I know. I can hardly wait to prostrate myself at her feet and ask for her forgiveness."

"Ah, thank you, Louisa," the Rabbi said to the little woman as she deposited the tall glass in front of Samuel.

Rabbi Joshua looked at Samuel while the latter sipped on his juice. He still looked like a child to him.

"Talya..." Samuel raised his head, an astonished look on his face. The Rabbi held his gaze. "Yes. Do not be surprised. I know Talya. And she will not understand why you did what you did unless you tell her how much you love her." Joshua paused. Samuel didn't believe what he was hearing. "...and, how do you expect her to come back to the fold if you don't?"

The Rabbi knew everything about him, right down to the last message he had received from Israel.

Joshua smiled. "Don't dismay yourself, my son. Someone is watching over you and the same person asked me to be there where you could find me—be across your path—to advise you to make your way to your destination sooner than planned. Evil has been caught and you need to get to Talya."

"And when you said I shouldn't worry about people recognizing me, did you mean _they_ will welcome me?"

"Yes, they will, son. You are no longer to be tried; no longer to be perceived as a criminal, but as an instrument in the wrong hands, and now as a witness to the evil deeds that have been perpetrated by the one you are to meet at your destination."

"May I ask you a question, Rabbi?"

Joshua chuckled. "You have already... but go ahead, what would be your second question?"

"Will the prince be there when I arrive?"

"I presume so. In fact, I would think he should be there. Why do you ask?"

Samuel looked down at his glass without answering.

"I see. You harbour hate in your heart for the one who only tried to save the woman from harm for many months now."

Samuel nodded.

"Moses had vengeance in his heart when he introduced the law of an eye for an eye, Samuel, and after many enactment of his uncontrollable rage, God exiled him from his sight. Do you want to be exiled from the sight of God as well?"

"No, Rabbi, I do not. I want peace. That's all I want for Talya and for me."

"Then I suggest you talk to him in peaceful terms and God will be vigilant, I assure you."

Samuel finished his juice, stood up and walked down the few steps to the sidewalk, feeling thankful. He didn't turn around immediately to wave goodbye to Rabbi Joshua, but when he did, the old man had disappeared.

## Chapter 44

The sun streaming through the windows of his room woke Mark up with a sudden jolt. He sat up and realized he was still dressed, sweaty and smelly. He grunted, shoved the cardboard box that had contained his new cell phone aside, looked at the bags on the bed and grunted some more. He felt stiff and disagreeably unrested. He pulled himself out of the sofa, stretched his arms above his head and went to take another cold shower. That cleaned him up but didn't restore him. He grabbed the hotel's robe from the peg, put it on, went to rummage through his knapsack, got his swimming trunks out, slipped them on, and walked out of the room.

Mark was not known for his liking of water, however, he found swimming the most invigorating whenever he felt tired or in need of a quick boost to his metabolism. Besides, a few laps in the pool always made him hungry, which was something he needed to be for the next phase of his assignment—breakfast with Lypsick.

A boutonnière on the lapel of his dark blue suit, a powder blue shirt, an exquisite tie completing the outfit, Mark marched down the hall, took the elevator down to the restaurant and made his entrance as if he owned the place. The morning hostess accompanied him to a table near the window, giving into Burrard Street below and retreated as soon as Mark had ordered a three-course breakfast. He unfolded the newspaper he had found under the door of his room when he had returned from the pool, and was about to start reading the financial pages, when Lypsick joined him.

He stood beside Mark. "May I join you?" Lypsick said quietly.

Mark hadn't heard the man come to stand at his side. He folded the paper and looked up. "By all means, _Mr._ Lypsick. I'm glad to see you've made it. Where have you been?"

Lypsick sat down opposite Mark and looked at him appreciatively. "Just came back from DC." He unfolded his napkin and laid it carefully onto his lap. He was impeccably dressed. Not a wrinkle on him, Mark noticed, which pleased him. He didn't like unkempt appearance. The only distracting feature perhaps was the scar on Lypsick's left cheek. The bitterness in this man's eyes was merely shadowed by the marred face.

"Anything interesting happening on Capitol Hill?" Mark asked, setting the paper on the window ledge.

"Quite a bit actually, _Mr. Van Krauss_. Where would you like me to start?"

The waitress chose this time to come to the table and deposit Mark's fruit cup in front of him. "And for you, sir?" She looked down at Lypsick.

"Coffee, toast, marmalade and orange juice. Thank you."

"Very well. Be right back," the waitress said, walking away.

Watching the young woman retreat, Mark answered, "How about giving me a rundown on our main investor's movement? Where do we stand with him?"

"You mean, Mr. MS?"

Mark had to think for a second. "Hum, yes, Mr. MS, that's right. I saw him upstairs this morning..."

"Did he acknowledge your presence?"

Mark shook his head. "I don't think he knows I'm in town..., does he?"

"No. He had no way of knowing where you were. Although, he must have gathered that you accompanied Prince Khalid to Sydney. And he actually phoned him to find out where you were..."

"Did the prince give him any indication...?"

"No, he told Mr. MS to get his information from Chief Gibson."

Mark smiled inwardly, recognizing Khalid's own cunning in that answer.

Seeing that the two men were in the middle of their conversation, the waitress put down Lypsick's toasts and juice in front of him unobtrusively, poured coffee in his cup and left the table without saying a word.

"Has he ever seen my face?" was Mark's next question.

"He might have months ago, when you were involved with the trawler incident in Florida. Yet, I wouldn't worry about it right now."

"You've kept tabs on him —and me I guess— for some time then?"

"Oh yes. As soon as Slimane was off the charts, we began to retrace the chap's movements more thoroughly. That's when we discovered that Mr. MS was pulling the strings."

"I see. And when did you realize that he was involved with our Israeli partner?"

"Oh, that partnership was in place for a very long time now. But what was not known to us was the fact that someone was taking faulty armaments out of the warehouses in Texas and shipping these weapons to our partners in Gaza."

"That's when things heated up, I bet."

"Precisely. We stopped all shipping the moment we got the first reports from Tel-Aviv. But we were too late and the death toll had already risen. The only thing we wanted to do was to stop Slimane or get him to talk, but our partner pulled the trigger before we could locate him."

"And our Mr. MS pointed our partner in the direction of Flint, before anyone was the wiser."

Lypsick nodded, and buttered his toast carefully. "The other thing that seemed odd to us was the fact that he was very keen on shoving the investigation into Al Nadir's death under the carpet. At the time, and since we didn't see the connection between Nadir's and Mr. MS— other than being another CIA undercover agent— we didn't pay much attention to his manoeuvre. We figured Mr. MS wanted to protect Ms Kartz and the doctor from reprisals or worse."

Mark finished his cup of fruit and drank some of his juice, then returned his attention to Lypsick. "Why then did he send Samuel after Ms Kartz, if he was so keen on keeping the whole thing hush-hush?"

Biting in one of his toast, Lypsick answered, "We figured he didn't want her to go back to Africa. He knew that once she was back at work and the dust had settled, she would probably go back to Senegal or Mali and he didn't want her anywhere near these places."

"But why? There is nothing there anymore..."

"Perhaps not, Mr. _Van Krauss_ , but the fact remains that he wanted to slow her down."

"I guess the key to open that door is with Agent Meshullam?"

"We believe so. As you confirmed when you investigated her shooting last year, Samuel didn't want to kill her, and the reason for that is still very much unknown."

"So, what do you presume Mr. MS is doing here in Vancouver then?"

"Ah, yes, and this is partly why we've called upon you to assist us in this matter. According to our intel, Mr. MS has rented an apartment on English Bay..." Mark stopped eating and glanced at Lypsick. "Yes... The apartment is located across the lane from Ms Kartz's flat."

"What would he be doing there? It's not like he's trained in field work..." Mark resumed eating.

Lypsick finished one of the toasts, drank a bit of coffee, and went on, "You're right, but the apartment was not for him. We believe he rented it for Samuel."

Mark stopped a forkful from reaching his mouth. "What would _he_ want to be doing there?"

"Ah, this is typical of our Israeli partner. They let Mr. MS believe that Samuel was called here to eliminate not only Ms Kartz but our Prince as well, when in fact all they wanted was for Samuel to take Mr. MS out of the picture and re-establish their good name in the Saudi royal family's eyes."

"You mean they don't want to have Saudi Arabia as an enemy when the Gaza Strip's future hangs in the balance."

"Precisely."

"And Sadir could no longer supervise the execution of his plan from his office when things got too hot for him in D.C. and he hoped to attend to the killing of both the Prince and Ms Kartz from a front row seat, is that it?"

"Yes, Mr. _Van Krauss_ , that's the picture as of last night."

"Okay, but how do I fit into this?"

"Your primary goal is for you and Prince Khalid to meet with Sadir and have him discuss his intentions behind the shipment of faulty armaments to Gaza as well as to ferret out of him the name of the organization or the person who instructed him to feed Mossad with false information. In turn, you're here to protect the prince. You know him very well and we need to prevent a confrontation between him and Samuel if things went south on us."

Mark pushed his empty plate aside. "What about Ms Kartz, who's looking after her?" Mark was very anxious to hear the answer to that question.

"She's already under protection..."

"You mean the physiotherapist...?"

"Yes." Lypsick cracked one of his twisted smiles. "He will remain with her for as long as it takes to have her back on her feet."

"Wow, that's very generous of you," Mark said a little louder than he should have done.

Lypsick waved a hand in front of his face. "Not us, Mr. Gilford, not us, our Israeli partner is picking up the tab for this one."

Mark couldn't help but chuckle. "Very good, Mr. Lypsick, very good. But what about Dr. Hendrix? I haven't heard you mention anything about him. Doesn't he need some looking after as well? After all he was another witness to the killings on the trawler in Jacksonville."

"He's been briefed as we speak and he will be on holidays starting tomorrow. He will probably stay with friends on Bowen Island."

"For how long?"

"He's on call with the surgeons who will be scheduling Ms Kartz's operation as soon as we have Mr. MS in custody."

"I am impressed, Mr. Lypsick. This is a well-organized operation. So..., if I may summarize; you have brought Sadir here, hoping he would show his hand..."

"Yes, but more than that, we wanted to show him that we have now uncovered his original plan and that all he has to do is to confess to the sending of faulty armaments to Israel and the organizing of the assassination of Ben Slimane and the attempted murder of Ms. Kartz."

"Will he do that, do you think?"

"I don't know. But at this point he's trapped and his only hope to escape the death penalty is to give it up."

"But why bringing him here, to Vancouver, when you could have questioned him in D.C.? And why did you force his hand in coming here? Wouldn't it have been better to tail him and let him make his move?"

"Good question, and one which I will answer with another question: what would have happened if we lost him, or if he had waited in Seattle until Samuel got here and realized that we had turned the tables on him?"

"I see your point, Mr. Lypsick, but that does not answer my first question: why not arrest him in Washington and let him rot for a while, or obtain a confession from him?"

"Because we had nothing on him to do any of that. And if you remember, Sadir wanted to leave D.C. anyway – he had booked a flight to Seattle already."

Mark nodded pensively. "Let's hope we do our jobs as well as expected."

"Yes, Mr. _Van Krauss_. Our organizations need to show our Israeli partner that we mean to correct our mistakes and redress what has been a blunder from day one."

"One last question, Agent Lypsick: when is Samuel expected in town?"

"He should be on his way now. Mossad has informed him of the change of plans and we will explain your undercover appearance to him as soon as he lands in Vancouver."

"That would be good, because he knows me and we didn't exactly hit it off when we met in Georgia."

Lypsick chortled, which surprised Mark no end. The man's poker face didn't betray any emotions, he had noticed. "You mean your planting your gun in his ribs...?"

"You know about that?"

"Don't look so surprised, Mr. Van Krauss. We've had to explain that bit of overreacting on your part to our Israeli partner, among other things."

"I can imagine."

There were yet many unanswered questions roaming Mark's thoughts when he got back to his room, but somehow, he knew the CIA's plan was going to work. Khalid was due in town in twenty-four hours now and he would have loved to go to Bowen Island in the meantime, but he also knew that would have been unwise. He and Lypsick had arranged to meet Samuel upon arrival. Once he would have gone through customs under Gilbert and Jacobin's care, Mark and Lypsick were due to meet him on the other side of the gate. They would then take him to his apartment on English Bay and give him a full briefing.

Mark shook his head. He would be glad to sit at Sadir's trial and to see Talya _walk_ into the courtroom. He went to the closet and brought out the cane he had bought the day before. He twirled it in front of him and grinned. He could hardly wait to give it to her.

# PART 2: Samuel

## Chapter 45

Gilbert and Jacobin were waiting for Samuel as he came out of the gangway.

"Passport please," Gilbert said to Samuel.

"Yes, officer, right here..." He pulled the document out of his pocket and handed it with shaking hands.

Jacobin was observing him from behind Gilbert's shoulder. He had seen his share of disguises during his career and he wondered why their quarry would hope to get away dressed like that.

"Would you mind coming with us, sir?"

"Where to?" asked Samuel, still unsure he was welcomed back in Canada.

"We've been ordered to escort you through the gates personally." Gilbert handed Samuel his passport back. He chuckled quietly. "This thing would have sent a red flag to everyone around here."

Samuel smiled, putting the passport in his pocket.

As the doors opened and Samuel rolled his trolley down the fenced aisle, he saw Mark amid the crowd first. He and Lypsick were standing at the back of the families and friends, their arms and hands hanging over the railing, waiting for their relatives or dear ones to appear through the doors.

Lypsick had told Mark about Samuel's latest disguise and both men didn't hesitate once they saw the bald biker appear. Mark bent his head, but knew Samuel had recognized him.

"Let's go," Lypsick said to Mark.

He nodded and they went to stand at the other end of the aisle.

Samuel stopped just before reaching them. This was his last chance, but he had nowhere to go. He noticed too, that there were RCMP officers standing amid the crowd and watching every passenger exiting the customs' area. He had no desire to tackle any of these guys. They were known for their ruthlessness and unwavering resolve when it came to apprehend a criminal. Rabbi Joshua's voice once again rang in Samuel's ear, " _you're no longer a criminal..._ "

"Mr. Samuel Meshullam?" Lypsick said, approaching the man slowly. Mark stayed back.

"Yes, sir."

"Follow us to the car," Lypsick ordered. His coldness sent a shiver down Samuel's spine.

In a fraction of a second, Samuel came to walk beside Mark. "You look like a dandy coming out of the Odeon, mate," he told him.

Mark took no offence. He had seen the anxiety in Samuel's eyes. He knew how he must have felt at that moment—like a trapped animal. "And you need to get rid of the leather, man."

Both men laughed, under Lypsick's somewhat reproving glare. _The man is too stiff,_ Mark decided.

When they were out of the arrivals' hall and into the sidewalk, Samuel took in a breath. He stared at the limousine and at the chauffeur. He couldn't believe it. He had expected some sort of a car waiting to take them somewhere, but not a limo.

"Welcome to my temporary world," Mark said, pointing to the vehicle's open door.

Samuel looked at both Mark and Lypsick in turn. His astonishment was painted on his face. With a still shaking hand he was about to grab one of the cases from the trolley, when the chauffeur stopped him. "Let me, sir," he said, taking the handle from Samuel's hand.

"Get in," Lypsick told him, pushing Samuel ahead of him. Again, that roughness didn't agree with Mark. He followed Samuel into the car, making sure he directed him to sit opposite Lypsick and not beside him.

On their way to town, Samuel remained quiet. Lypsick looked out of the window and Mark observed the Mossad agent. His keen eyes, his unblemished face, and his hands—those of a concert pianist—told Mark he was probably a very quiet and calculating man. He didn't seem to have any aggressiveness in him. He appeared to know when to take a bow or when to react. The Samuel he had met in Georgia was not the man sitting across from him now. There was no longer the hesitancy, the apparent lack of knowledge, the unworldly attitude of the hiker he had met on the road. Today, Samuel was the man whose determination was going to make or break their operation. Mark hoped it would be the former.

It took less than a half-an-hour for the limo to pull up into the parking lot of one of the buildings in the complex near the beaches of English Bay.

Coming out of the vehicle, Mark led Lypsick by the arm to the low wall bordering the lot. "Cool it, Lypsick. If you want any answer coming out of this man's mouth, cut off the crap, okay?"

Lypsick nodded. "He's got my back up, for some reason. But you're right; I should cut off the crap, as you say. Let's get him upstairs..., shall we?"

"Yeah. Just take it easy, will you?"

"You got it," Lypsick replied amicably, to Mark's surprise. _Trusting this guy is going to be a chore,_ he told himself.

Samuel had observed the two men from the limo's open door and wondered how long he would have to put up with the little crab. Mark had not changed. He was the smart one, the cat that could sense an enemy before he even set eyes on him. Samuel liked him. But this other guy was something else. He reminded him of a scurrying rat—spiteful but fearful.

He looked around him. Samuel knew where he was. The street, the buildings, the little park with its gazebo... He didn't need to be reminded of what the place meant. He had taken the shot that had crippled Talya from that gazebo. He wished he could undo the past, but that was impossible. He shook his head slowly and followed Mark and Lypsick across the parking lot to the building's entrance.

## Chapter 46

Upstairs—on the fifteenth floor—exiting the elevator and opening the apartment door, the three men walked into a narrow hallway and into a living room tastefully decorated with modern furniture, a flat-screen TV, a desk on which, Samuel noticed, there was a computer. The place was inviting and the bay windows afforded an all-encompassing view of English Bay.

Mark looked around him; he knew this apartment was identical to that of Talya's, located in the next building along the street. Stepping onto the terrace, Mark's eyes rested on the roof of the gazebo in the park below. He wondered if Sadir had chosen the apartment with its particular view on purpose or if it was just a coincidence.

The chauffeur came through the open door and went directly to the bedroom where he deposited Samuel's suitcases on the bed.

"Thanks, Pete," Lypsick shouted as the man went out and closed the door. "All right, Agent Meshullam, before we leave you to unpack, we need to brief you." He sat down on the sofa. Mark and Samuel sat on the two chairs facing him. "My name is Jack Lypsick, and as you know, this is Mark Gilford." He nodded in Mark's direction.

Samuel took his jacket off and draped it over the arm of the chair. He appeared more relaxed now. He knew he would have to undergo some form of interrogation, but although he knew some of the answers, he wondered what Lypsick had in mind if he didn't provide them. His memory of interrogatory methods used by Mossad were not particularly appealing to him.

As for Mark, there was one question for which he hoped Samuel could provide an answer; why he didn't kill Talya. Even though he doubted the Mossad agent had been told the whys and wherefores of that particular assignment, he was interested to hear his take on it.

On the sofa, Lypsick stretched both arms on either side of him and placed his hands flat on the cushions. "We suppose," he began, "since you're sitting in this apartment, that your agency has brought you up-to-date on the reasons for you being here."

Samuel shook his head. "No. Mossad does not give you explanations, only suggestions."

Mark moved forward in his chair. "You mean no one told you why you had to come here and..."

"No, that's not quite correct." Mark was sitting on the edge of his seat now. "Because we are suggested to do something does not mean we cannot ask why. We sometimes get an answer, sometimes we don't."

"What happened if you don't follow the suggestions?" Lypsick seemed mildly interested as though he knew the answer already.

"You are set aside as an unwilling agent."

"And what happened then?" Mark's aroused curiosity appeared to be directed not only at Samuel but also at Lypsick.

"I'm sorry, gentlemen, but are we here to analyze the workings or methods used by my agency or are we here to go over _your_ assignment?" His eyes went from one agent to the other very quickly.

"You're right, Agent Meshullam, but we would like to know why you came to Vancouver in the first place. What was the _suggestion_ this time?"

"Unless I can be sure my goal fits in your plans, I am not ready to divulge what my agency had in mind," Samuel replied.

_Ouch,_ Mark thought, _he doesn't like Lypsick and he's not ready to open up. This is going to be more difficult than scarred faced expected._ "Okay, Samuel, we know this is probably awkward for you, but if we've got to work together, we need to have the same goal. That's the reason for Agent Lypsick's question."

"Yes, mate, I can understand that, but at this point, the fact that I'm here should tell you that I accepted to be here."

Lypsick puckered his lips. Mark thought he was going to moo. "Were you told about this apartment?"

"No, I have no idea why you brought me here. I thought that perhaps it would be more discreet for me to live in a flat while I'm here than staying in a hotel."

"But that's not all, is it, Agent Meshullam?" Lypsick was all aggressiveness again. "You know this location means something to everyone involved, don't you?"

Samuel bowed his head and bent forward. Elbows on the armrests, he folded his fingers in front of his chest. He nodded almost imperceptibly. "It is significant, yes."

"It's significant?" Mark flared. "You shot a dear woman, right in front of this place! Do you remember, Samuel? Do you?"

Samuel lifted his head. "Yes, mate, it is very significant to me personally, more than you would probably ever know."

Lypsick had been observing that little exchange with great interest. It told him Samuel harboured deep sentiment for Ms Kartz and shooting her was a _suggestion_ he had regretted accepting. "Your ruefulness is quite touching, Agent Meshullam," Lypsick sneered. "Are you telling us that you're here to make amends in some ways?"

Samuel reclined in the chair, riveting his eyes on the CIA agent. "I will never be able to make amends for what I did. Whether I feel remorse or not, is not important. What is imperative, however, at this point, as I gathered during my trip, is to apprehend the man who led my agency to believe that both my victims were responsible for the death of many of my countrymen."

That declaration, that clue, that avowal had Mark stunned into silence. He had never imagined that Mossad could have blamed Talya for shipping faulty armaments to Israel, among other things.

"Don't look so surprised, mate; it stood to reason at the time. Even though no explanation came forth, I had time to think when I was on leave in Australia."

Lypsick sat back. "And what did you conclude then?"

"The minute Ms Kartz eliminated Mr. Nadir..."

"But that was a bloody accident," Mark erupted. "She saved my skin, for God's sakes!"

"Yes, it was an accident, mate, you're right," Samuel said. "But I think Mossad was told that since she eliminated another double-agent, she was obviously working against Israel." The words hung in the air. Mark was intent on Samuel's face. "Since the very beginning, Ms Kartz disrupted the operations that were conducted by both our agencies." He looked at Lypsick pointedly. "She made sure that what was to remain a way to get rid of drugs in the States and provide weapons to Israel came to a standstill."

"But that's because she had no idea what you were doing," Mark snapped.

"Yes, but at the time it looked as if she was there to shut down the operations, and the fact that she was involved with a Saudi Prince made matters worse."

"And when Slimane began sending faulty weapons to Gaza," Lypsick put in, "your agency probably saw it as an ultimate move to stop the arms' supplies."

"But more than that; when she and you, Mark, decided not to fly from Miami directly back to Canada, and then you took the road to Detroit..."

"You thought we were going to join Slimane in Flint," Mark finished for Samuel.

The latter nodded.

"Perhaps another thing," Lypsick said, shaking a pointed finger at Samuel, "that clenched the allegation into evidence was the fact that she recognized Slimane right off the bat when they met in Paris."

Mark glared at the CIA man. He was compounding the accusations against Talya and Mark didn't like it. "You mean you had us under surveillance even then?"

Lypsick nodded. "What do you think?" His distorted smile appeared at the corner of his mouth. "Slimane was still one of ours, remember?"

"Is that the reason you got Prince Abdullah out of the way?" Mark was on the right track but still confused.

"We had to throw everyone off the scent..."

"You mean, you thought Slimane was a bad egg, and tried to shift the blame on the Saudi family?"

"Mark, if I may," Samuel cut in, "Slimane acted of his own accord. You discovered that, I'm sure. Look, if the CIA had not stopped Prince Abdullah when they did, he would be dead now. You know that too."

"Yes, I know that too, as you say, but why not kill Ms Kartz then? You had to kill Slimane, why not her. Just tell me that!" Mark couldn't contain his anger. For him a sacrificing bullet was better than inflicting injuries, any time.

"That's Mossad for you, mate," Samuel said. "You can't imagine what she would have gone through if they had put their hands on her and brought her back to Israel."

"You mean torture her?" Mark asked.

Samuel nodded and let out a breath. "They wanted to teach her a lesson she would never be able to forget. And believe me; I hesitated when I took aim. I could have killed her, but then since Mossad knew she was a friend of mine for years before this happened, they would have thought I was working with her."

"You mean they would have thought you were a traitor as well?" Mark stood up and went toward the terrace door. He had difficulty believing Mossad would be as single-minded as to torture their own agents or even accuse them of betrayal without proof.

"Yes, Mark. If I had killed her, I would be rotting in one of Israel's prison, praying for them to kill me."

Lypsick knew the Mossad man was telling the truth. He had witnessed such torture. He remained silent.

Looking out of the bay window, Mark uttered, "Will you ever tell Talya the truth?"

Samuel sat up and looked at Mark's back. "I will have to tell her, mate, and I _want_ to tell her. That's why I came back to Vancouver."

Mark turned around. "Was that one of Mossad's suggestions, or is it your own conscience troubling you?" The harshness in his voice was understandable and Samuel understood it.

"For nearly eight months now, I have wanted to go to her. Mossad could not force me to remain in Sydney, but they could have us both killed the minute I would have set foot back in Canada."

"And that brings us back to Mr. Sadir's involvement and presence in Vancouver," Lypsick pointed out.

Mark regained his seat. "You could say that, Lypsick."

"Okay then, let see what we have to do...."

"But before we go there...," Samuel said hesitantly, rubbing a hand on his jacket, "would either of you be able to tell me if Prince Khalid is due in town shortly?"

Lypsick's eyes examined the Mossad agent's face for a moment before he replied, "Let me answer that with another question; did Mr. Sadir instruct you to come here?"

"No. I do not answer to Mr. Sadir. I have never had anything to do with the man directly. As I explained, Mossad are the only ones I receive orders from."

"So, Sadir was not the one who ordered Slimane's killing or the shooting of Ms Kartz."

"He was not, Agent Lypsick, yet he was the one who instigated the two assaults. He fed Tel-Aviv with lies and assumptions that were mostly geared to clear the way from Mossad ever finding out who was responsible for the murders that occurred in West Africa and the dangerous supply of faulty weapons to my country."

"And you're wondering where Prince Khalid fits in, is that what you're asking?"

"Yes." Samuel nodded. "All I know is that he protected Ms Kartz and traveled with her during her pursuit of the truth. Apart from that, Mossad only informed me that he was coming after me to Australia. There again, I must remind you, my contact does not give me explanations, just facts and _suggests_ a course of action."

Mark had a hard time with this. He was used to discuss everything with Fred. "Tell me this then..." He placed his elbows on his knees and fixed his eyes on Samuel's. "Why would Mossad believe anything an Islamic fellow would tell them? From where I'm sitting right now, it sounds as if your agency was well informed about everything and everyone. And if that was the case, and it seems to be, how come they didn't find out anything fishy about Sadir until Agent Lypsick here opened their eyes?"

"I don't know why, Mark." Samuel appeared dismayed. "Believe me if they had found out he was a traitor and more than that an Islamic Radical"—Lypsick ears perked up— "he would be in Tel-Aviv with body parts missing."

"How do you know he's an Islamic Radical?" Lypsick blurted. " _We_ 've never told you he was... Can you prove your assertion?"

"This was not an assertion on my part, Lypsick, just a deduction." Samuel had been taught to be prudent with his words.

"May I ask how you _deduced_ this then?" Lypsick asked.

"I counted the times his actions didn't make sense." Mark and Lypsick looked at the Mossad agent in puzzlement. "I'm sorry. Let me explain. And please remember these are my own thoughts on what I was told or suspected."

"Sure, sure, go ahead," Mark said impatiently.

Samuel's eyes traveled from one agent to the other before he resumed. "Okay. First, Mr. Sadir didn't stop sending armaments to Israel when Mossad first suspected Slimane of treachery, but he accelerated the shipping. Then, when Ms Kartz was shot, I truly believed he would have preferred her dead, since she is a Jewess and someone who could point the finger at him. After that, he apparently forced Prince Khalid's hand in chasing me down to Australia. As soon as I received orders to eliminate the prince, I thought my agency had been coaxed somehow. Why would they want to do that now, when they had plenty of opportunities to take him out when he was in Paris? As I said, none of these things added up. They were opposite to what Mossad would generally approve of or plan."

"Is that why you bolted?" Mark asked.

"Of course, mate, I needed to distance myself from you and the prince and confirm somehow where these orders came from. But, here again, shifting the blame onto Mossad, would have proved to the terrorists that the Americans were ready to kill an Arab prince."

Lypsick looked down at the floor.

_The guy knew before we left Washington what Sadir was up to. He could have stopped us,_ Mark thought. __

Without ignoring what he saw in Mark's eyes, which amounted to resentment toward the fearful rat, Samuel went on, "And hours before he was stopped and his deeds uncovered, I was told to come to Vancouver to eliminate Prince Khalid. Sadir's goal this time was to have Israel blamed directly for the killing."

"But that does not amount to defining him as an Islamic Radical," Mark leaped in before Lypsick could.

"That's because you don't know how they work," Samuel said.

Lypsick nodded. "Consider this Agent Gilford: traitors merely rely on their masters to guide them or support them in their actions, but a radical is just that; he will take matters in his own hands to demonstrate to the terrorist cell in the enemy country that he's to be trusted to make decisions on his own."

"And you think renting this apartment and making reservations to come here was part of a plan to spur a terrorist cell into action, right here, in Vancouver?" Mark could not bring himself to believe what his surmise implied.

"Absolutely," Lypsick agreed with vehemence. "Sadir, for all these years, stayed quiet, merely feeding Mossad with information designed to demonstrate his neutrality, even his allegiance to Israel, while proving to his Islamic brothers what he was capable of doing, such as persuading Mossad to kill and maim two of their own."

"He was Judah, Mark." Saying this, Samuel snatched his jacket from the arm of the chair, got up and went to the bedroom. Mark and Lypsick stood up and followed him. "Don't worry, I'm not hiding any weapons in my suitcases, mates. I just want to show you something... before the prince arrives." He opened the case, slid his hand into one of the back pockets and pulled out a photograph of Talya. One of its corners was missing. He handed it to Mark, saying, "That's the way she looked ten years ago. Life was our oyster then, as you say in America."

"Good God!" Mark exclaimed. "She was gorgeous... I mean she is still beautiful, but..."

"She was, Mark."

Lypsick looked over Mark's elbow. "I'm going to get him...," he groaned, walking out of the room.

Mark shouted after him. "How? How could you hope to get him to trial, Lypsick, now that we know he never gave direct orders to Samuel?"

"Gentlemen, please," Samuel said, coming back to the living room. "The only one who could bring Sadir to trial is Mossad. The fact that I am here and that my assignment is to _bring her back to the fold_ tells me that much."

Mark stared at the Mossad man. "Was that the _suggestion_?"

"Yes, it was. I could not understand or see how that could be done at first, but then I met Rabbi Joshua in Fiji..."

"How does he come into this?" Lypsick asked, wide-eyed.

"He apparently is a Mossad liaison... But the point is that he told me that I should look upon Prince Khalid with a kind heart and not vengeance, which to me meant that Mossad is ready to enlist the prince's assistance to apprehend Sadir, because they observed his kindness in protecting Talya for all these months."

"How?" Mark repeated. "How would they intend to do that?"

Samuel pointed to the computer. "With this, I will soon be able to tell you. When my contact knows I have landed in Vancouver, and that you have made it clear to me that your goal is the same as mine, they will divulge their plan."

"Do you still have Namlah Badawee in Ottawa?" Lypsick asked Mark suddenly.

"Yes..., but..."

"He's an Arab," Samuel interrupted, excited now.

"So? Why?" Mark asked.

"Because, mate, he's another Arab and Mossad will not trust anyone they have not had a chance to observe for weeks prior to enlist their help, that's why."

Mark dropped into the chair and looked at Talya's photo again. If Sadir had been standing in front of him at that moment, he would have killed him—literally.

## Chapter 47

Samuel was staring at the screen, incredulous. He could not imagine for one second, the Hebrew words were real. Both Mark and Lypsick were staring at the message, too, apparently uncomprehending.

אנא ראה את דודה של רווחה. המשפחה מחכה לה בוושינגטון. היא ננסה אותה שנינות בפלורידה. הדוד שלך הוא מחכה לה ללכת

(Please see to your aunt's welfare. The family is waiting for her in Washington. She will then try her wit in Florida. Your uncle is waiting for her to go.)

"What does that mean?" Mark asked from over Samuel's shoulder.

"In your language it means that I have to look after Talya. She is going to be arrested and tried in Florida. Sadir is waiting for her arrest."

"There must be a mistake. Are you sure? You're not trying to trick us, by any chance?"

"No, Mark, I am not. Let me send the message to Mr. Gibson. He must have a translator in Ottawa." Samuel turned to face Lypsick. "Even better, why don't you translate it?" The CIA agent crossed his arms over his chest and looked at the floor. "I seem to remember something about you spending some time in Israel. It is in your dossier, isn't it?"

"When have you read my dossier?" Lypsick seemed offended.

"Not lately, but you had dealings with Mossad in the past, didn't you? And the name stuck. So, please tell Agent Gilford what the message means—what it says in English—so he could confirm with Ottawa that I'm not lying or fabricating anything."

Mark went to sit down on the sofa. He looked abashed. "I don't need any confirmation, Samuel. I can understand what Mossad is doing."

"And what would that be in your opinion?" Lypsick was defiant, scornful. He sneered, "Since when did you begin to understand what Mossad is doing?"

"Don't be such a prick, Lypsick. Just read what it says." Mark was on his feet again. He went toward the computer and pointed to the screen. "Read it, for heaven's sakes," he yelled. "Whichever way you want to interpret it, it tells you the same thing; Mossad is prepared to sacrifice Talya to the wolves, in order for them to clean their chicken coop." He was furious. "And you know what's worse, Lypsick? They're absolutely right! Sadir will be waiting to testify at her trial, unless I get to him and make him pay."

Samuel pushed the chair from under him brutally and stood up. "No, Mark, please!" His face was inches from Mark's. "We would be killed. Please believe me. It's no use fighting."

"Don't be such a defeatist, Samuel." Mark put both hands on the Mossad agent's shoulders and pushed him away from him roughly. "Mossad was clever enough to think I was going to react to such an order. And, they were very careful to tell me not to use any weapons in Vancouver. They knew—and that includes you, Lypsick—we were not going to find anything against Sadir in Vancouver. There's no terrorist cell that's even heard of the guy. But what they wanted was to have Talya arrested, and bring her down to Florida along with Sadir as a witness for the prosecution."

"That's the only way we could see Sadir in a courtroom, Mark..."

"Don't give me that shit, Lypsick!" Mark stopped and took in a breath. "And, there is no way Khalid is going to let her go to Florida in handcuffs."

"Nor will I," Samuel said unexpectedly. "She cannot take that sort of risk. If she's found guilty, there's a needle waiting for her. She'll face the death penalty."

"And how do you propose we get Mr. Sadir to take her place then?" Lypsick barked. "Not even Mossad could find a solution to this problem. We all know he's responsible—guilty as charged—if you like, but we have no evidence to that effect. Zero, zilch. Nothing."

Samuel's eyes had followed Lypsick's pacing across the room. "But isn't the CIA recording your conversations?"

It seemed Lypsick didn't want to answer. Mark glared at him. "What are you thinking?" The CIA agent spun on his heels. "Well...? What are you waiting for? Answer the man!"

When he reached the terrace door, Lypsick finally replied, "Yes, we are, and we did record some of Sadir's conversations, especially after Slimane's death."

"And what did that tell you?" Mark wanted to strangle the diminutive fellow with one hand.

"Not enough, Agent Gilford. Not enough. Not even his laptop revealed anything we could take to court. Mind you the forensic guys are not quite done with it yet."

"I don't believe you."

"That's your prerogative, Agent Gilford." Lypsick was on the defensive now. "But why would I push Sadir to come here then? If I had found a shred of evidence in the intel we have in D.C. on the guy, I would not have bothered forcing him to come here. Now would I?"

Samuel sat down at the computer desk again and typed a few words in reply to the message.

Mark asked Lypsick, "What is he saying?" Both men were watching Samuel from behind him again.

"He is asking who has some information on his uncle... and... if the stranger is in Vancouver."

"Good. Let's see what they answer."

"If they have anything, it won't take long..." Samuel turned again to the two men towering over him. "Besides you bringing Sadir in front of the Florida courts as a material witness, which you could have done in the States, there must be a reason why Sadir came here and Mossad knows it, I'm sure of it. But they have not said anything to me so far, because that wasn't part of my assignment."

"So, you're trying to get them to open up." Mark said.

"Yes, mate. We'll just have to wait."

Within a few minutes they heard the little bell alert them there was a new message in the inbox.

את הנסיך שידעה את הדוד למשך תקופה ארוכה. הוא יעזור.

Samuel translated the words literally this time. "The prince has known your uncle for a long time. He will help."

"Of course!" Mark slammed both fists on the back of Samuel's chair.

Lypsick looked at the floor again; his arms still folded over his chest.

"What?" Mark looked down at him. "What's wrong now? You organized tomorrow's breakfast meeting between Sadir, the prince and me yourself, so what's bugging you?"

"Even if we find evidence against Sadir, we still have to bring her in." His voice was quiet, concerned.

Mark was about to grab him by the shoulders and shake him like a plum tree. Lypsick turned away from him and went to sit down. "The Florida police want her to stand trial, Agent Gilford. She's got to face the music one way or the other."

Samuel rose from his chair. "If we can prove Sadir was responsible for Talya getting shot or my killing Slimane, why do we have to bring her in front of the courts then?"

"Because those are two separate issues, Samuel." Lypsick using the Mossad man's first name for the first time since they met surprised Mark. "Ms Kartz killed a man and in the eyes of the Florida police, she's got to be tried for that crime."

"But didn't you say that file was closed?"

"Yes, Agent Gilford, as far as the FBI was concerned, it was. But when the Florida police examined the river bed and found another stash of cocaine, they re-opened the case."

"Do you have a warrant for her arrest then?"

"Not yet. Until we talk to her..."

Mark shook his head. "She won't tell you anything about that—she didn't know. Nor did I. And again, let me remind you that she knifed the man in self-defence."

"Yes, that's what you've said all along, but no one was there to verify the fact."

"WRONG!" Mark yelled. "Aziz was there."

"Ha, yes, Dr. Hendrix. But he's hardly an impartial witness, is he?"

"Don't you start playing both sides against the middle, Lypsick. I thought you wanted Sadir to pay for what he's done—not drag Talya through the courts."

## Chapter 48

Leaving Samuel to unpack, change, and asking him to join them at the Hyatt later, Mark and Lypsick decided to walk to their hotel. Mark wanted to burn off some of his annoyance and frustration.

"What are you going to do now?" Mark asked Lypsick.

"Honestly?"

"What else is there?"

"I don't know, Mark. I've got to bring her in."

"But you still don't have a warrant, do you?"

"No, I don't, and that's only because I convinced the Deputy Director to let me talk to her first. As soon as she acknowledges being on that boat, I'll have to ask the Vancouver police to arrest her, with the warrant that would have been then issued in Florida. After that, it's just a matter of extraditing her back to the US."

"You know she won't lie, don't you?"

"I know Mark, and there again, the evidence we've got are circumstantial at best. We haven't got the knife she used, and the bills of lading she recovered from the trawler only prove she was there."

"And you will need me to corroborate her statement, won't you?" Lypsick nodded. "Did you ask Gibson for my collaboration already?"

"Not yet."

"Good, because you may not have to."

"Why?" Lypsick turned his head to Mark. "The only reason I wouldn't have to ask for your collaboration would be if you had something to do with Al Nadir's death."

"Exactly. You all assumed Talya killed Al Nadir, but she didn't—I did!"

Lypsick stopped. "Who did she knife then?"

"We never got a chance to ask his name before I heaved him overboard."

"But that changes everything..."

They resumed walking. "Maybe, maybe not," Mark said. "But the point is that if you get her to trial, she'll acknowledge knifing a man who was about to attack me."

"I'll have to see who this second guy was and how he fits into the picture. And the sequence of events as the Florida coppers described is all wrong then?"

"I don't know what they said, but it's all in my report."

"Why didn't you call the police at the time?" Lypsick asked.

"Simple. I didn't want any of us to be arrested when we knew Slimane was on the run and we had nothing to show for our troubles. All we had were these bills of lading. And all they proved was that some crates had been shipped from Miami."

"And those would have been evidence that you were looking for something on the trawler."

"Same as they do now, yes."

Only their footsteps resounded on the pavement. Both men seemed to be lost in thought.

"What about Sadir?" Mark asked, crossing an intersection.

"What about him?"

"You expected him to do something, didn't you? He wouldn't have come all this way for nothing. What did you really suspect?"

"The thing we don't know is why he rented that apartment." Lypsick paused. "We only presumed he wanted to come here to help Samuel eliminate both Ms Kartz and Prince Khalid."

"But that doesn't make sense." Lypsick shot a glance at Mark. "Samuel didn't need any _help_ to do that. You saw him. If he was ordered to eliminate either of them, he would have done it without blinking."

"I agree, as far as the prince is concerned, but not Ms Kartz."

"There must be something else... When he said that he was suggested to come here and _bring back Talya to the fold,_ there was no mention of eliminating Khalid."

"Yes, but Sadir didn't know that."

They continued walking in silence until Mark said, "We've got to find out what the guy is up to and have him admit that he's responsible for Slimane's killing and Talya's shooting."

Lypsick nodded.

## Chapter 49

As soon as Khalid looked through the spy-hole of the door and saw Mark's head bent and his blond curls in front of it, he opened it. "Mr. Van Krauss!" Khalid extended a hand to shake Mark's. It wasn't there. Instead, Mark pushed past him. "Please come in...," Khalid said, shutting the door.

"Cut it out, Khalid, we need to talk."

Instantly Khalid saw the disquiet that was marring Mark's face. "Okay, let's sit down." He led him through the hallway of the suite and into the sitting room. "What's happening?"

They sat facing each other. "Before I start, may I ask you if I could have a stiff scotch?"

That request was exceptional for Mark. Truly, Khalid had never seen Mark so agitated. He got up, went to the mini-bar, pulled out a couple of the little bottles and a glass from the counter. "Do you want some ice?"

Mark waved 'no', took his handkerchief out of his jacket pocket and wiped his face with it. "Thanks, no. Just a shot will be sufficient."

Khalid brought the lot to the table. "I've never seen you like this, if I may say, Mark. What's going on?"

Mark replaced the handkerchief in his pocket, emptied the first bottle in his glass and gulped its entire content before he answered. Exhaling, he leaned against the back of the chair. "They're going to arrest Talya for her knifing the second man on the Marianne—that's what's going on." He opened the second bottle and poured it into the glass, but this time only swirled the amber liquid around, watching it as if mesmerized. He was not listening to Khalid.

"Mark? Come on, let's examine the facts..."

"Haven't you heard me? I'm telling you, Agent Lypsick is waiting to meet Talya and then when she tells him that yes, she was aboard that boat, that yes she was looking for cocaine and that yes, she found the bills of lading that we brought back to Ottawa afterwards, the Vancouver police will arrest her for second degree murder. And Lypsick will escort her back to the States. That's the long and the short of it, Khalid." He drank another sip of his scotch. "And the worse part of it is the fact that she won't be able to testify against Sadir—if the bastard ever comes to trial—because she would have to cop a plea to do that. And that means plead guilty to murder."

"Now, you relax and let me handle this." Mark looked up at the prince. His composure didn't betray anything he felt. "Have you talked to Fred yet?" Mark shook his head. "All right then, that's the first call we shall make." Khalid got up and went to take his cell phone out of his jacket pocket. He clicked Fred's number and put the cell on the table between them.

"Gibson speaking." He sounded tired or irritated.

"Good evening, Chief, how are you?" Khalid said, his voice relaxed.

"I've had a long day, and I guess it's going to get longer... but I'm fine..."

"I'm at the Hyatt and Mark is with me..."

"Already? Mark? What are you doing there? The plan was for you to meet Khalid officially in the morning for breakfast..."

"Hold it, Chief... I'm sorry, but we've got a situation..."

"What are you talking about? Has Sadir made a move?"

"No, nothing like that," Mark replied.

"What then?"

"Agent Lypsick is going to ask the Vancouver police to arrest Talya as soon as he gets a warrant from the Florida DA."

"Has he gone mad?"

"No, Chief, he's tried to delay the warrant issue as much as he could, but the Florida police found a crate of cocaine on the river bed, beneath the spot where the Marianne was moored, and they think Talya was looking for drugs—which she was—when she was aboard, and that's why she killed the second man. They want her hide for it."

"Khalid, are you listening to this?"

"Yes, I am, Fred."

"What do you think then?"

"I'll have to confer with my attorney and call you back," Khalid said. "I've just got one question for you though..."

"Yeah, what is it?"

"Did the FBI ever confirm that they closed the file on this particular case to you personally in the past few days?"

"Not directly but, yes, Khalid. I was on the phone with the Deputy Director of the CIA in Washington this afternoon and he told me that since the FBI had closed the file on this affair, they became suspicious when Sadir began using it as an excuse to me and others to get Talya down to Australia, 'out of the way' he said."

"Thank you. That will be very helpful, in fact. Again, let me think about what we need to do so that surgery on her spine will be the only ordeal she has to face in the next few months."

Mark said, "That reminds me, Chief, do you have a recording of these conversations? I mean the ones you've had with Sadir or the CIA Deputy Director."

"You know we do, Mark. I can get you an email of them if you want."

"That would be great, thanks."

"Anything else? Or does either of you guys want me to stay in the office all night?" Mark and Khalid smiled at each other. They knew how Fred loved to go home.

"No, Fred, not tonight—let's make it another night..."

"Of course, Your Highness, any time," Fred replied, a hint of sarcasm in his voice, and rang off.

Khalid looked at Mark as he emptied the glass, still shaken, "It seems to me that when it comes to Talya's safeguard, you're becoming paranoid."

"No, Khalid, not paranoid. I was just in shock. I could see how easy it would be to arrest her and how difficult it seems to be to get our hands on the true culprit. It's just frustrating the hell out of me."

"Do you want another bottle? I think there's another one..."

"No, thanks, not on an empty stomach. I don't want to get drunk. I'd rather eat than drink now..."

"Well, in that case, we shall go downstairs for dinner since I have to wait a few hours before I could wake uncle Abdullah and put my attorney up to date."

"Who is he?"

"You mean my attorney?"

"Yes. Is he from Saudi, too?"

"No, actually he's from Israel."

Mark's mouth fell open. He stammered, "Don't tell me..., please don't say, he's Jewish, because then I will not understand."

Khalid chuckled and went to replace the cell phone in his jacket before he put it on. "Have you ever heard the expression, ' _know the enemy'_?"

"Sure..., oh, I see..., you mean you need to have someone who knows or thinks like your possible enemy to be effective in case of legal entanglements."

"Exactly, my dear Mark, exactly." Khalid extended an arm toward the door and bowed. "Shall we, Mr. Van Krauss?"

Mark chortled and got to his feet. "By all means, Your Highness, let's do this!"

## Chapter 50

There were certainly some things to think about when Sadir received a call from Khalid, inviting him to have breakfast with him the next morning. Sadir was no fool. He knew the prince would play his part and maybe throw some reproach his way for letting him go to Australia. Yet the most surprising to Sadir was that Khalid had called on him directly—in Vancouver—without Lypsick's intervention. That was most frustrating to him. He didn't know if he preferred to have Lypsick where he could observe him, or have him lurk about the hotel without knowing when or where he would appear. What's more, Sadir had no new information on the prince, nor did he know what was going on outside his hotel room. He felt as if he were in a vacuum box. He didn't relish the thought of having to face the prince alone while in such a vulnerable position.

Expecting Lypsick to pop up out of nowhere at his side, Sadir waddled into the hotel restaurant in search of Khalid as he did in Washington. He found Khalid and Mark sitting at a table not too far from the entrance.

"Good morning, gentlemen," Sadir opened while slowly squeezing his butt between the arms of the chair.

"Good morning, Mr. Sadir. Glad you could join us," Khalid replied quickly. "Let me introduce you to Mr. Van Krauss." Khalid nodded in Mark's direction. "He's one of my business associates working with me in West and North Africa." Then to Mark, "Mr. Van Krauss, this is Mr. Muhammad Sadir, a very good friend of our family."

Mark nodded, but only replied with a grunt and then he addressed Sadir with a greeting in Arabic, which truly amazed the fat man. The latter looked at him and then at Khalid, who simply smiled.

"I see it surprises you, Mr. Sadir, that I speak your native language," Mark said.

"Yes, it does, sir, and you speak it quite well, I might add."

"Thank you. I've learned from practicing the language day after day in the field."

"And where was this?"

"Casablanca, Mr. Sadir—the city of romance and trade. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Totally." Sadir looked at Khalid.

The prince had remained purposely silent throughout the exchange. He wanted Mark to play his role to the fullest and introduce the idea of reopening the drugs and arm's trade channels on the Dark Continent.

"Yes, hum..., yes..." Khalid said distractedly. "Shall we have breakfast before we discuss business, though?"

"Yes, of course, Your Highness, I'm sorry" Mark replied

Following a scrumptious breakfast, the three men decided to retire to a more private part of the hotel's reception area, away from eyes and ears.

All the while Sadir was wondering what he was doing here, and what was expected of him. Throughout breakfast, the prince had talked briefly about West Africa and the Van Krauss fellow had only mentioned his weapons of choice, depending on the circumstances. Sadir felt as if he was lost in high seas without a rudder or a compass.

"Now, Mr. Sadir, you must be wondering what this is all about," Khalid began, "but in fact this meeting is designed to help you get out of a precarious situation."

"And what situation might that be?" Sadir mumbled.

"I don't think you need to play the innocent party with either of us," Khalid said. "Mr. Van Krauss here has connections all over the world and we could get you out of this hotel and out of the country in no time, if you were prepared to give us a lowdown on the operations that the CIA and Mossad conducted in West Africa up to the time Ms. Kartz began meddling in your affairs."

Sadir looked stunned. Mark appeared thoroughly amused while Khalid peered into the ex-CIA man's eyes with interest.

"Well," Sadir said, "it sure is an alluring proposition, but what makes you think I need either of you to get out of the country? And what do you propose I do with Agent Lypsick? You remember or you are aware that I am here against my will, aren't you?"

Mark raised an eyebrow. "That's just it, Mr. Sadir; you cannot expect to get out of here unless you demonstrate to the CIA and to us that you're willing to play your part again. Besides, how do you expect anyone to bypass the CIA and to help you at this juncture?"

"I don't expect anything from anyone, Mr. Van Krauss. I know what I know and I am not prepared to give up inside information on the CIA's operations to you especially, Prince Khalid, when I know you've been playing both sides against the middle for years."

Khalid stretched to the back of his chair and a smirk appeared on his lips. "So, that's what you think I've been doing, do you?"

"Of course! I'm no fool, Your Highness—I've told you that already—and your invitation this morning seemed out of place at first, but when I think about it, you are only perpetuating the games you and your father played all along."

It was Mark's turn to show interest in what Sadir had to say.

"You talk about games, Mr. Sadir, but weren't you—the CIA and Mossad—the ones who instigated the exchange of drugs for shipment of armaments to Israel?" Khalid asked.

"Perhaps we were, yes, but you, Your Highness, you let Ms Kartz meddle and destroy the operations in West Africa without preventing her to go further into her investigations. We had a perfect plan, but the minute you began meddling in our affairs, we had to stop you."

"And I suppose that's when you proposed Mr. Slimane and Ms. Kartz's elimination to Mossad as a way to get rid of unwanted or disturbing parties, is that it?"

"Not quite, Prince Khalid, not quite." Sadir shook his head. "In fact, the CIA planned to eliminate all that had taken part in the initial operations..." He paused. Khalid and Mark looked at each other. "...So that Mossad and the CIA could start fresh after the African debacle. We have to be grateful to Ms. Kartz for one thing, though; she did away with two of our double agents when she was in Jacksonville. But in the end you're right, Your Highness, you and she needed to be taken out..." He let the words hung out for effect. "So, really, I don't need any help from you at this point. I've got ample assistance from Mossad if I wanted to. They've always proven to be strong allies and what's more, they've done my bidding, because they knew I could get my hands on the armaments they needed at Gaza to repress Palestinian insertion of the territory."

Mark wanted more. "When you say that the CIA and Mossad wanted to 'start fresh' what did you mean?"

"Well..., you see, we had organized originally for our African contact to purchase drugs from South American cartels under the guise of distributing them in West Africa. These drugs were then shipped from Nouakchott to Algiers where we sent clients—CIA undercover agents—to Mr. Rasheed, who then exchanged the drugs for weapons that we ultimately sent to allied countries. In this case, the weapons were destined to land in Israel and the drugs were destroyed."

"Yes, I've heard this scenario before, Mr. Sadir," Khalid put in, "and although quite a laudable operation, you failed in addressing two very important points."

"What are those?" Sadir asked, frowning.

"First, why did Ms. Kartz and I find a container filled with cocaine at the mine site in Senegal? Second, why did you continue sending weapons to Israel when you knew that, on the one hand, these were faulty and that there was no longer an exchange to be made in Algiers since your agents' deaths, on the other?"

"But I didn't," Sadir exclaimed, "it was all Slimane's doing."

"Ah, yes, and dead men don't talk, do they, Mr. Sadir?"

"No they don't—and I made sure they didn't..." As the words came out of his mouth, Sadir must have realized he had just revealed his guilt, because he uttered some gibberish and took his handkerchief out of his pocket to wipe his sweating brow.

Mark smiled. He and Khalid had gotten what they came for—a confession from Sadir that he was responsible for initiating the pursuit and the death of anyone who had been originally involved in the CIA's operations.

Khalid nodded, smiled in his turn and got up from the chair. "We'll be seeing you in court, Mr. Sadir," he said, walking toward the elevators.

Mark followed the prince after leaving Sadir agape, and saying, "Good day to you, Mr. Sadir."

"I think this must have been one of the shortest and sweetest interviews I've ever had with a suspect," Mark said as both he and Khalid went up the elevator back to the prince's suite.

"Did you get it all?" Khalid asked, looking at Mark as he extracted a minute tape recorder out of his jacket pocket.

"Yes, and then some. Yet, there is something the man said that Chief Gibson will need to verify..."

"Ah yes, the fact that Sadir mentioned it was the CIA's intention initially to get rid of the people who had participated in the first sting operation."

"Yes, and I don't think the Chief is going to jump for joy when he hears that."

"Well, my dear Mark, our job here has been done. Whatever the powers-that-be decide from now on is no longer our concern."

Mark looked at Khalid with a dash of surprise in his eyes. "I'd say it will still be our concern until after Sadir's trial because if he is correct, and the CIA Deputy Director is the one who had given these elimination orders, we're in for trouble, wouldn't you say?"

"I'd say the CIA is notorious for taking care of their own; and even if Sadir is made a scapegoat, he is at least guilty of carrying out orders and overstepping his bounds."

"I guess so, but I'd prefer to stay on the side of caution," Mark concluded as they arrived in front of Khalid's door.

"Why don't you come in for a few minutes and let's discuss this...?"

"Okay..."

Hours later Mark emerged from Khalid's suite, his mind racing. They had talked this puzzle out of possible answers and now, as Khalid had surmised earlier, it was up to the authorities to decide what they were going to do next, and for justice to take its course.

## Chapter 51

Things were jumping at the Jacksonville precinct. For some reasons crime was on the rise in the spring. As if the criminals suddenly awoke from hibernation and went on a rampage of vandalism, theft, wilful destruction, arson and, of course, murder.

The two detectives who had been in charge of the "Marianne Case", as it had been nicknamed last year, were in their captain's office.

"Okay, I've had ADA Blake on the phone this morning," Captain Hiller said, "and she wanted to know which one of you two had decided to pin the murder of the CIA agent on Ms Kartz." The two men looked at each other, visibly at a momentary loss. "Nobody is saying that was wrong, I'm just wondering why and when you decided to point the finger at the lady."

Fisk, the younger of the two detectives, decided it was better to come clean. "I think I did, Captain."

" _You think?_ Aren't you sure? Let me tell you something; on my patch, you don't _think_ , you make sure before you open your mouth. And that goes for you too, Laslo."

Laslo had his hands in his trousers' pockets. He was looking at the floor. He was trying to think of the name of the FBI agent who told him and Fisk that the Kartz woman had killed the CIA man. "We both did, sir."

"All right... and why, is my next question, because I've got an ADA who's hopping mad right now and who's thinking that someone is dictating what should go in your reports—so I want answers." Captain Hiller was a fair man but he disliked loose ends with a passion. Unsubstantiated details fell into that category.

"I'd have to look at the report, Captain, but I believe the FBI was on top of the situation when we got to the scene, and they _told us_ what happened."

" _They told you? They told you?_ Since when have you become blind and deaf? Because the guy's got a badge with some alphabet on it doesn't mean he can dictate what you write in your reports." Hiller was not happy. He groaned and sat down. "Get me the agent's name and go back to the marina and wherever the incident occurred and see what you can find out..."

"But, sir, it's been almost a year," Fisk ventured.

"I don't care if it happened ten years ago; get yourselves out of here before I transfer you to the Cold Case Section for good. Do you hear me?" Hiller roared.

Without taking the time to answer, both Fisk and Laslo left Hiller's office in a hurry. They knew they were in trouble.

Later that afternoon, Laslo was back. He knocked on the open door of Hiller's office.

"Yeah... Come in... So, what's your take on it?" Hiller didn't raise his eyes from the paperwork in front of him.

"The agent's name is Verduccio," Laslo replied. "Apparently, he had gotten a call from CSIS in Canada and he told Fisk and me that Ms. Kartz had killed the CIA agent."

Hiller lifted his head slowly and glared at his detective. "And you believed him?"

"Well..., yes, sir, we did. See, this Verduccio seemed pretty sure of himself..."

"Are you kidding me?"

"No, sir, I had checked his ID and he was with the FBI..."

"Are you gone completely off your head? You should have gone over the scene and get CSI on it..."

"But these guys had already removed the bodies from the river and there was nothing else to see or do..."

"You mean to tell me that you didn't have a chance to go on the frigging trawler yourselves?" Hiller extended a hand for Laslo to give him the file he had held in his grip since he came in. "Give me that." Laslo did and crossed his arms over his chest. Hiller read a few lines and pointed at one paragraph in particular. "It says here: ' _nothing appeared out of order on the upper deck and all evidence have been tagged and taken to the pathologist for forensic examination'_." Hiller flipped through the pages. "I seem to remember asking myself at the time what sort of evidence these guys had... Do you happen to have a list now, or a forensic report?"

"We got something from the FBI a month or so later, saying the file had been closed and the Canadians were going to handle it since one of their agents was also on board at the time. The report is at the back of the file..." Laslo pointed at the folder.

"Let's see..." Hiller pulled out another sheaf of paper and started reading. When he finished, his face was blustering red. He was angry. "As I said, you people are blind. Have you read this? Tell me what it says," Hiller handed him the forensic list and report.

"They recovered rags with blood stains from the transom... and the blood belonged to the second victim—a guy named Salaman Abib..."

"Good, at least you can still read. And what does that tell you?"

"That he was knifed..." Laslo froze. He realized what he had read meant. "Since Al Nadir was strangled, and this Abib guy was knifed, it means that Ms. Kartz didn't kill the CIA agent but she knifed Abib."

Hiller smiled. "Now, what does the ME's report tell you?" He handed him another folder.

Laslo opened it and read it as if for the first time. He looked up from the folder to the Captain a couple of times before he answered, "It says here that the knife wound didn't kill Abib... and... that he drowned."

"One last question, Laslo..., _why the hell didn't you read the report before now?_ " Hiller shouted, so loud in fact, that everyone outside his office stopped. The proverbial fly could be heard buzzing.

Laslo hung his head and slammed the folders on the Captain's desk. "Because I've never seen these reports before!" he yelled. Then in a quieter voice, "I got the file out this morning and left it on my desk when Fisk and I went out to the mooring pier. Someone must have put those in when we were out of here."

"Okay, let's see..." Hiller got up, went around his desk and marched into the incidents' room. He stood stock still amid his men and looked around. "Okay. Has someone seen anybody around Laslo's desk this morning or this afternoon?"

A burly man sitting at a desk near Laslo's pushed his chair back and faced his captain. "I did. This guy came in at about 2:00 and asked where Laslo was sitting. I told him and then he said he had a folder for him... I didn't pay attention. I was on the phone, but I think he put something on his table and left."

"Did you ask his name?" Hiller asked, his imposing figure towering over the detective.

"Like I said, I was on the phone..."

"I guess that's a no." He turned to the other men. "Anyone else seen this guy?" There were shaking heads all around. He returned his attention to the burly detective. "Okay, Casey, could you recognize him if you saw him again?"

"Sure. A Caucasian guy. He was lanky like, over six feet. He had a long face with some pocks, like he had had smallpox or something, beady eyes and was dressed with shirt and tie. He had slick, black hair going over his shirt collar..."

"That's Verduccio," Laslo blurted from behind the Captain's back. The latter spun on his heels.

"Get him on the screen—NOW!" Hiller ordered. Laslo sat at his desk and without a word complied with the captain's request. In a few seconds, Verduccio's face appeared on the screen—except that now, access to his personnel file was denied.

" _What the hell!_ " Hiller yelled. "What's going on here? Okay..., let's take this one step at a time. Casey...?"

"Yes, sir..."

"Get your ass out of that chair and have a look here." Casey did and went to look at Laslo's monitor. "Is that the guy who came in this afternoon?"

"Yeah, that's him all right."

"Okay, good. Now, Fisk..."

The young officer had been intent on the whole incident and was on the alert. "Yes...?"

"You phone the ME and get a copy of his reports on the Marianne's corpses and then you do the same with the forensics guys."

"Okay, no probs." Fisk was already dialing.

"Laslo, you call the fishing port authority and ask if the Marianne is still operating out of these waters. If she's still there, you go with Fisk in the morning and have a chat with the owner."

"What about Ms. Kartz then...?"

"I'll get the ADA on the phone and straighten this out. If there is any warrant to be issued it would only be for involuntary manslaughter... We'll see what she says..." Hiller strode back into his office and closed the door.

Laslo looked at Fisk. "Wait until I get this Verduccio between four eyes..."

## Chapter 52

Van Dams did not intend to accuse Prince Abdullah of anything until he had all of the facts in hand. Why did the prince felt responsible for Ms. Kartz's shooting? That's what he wanted to know. There was nothing in his dossier that indicated any more than a long friendship with Sadir. There were a few phone calls prior to Slimane's death, but nothing that would incriminate the prince in any way. The meeting between his nephew, Prince Khalid, and Sadir in Washington was much more important, yet there had not been any reports officially filed regarding that particular encounter. Sadir had informed CSIS in Ottawa of the prince's intention to go after Agent Meshullam of his own accord. At the time, Van Dams himself had been kept in the dark until Gibson informed him that the Australians were issuing a warrant for Meshullam's arrest.

Van Dams shook his head. If it had not been for Ottawa making the decision to have Meshullam apprehended and extradited back to Canada, he would not have been aware of Sadir's wilful involvement, and their operations in West Africa would probably have petered out naturally. Besides, Mossad was not keen on reopening the case. Even if they thought they had made a mistake to trust the Arab fellow, they would not have admitted their error. Van Dams knew from long experience in dealing with Israel that it was better to let sleeping dogs lie. They hated being wrong.

Van Dams needed more information. He called Cameron Sheffield and asked him to bring Thomas Peterson to his office. They knew they were in for a grilling.

Ten minutes later his secretary knocked, opened Van Dams's door, and let the two agents walk in. "Agents Sheffield and Peterson," she announced.

"Let's have a seat at the table, shall we?" Van Dams stretched an inviting arm to the small conference table and chairs located in a corner of his large office.

The two agents took a seat side by side, facing the Deputy Director. They deposited the files in front of them and put down a flash drive beside them.

Van Dams' eyes rested on the item. "Is that a compilation of the surveillance on Sadir?"

"Yes, sir," Sheffield replied. "We didn't have time to make hard copies yet."

"Okay. What can you tell me about Prince Abdullah?" Sheffield and Peterson looked at each other, apparently undecided who should respond first. "Okay. Agent Peterson, let's start with you. What have you discovered about Sadir and his relationship with the Prince?"

"Between Agent Sadir and..."

Van Dams shook a hand in Thomas's face. "Let's get this straight, Peterson; Mr. Sadir is no longer an agent of the CIA. You got that?"

"Yes, sir. I'm sorry." A contrite expression came across the young man's face. He hated making stupid mistakes.

"Go on then..." Van Dams looked at him intently.

"Mr. Sadir and Prince Abdullah exchanged a few phone calls before Slimane's death and after that, nothing from the Prince."

"Were there other communications between Sadir and someone else after Slimane's elimination?"

"Yes, sir. One call in particular, in which Sadir described how Slimane was killed," Peterson replied.

"And when did that conversation take place..., but more importantly, who initiated the contact?"

"I believe Mr. Gibson contacted Mr. Sadir from Vancouver, where he just arrived after Ms. Kartz's shooting."

"Do you have a record of the conversation?"

Sheffield opened one of the files. "It was actually a visual IM link-up and we recovered the text." He handed the Deputy Director a sheaf of paper.

"Let's see..." Van Dams read.

Gibson— Good evening, sir. My name is Fred Gibson of the Canadian Security Intelligence Service. I'm sorry to intrude on your schedule, but we thought you might be able to help us.

Sadir— Ah, yes. My friend, Abdullah, spoke of you, sir. I'm pleased to make your acquaintance. How can I be of assistance?

Gibson— Well, it's just a matter of confirming what you told Prince Saif Al-Fadir today. I gather you've found a body in Flint that fits the description of Mr. Ben Slimane.

Sadir— Yes, we did, Mr. Gibson, but we found out more than that... Does the name "Mossad" means anything to you?

Gibson— Yes, I am quite familiar with this organization. Are you telling me that Slimane was a Mossad agent?

Sadir— Yes. That's the conclusion we reached when we identified the body that had met with a sudden accidental death in Flint.

Gibson— How was he killed?

Sadir— The van he was driving rammed into a tree—reported as a simple road accident actually.

Gibson— Was the vehicle tampered with?

Sadir— The forensic team is still on it, but as far as we could tell for now, the steering wheel locked on him when he tried to turn the corner down the street where he lived.

Gibson— But that was a gamble... Whoever tampered with the steering mechanism wouldn't know he would hit that particular tree.

Sadir— Quite right you are, sir, but since he had been shot as he took the turn, the tree was perhaps the only thing that prevented him from creating a major accident.

Gibson— Are you saying he was shot in the middle of an intersection? Unbelievable!

Sadir— Quite. Yet, if you know anything about Mossad, they plan everything they do down to the smallest detail—and they don't make mistakes.

Gibson— I see. What about his identity? How did you determine he was Mossad?

Sadir— That was a deduction on the part of my colleagues—but one that led us to his true identity. His real name was Ishmael Assor. We matched his face quite easily, once we had an inkling as to his affiliation.

Gibson— I will not take any more of your time, sir, and I would expect to receive a report about this when I return to Ottawa.

Sadir— Absolutely. I've already talked to your contact here in Washington and once we've completed our investigation, you should expect to have the report on line, even before you leave Vancouver.

Gibson— Thank you, and if someday I can return the favour, let me know.

Sadir— By all means, I'll do that.

Van Dams raised enquiring eyes to his two agents. "So..., it appears that our Mr. Sadir identified Mossad as the party responsible for Slimane's elimination. He also released Slimane's identity, which he should not have done. Then he describes the accident as if he was there..."

Sheffield nodded. "And I seem to recall that he promised to send a report of the incident, but he never did—not that we are aware of anyway."

"Have you confirmed with Ottawa that they never received a report?"

"No sir, not yet," Sheffield replied.

"Do that... after we're done here. Then check if you have a record of the conversation that preceded this one where Prince Abdullah, I presume, asked for details about Slimane's death."

Thomas looked up at his supervisor before he answered. "I don't think we do, sir..."

"Look for yourself..." Van Dams handed the sheet of paper back to Thomas saying, "Read the opening lines."

Thomas did and shook his head. "Yes, you're right, but I don't think we've got any conversation from Prince Abdullah and Sadir..." He shuffled through the file. "But..., I think we've got something about Prince Khalid calling Sadir at about the same time." He scanned through a couple of the record sheets and finally found what he was looking for. "Here it is, sir... It's the Four Seasons' number in Vancouver, where the call was initiated." Thomas handed Van Dams the one page recording.

Khalid— Ah, Mr. Sadir. How are you, sir?

Sadir— Fine, thank you for asking. How is your uncle?

Khalid— He's actually sitting beside me in my suite at the Four Seasons in Vancouver and we both feel very sad at the moment.

Sadir— I'm sorry to hear that, Your Highness. Is there anything I can do?

Khalid— Perhaps, Mr. Sadir. We would like to know if you have been advised of Mr. Slimane's death.

... Silence...

Sadir— I have received information to that effect, yes...

There wasn't much after that," Thomas said. "Sadir simply confirmed their agent was dead but didn't give Prince Khalid any further explanation."

Again, Van Dams handed the sheet back to Thomas. "It seems that Sadir observed procedures during that conversation—for once." The Deputy Director pondered for a moment. "Okay. There doesn't seem to be anything in these records showing us why Prince Abdullah should feel responsible for Ms. Kartz's injury. So, we're back to conjectures... The same as we're nowhere with knowing how Sadir maintained contact with Mossad..."

"Not quite," Thomas said. "If I may, sir?"

"By all means, Peterson, what's on your mind?"

Thomas grabbed the flash drive. "I'd like to show you what I mean." He got up, went to Van Dams's computer and sat at his desk. Sheffield and the Deputy stood up and followed the young technician. They stood behind him. "Here are the two IM communications that Sadir sent to Agent Lypsick before he went to Flint." Thomas clicked on both files.

As soon as Van Dams began reading, he grabbed the back of the chair, swivelled it and glared at the now terrified agent. "Why on earth didn't you show us this before now?" he roared. "Do you know what this means?" Thomas shook his head. His lips quivered but no word came out of his mouth. "Well, let me tell you; because of you keeping this information to yourself, I've spent thousands in sending our Mr. Sadir on a wild goose chase along with Agent Lypsick. If I had seen this before, Sadir would be behind bars today." Van Dams shoved the chair around brutally. "Get out of here, the pair of you! And don't come back until you've got an entire file of these communications."

With shaking hands, Thomas closed the files and unplugged the flash-drive. He then followed Sheffield out of the Deputy Director's office.

On their way down the stairs, Sheffield was seething. He hated being put in a culpable position when he didn't know what he would be accused of beforehand. On the landing between the two floors, he grabbed Thomas by the one shoulder and pivoted him as if he were a puppet. "Look. I've had it! Van Dams is right; why the hell didn't you say anything?"

Thomas hung his head and looked at the flash-drive in his hand. "I couldn't."

"What does that mean?"

"Sadir's got me cornered."

Sheffield stared. "I think you better give me more than that, buddy, because I'm not going to shove my career down the drain for someone who tells me he's been cornered."

Thomas raised pleading eyes to his supervisor. "Can we go somewhere and talk?"

Sheffield held the young agent's gaze for a few seconds. He could see Thomas was in trouble. "Okay, let's get a printout of the flash-drive for the Deputy and then we'll get out of here for a while."

"What about the meeting with the prince—don't we have to be there...?"

"After what you put him through this morning, I don't think he'd want to set eyes on you for a long while." "I'm sorry, Camy..." Thomas was truly sorry, in fact. Showing the two communications to the Deputy had been his way to come clean without anyone knowing that he had done so.

## Chapter 53

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 all right 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 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 Peterson mean anything to you?"

Khalid shook his head. "I can't say that I do, no."

"Well," uncle Abdullah continued, "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."

## Chapter 54

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.

# PART 3: The Trial

## Chapter 55

Being a US Attorney on Capitol Hill is a coveted position, one, however, that requires political clout amid a very political crowd to attain. The people's approval is based mostly on the number of perpetrators you succeed in putting behind bars and on the sort of friendships you developed along the way.

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. His full head of white hair accented the tan face and the blue eyes. For nearly five years, this forceful figure had orchestrated the prosecutions of many a felon, but none like Mr. Muhammad Sadir.

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.

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.

He had read how Van Dams had thought he was an Islamic Radical but also how that trail had run cold when the CIA Deputy Director had committed an error of judgement in leading Sadir to travel to Vancouver. 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? If this was the case, he would have to have a talk with this agent.

## Chapter 56

Assistant US Attorney, Marcel Fauchet, took pride in his work and had forged his way through the halls of Justice with relative ease. A brilliant student of the law, he graduated from Harvard and early in his career he had demonstrated a real disgust for the criminals that paraded in front of the judges every day.

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 looked at the young man as he sat opposite him. He thought that if he could con the whole of the Mossad agency, he would easily fool this guy.

Marcel was young, and 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, "All right, 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 why your client did what he is accused of doing."

"Yet, that implies that my client will be willing to take a plea."

Sadir guffawed. "And you think I am going to dig my own grave? 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.?"

"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."

"We have proof that you did."

"You don't have anything to tie me to these crimes."

"Hold on 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?"

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.

"I have nothing to confirm. 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?"

"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."

Sadir was now 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?"

"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, but nowhere does it say that Mr. Sadir here was menaced in such a way."

"But, I was!" Sadir blurted. "Lypsick made such threats!"

"And you thought you or your family were in danger?"

"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 that convicting 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?_

##  Chapter 57

When Sabrina heard Aziz's voice, she erupted in a string of questions. "...How did it go? How is she? Is she awake? When can we see her?"

Aziz was sitting in front of a full breakfast and eating already, which pleased Jay no end. "She'll be fine... She's got to rest for a few hours... She still in I.C.U..."

"Have you talked to her yet?"

Still munching on a piece of bacon, Aziz took the phone from beside his ear, looked at it and shook his head. "Sabrina...!"

"Oh! Sorry..., I'll put you through right now."

After a moment of silence, Aziz heard James's voice. "Sabrina tells me Talya will be fine, is that true?"

"Yes, James. I've talked to the surgeon, and the verdict is good—very good, in fact. She should be walking in a few weeks"—Aziz smiled up at Jay—"With Jay's help she'll be on her feet in no time, I'm sure. Will you call Khalid or shall I?"

"Don't worry about any of that for now, I'll take care of it. You just take care of Talya, okay?"

"All right. I'll call you when she's able to receive visitors."

As soon as Aziz flipped his cell phone closed, he hurried to finish his breakfast under Jay's amused gaze.

## Chapter 58

It was late in Paris when the phone rang on Khalid's desk.

"Yes, Marie...?"

"Monsieur Flaubert is on the line, _Capitaine_."

As James was on the line, Khalid erupted, "How is she? Was the surgery successful...? Oh..., I'm sorry, James, I am forgetting my manners. How are you?"

"Don't worry, I know how you feel. I've been waiting for the news for hours. Aziz finally called and told me everything went fine." James's voice told the story—Talya was going to walk again.

## Chapter 59

"Darlene! To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?" Lucien Billycan asked cheerfully.

"To the fact that I come bearing gifts, my dear Lucien."

The US Attorney laughed quietly. Billycan liked the woman. Facing him, Darlene looked relaxed and rather amused.

"So, are we going to unwrap this gift?"

"No wrapping, Lucien—just many little boxes in one big one."

Darlene was determined to use all of her feminine powers to get what she wanted—Lucien Billycan's full cooperation.

"Okay, let's hear what you've got."

"I'll try to give you some of these missing evidence pieces." Darlene uncrossed her legs, took her yellow pad out of her briefcase and looked up at Billycan. "I've just come from a meeting in Ottawa yesterday with one of our witnesses and he—that's Mark Gilford—described for me the radio-call he intercepted while he was aboard the Marianne."

"You mean the fishing trawler on which the two murders occurred?"

"Yes, that's the one. Agent Gilford had a conversation with a man who _said_ he was Slimane."

"Did Gilford know it was Slimane before the man identified himself?"

"No, and that's the first little box."

Billycan smiled.

"The man spoke Arabic..."

"And Agent Gilford answered him in Arabic?"

"Yes, he did. The caller asked three things..."

"I'm listening..."

"First, he asked if Nadir (Agent Gilford purported to be Nadir) had seen Ms. Kartz. Second, he asked to keep on the lookout for her and third he asked Nadir to call him back if or when he saw her near the boat."

"Was Agent Gilford able to confirm the man who called him was not Slimane?"

"Not exactly. All he could say was that when he compared the _attitude_ of the man on the radio with that of Mr. Slimane—when they met in Paris—he didn't _think_ they were the same person."

"And you think Agent Gilford is a pretty good judge of character?"

"I'd say he is."

Billycan shook his head and smiled. Although Sadir wasn't on trial for the murders that occurred on the fishing trawler, the evidence Darlene was putting in front of him now would be useful one way or another, he thought. "Okay, what's in the second box?"

"All right. When Gilford and Talya were in Paris, they met Slimane. According to Agent Gilford's statement, Slimane demonstrated some sort of admiration for Talya..."

"Are you saying Talya and Slimane knew each other? Because that could actually backfire. It could prove collusion, not to say conspiracy between these two."

"No, that's not what I am saying, Lucien. Mark Gilford said, _'He proffered threats... under the circumstances, he had to force Khalid and Mr. Flaubert's hands. In hindsight I'd say his threats were empty threats—even better than that—they were designed to protect Ms. Kartz.'._ "

"Wait a minute... We should conclude the man on the radio _was not_ Slimane because he spoke Arabic, and Gilford thought Slimane showed admiration for Talya, and even when Slimane proffered threats toward her, Gilford thought these were designed to protect her. Have I got that right?"

"In a word, yes."

Billycan leaned back in his chair.

"I hate to say this, but Agent Gilford's personal impression will not stand up in court. It could backfire and show Slimane as an innocent party..."

"But isn't that what you want to show?"

"Are you telling me that by showing he was protecting Talya and ended up as the victim, the jury would have to look at Sadir as the guilty party?"

"That would be my strategy, yes."

"Okay, that's an angle I haven't thought of."

Billycan thought about this before he resumed with his next question, "Okay, have you got another box for me?"

"Yes I do. We could prove that Slimane didn't make the radio-call..."

"How?"

"Fred Gibson stated that he got reports from the FBI to the effect that no one could identify Slimane as the person who made the radio-call from the harbour shipping office on Grand Cayman."

Lucien Billycan shook his head. He opened a folder and pulled a one-page list out of it. "Here's the FBI's list... See for yourself, there's nothing in it saying they've interviewed anyone in Grand Cayman regarding the radio call."

Darlene took the list he handed her and scanned the length of the page. Lucien was right; there was nothing on it related to an interview conducted on Grand Cayman.

"I guess you could call Gibson and get a copy from him or you could call the FBI and get the report from them."

"Okay, but whatever the result of this little investigation is, let me just say thank you for bringing that _box_ to my attention. You said this wasn't the last box though..."

Out of her traveling case, Darlene pulled out Talya's shoebox and put it on Billycan's desk. "You can open this, but I suggest you don't touch what's inside."

The US Attorney lifted the lid up gingerly. "Holy Cow!" he shouted. "Is that the murder weapon?"

"Correction! That is the weapon that injured _but did not kill_ Mr. Abib."

"Where did you get it? We thought Ms. Kartz had thrown it overboard."

"No-no, Lucien dear, this knife is ' _symbolic_ ' as Agent Gilford described it. It has a history, and Talya didn't want to part with it."

"This is quite a knife! Did you get details on its history?"

Darlene shook her head.

"Never mind. I'll get it to forensics right away. One more thing, Ms. Stovall: how does the Willard Room sound, you and me, this evening at 7:30?"

Darlene was all smiles when he looked up at her.

"I suppose it could be arranged..." She crossed her legs again and relaxed. "Now are you going to draw a picture for me with all of the boxes I brought you, or do you want me to tell you what I think?"

"Why don't you do the sketch and I'll fill in the blanks?"

"Okay, but why don't we leave the drawing until we get to the restaurant? I'd like to get to my hotel first and freshen up."

"Okay. I'll get a car to take you..."

## Chapter 60

One word could describe the Willard Room—sumptuous. The maitre d' led the couple to their table and asked them if they wished to have some champagne before their meal. Darlene accepted readily and Lucien nodded.

As soon as they were settled, Lucien seemed anxious to hear Darlene's summary of the case.

"Let's have it then."

Darlene looked at Lucien and shook her head.

"Why don't we have dinner first? I'm famished. And the reason I'm stalling is because I'd like to hear what you've got that will not hold water in court, and see if I can help."

"Where does that generosity come from? You must want something..."

Darlene shook her head. "I'm just looking after my client's interests, but you're right, I want something in return."

"What's that?"

"An assurance that you treat Talya fairly during the trial, and that you realize the woman is the key to this affair. She knows a lot more than she's willing to divulge..."

"Are you saying she's hiding something?"

"You see"—Darlene pointed a finger at the US Attorney—"that's exactly what I mean; you're conditioned to think everyone is guilty until proven innocent."

He lowered his eyes and played with his salad fork distractedly.

"I hate this."

"What?"

"I hate to hear you describe me as an unfair man."

Darlene peered into the eyes that were riveted on her face. "Listen, Lucien, I am a friend and as such, it is my duty to tell you what I see in you or what could be detrimental to your career."

"And you think you can change me? I'm too old to change, Darlene..."

"I would never be that presumptuous. No. I just want you to look in the mirror and see what you're doing. Try tackle your problems from another standpoint. That's all."

Lucien nodded and retreated to the back of the chair again. He no longer looked at the beautiful woman sitting opposite him.

"Okay, let's say, we do it your way, and take the pieces of this puzzle that don't fit and see what's wrong with them—then what?"

"I should think I could provide the answers that would make the pieces fit, much like the boxes I brought you this afternoon."

"And for doing that, all you want is for your client to be treated fairly?"

"Yes, but more than that I want you to hear the whole story. Apart from Talya, Prince Khalid is the only other person who knows what happened since this affair began."

"Let's hear it then."

"All right. Here it goes... When Sadir was informed that Talya, with Mark and Dr. Hendrix, was driving north on her way to Ottawa, he saw his chance of killing two birds with one stone. He knew Slimane was hiding in Flint already and Talya was on her way to Detroit—a stone-throw from Flint—he pointed the finger to Slimane and to Talya, telling Mossad they were in it together and they were responsible for the sending of faulty weapons to Israel. But what Sadir didn't count on was Slimane suspecting him of treachery. Slimane knew that the only way to show a different picture to Mossad was to come out in the open. That's when he made his way to Paris to meet Prince Khalid. He had no idea that he would find Talya and Mark Gilford together with the prince in Paris. During the meeting and when Slimane changed tack and pretended that he wanted Prince Khalid to kill his uncle, Prince Abdullah—foiling Sadir's plans to have Mossad blamed for the killing—Sadir put another plan into action. As soon as Slimane returned to the States, he went to Flint where Agent Meshullam was waiting for him.

After Slimane's death and Talya's injury, Sadir thought he was out of the woods for a while until Prince Khalid showed up and told him he wanted to make his way to Australia to confront Samuel, the man who had shot Talya. At that point, Sadir saw an opportunity to get the prince eliminated and have Mossad, once again, blamed for an open attack on Saudi Arabia.

Then, he made another mistake; he asked Gibson to send Talya to Sydney to get her out of the way under the pretext that, if she didn't, she would be arrested for killing a CIA agent in Florida.

Gibson was uncomfortable with the idea—he knew Talya had not killed anyone—and asked Mr. Badawee, CSIS's legal advisor, to guide him through this maze. Badawee advised him to have the Australian prepare an arrest warrant against Samuel Meshullam and to have him extradited.

Once informed of this change of course, Sadir knew he had to get out from under the suspicious scrutiny of his colleagues and the CIA's Deputy Director.

He wanted to flee to Seattle and make his way by car to Vancouver from there. He wanted to take matters in his own hands. I think, at that point, he planned to kill Talya himself. He had rented an apartment adjacent to hers. Originally, I believe, he attempted to organize a confrontation between Samuel and Prince Khalid that would have ended up in a blood bath. Ultimately, and in view of the latest development, he then planned to shoot her while she was sitting on her terrace — although I haven't seen the apartments in question. I can't be sure at this point that Sadir is even a marksman who could aim from any distance and hit his mark.

The chain of events that followed was out of Sadir's hands. He couldn't stop the ball from rolling downhill until he was arrested."

Lucien had listened to Darlene's entire account without saying a word. Now he fixed his gaze on her. "Very well done, Darlene, but you haven't broached on the relationships that existed between Samuel Meshullam and Talya Kartz for one thing, and on what we discussed briefly this afternoon—showing Slimane was a victim rather than the man following Sadir's orders."

"That's because I have some problems with this. I mean, all the way through we've been led to believe that Sadir was at the helm, that he was the one making all of these decisions, but to me this whole bluff is a red herring."

Oddly enough to Darlene, Lucien nodded. "That's exactly what I am thinking. Ever since we began looking for evidence against Sadir, we've been hitting brick walls."

"Will the evidence I brought you this afternoon help in any way?"

Lucien nodded again. "I think these pieces may provide us with another way out of this mess."

"Okay then... Let's go back ten years ago..." Lucien raised an eyebrow. Darlene smiled. "We are in Australia. Samuel Meshullam is in love with a woman by the name of Talya Krist..."

"Whoa... Are you telling me that Talya knew Samuel?"

"Yes, that's what I'm saying..., and you shouldn't sound so surprised if you've read the reports from Sydney—it's all in there..."

"Okay, go ahead, spell it out." Lucien was uncomfortable with the idea that Fred Gibson was apparently holding back some vital evidence from him. He would have to get some answers from the man at some point.

"As I said, this goes back ten years. Samuel is avid to travel the world and he knows Talya can't follow him—she was looking after her mother and couldn't leave her—so he makes his way to Israel, and one thing leading to another, Mossad engages him and trains him to become one of their agents. Meanwhile, Talya returns to Vancouver after her mother's death and is hired as an admin assistant at Carmine Resources. A year later, Talya goes back to West Africa, where she was raised, to find out what happened to the half a million dollars that Carmine had entrusted in the hands of a Mr. Amadou Savoi. That's when the troubles started." Darlene took in a breath. "The rest you know, I guess."

"Yes I do, but I'd like to hear your summing up of the events that led up to this point..., do you mind?"

Darlene drank a swig of water. "Okay..., here we go. Talya soon finds out that Savoi is a small-time drug dealer at the stipend of a man named Osnoir. This Osnoir fellow was the lynchpin in the CIA's operation, which was designed originally to exchange drugs for weapons—weapons that saw their way to Israel. Unbeknownst to Talya at the time, she was becoming a disruptive party in the CIA's scheme and had to be side-tracked or otherwise eliminated. Prince Khalid comes on the scene at about that point. He soon realizes Talya is in danger. The prince's father played a part in Osnoir's operation, but he didn't know the CIA was the organizing party. Then Khalid and Talya go to extreme to evade Osnoir and his goons for a while, and when Osnoir dies in a car accident, Khalid is hoping to take Talya away from the turmoil and down to Cayenne where Carmine needs his help to get some of their geologists out of the jungle."

Lucien raised a hand in front of him. "Sorry to interrupt you, but that was a plot apparently designed to attract both the Prince and Talya into a trap, wasn't it?"

"Yes, but at the time, Carmine was led to think their men had been taken and held at ransom by some guerrillas. They had no idea there was a connection between the events that had occurred in Africa and what was happening in South America."

"But why would they send the Prince and Talya to the rescue? Wouldn't it have been better to get the French authorities involved?"

"Yes, and in fact Carmine did ask for the French's help, but they were given the brush-off."

"Do we know why?"

"Yes we do. The French government didn't know of any guerrilla deployment in the region, and that was the first clue that something was wrong with this whole thing."

"But again, why send Khalid and Talya down there?" Darlene was a bit annoyed with Lucien going off on a tangent, and it showed on her face. "I'm sorry, but I'm just curious. I didn't have a chance to interview these people myself yet, and since you have, I'd like you to use me as a sounding board, if that's okay with you."

"That's okay...," Darlene said, playing with some of the breadcrumbs on the tablecloth. "Okay..., Carmine needed the prince's assistance because that was part of his job. He had offered his services to transport men in and out of their various mine-sites."

"Okay, what about Talya? Why would she be going to the rescue of geologists and put herself in danger?"

"Carmine didn't ask her to go to Guyana. There were only two reasons for which she was to accompany the prince on the journey."

"What were those?"

"Well..., she spoke French for one thing, but the main reason was that the trip would take her to Florida, where Talya decided to chase the man whom she thought was at the origin of the drug trafficking in West Africa—Ben Slimane. Slimane was told she was Jewish, and from that point on, as Mark Gilford surmised, he tried to protect her any which way he could. While doing that, he forgot that he himself had become a target."

"That still doesn't tell me why Talya didn't tell anyone she knew Samuel when she, Mark and Dr Hendrix met him on the road."

"Huh-huh... and I asked her the same thing. She said that since other things happened on that trip, beginning with Mark being shot after the episode on the Marianne..."

"Hold on... Are you saying Mark Gilford was shot _after_ the Marianne incident? How come I wasn't told about this? Was that in his statement, or am I becoming blind?"

"No, Lucien, you're not becoming blind—just kept in the dark about most things that could hurt the case against Sadir."

"You mean Gilford kept quiet because he's in on this?"

"No, Lucien. Remember what I told you before dinner; look in the mirror and don't accuse anyone before you know the whys and wherefores, okay?"

"All right, all right, go on for heaven's sakes... I'm getting a headache."

"Okay..., Talya didn't want to let Samuel know she had recognized him because he also pretended that he had never met her, for one thing, and since she had no idea why they were being chased... So, given all of these factors, Talya didn't want to let anyone know that she knew Samuel—she didn't know if he had remained a friend or had become a foe in the interim she had not seen him. And since he didn't acknowledge knowing her in the first instance, she kept her mouth shut."

It was Lucien's turn to drink a big gulp of water. "How long are you in town for?"

Although unexpected, the question brought a smile across Darlene's lips. "As long as it will take to get to a trial with a winning hand."

"And who's paying your fees for this?"

"Let's just call the person an interested party, shall we?"

## Chapter 61

Doctor Blaine Adelman, M.E. sat uneasily in the witness chair. He had learned from long experience to confine his answers to the simplest description of the victim, the time of death, and its cause. In his fifties now, he had developed a permanent scowl on his brow that made him look more sombre, even menacing, than he really was. Yet, the man was gentle, loving and kind.

Once the doctor established his identity and function with the department of the Medical Examiner in Flint, MI, he was sworn in.

Lucien Billycan then got up from his seat. "Good afternoon, Doctor." He smiled amiably.

"Good afternoon, sir."

The doctor shifted in his seat. The courtroom was one of the oldest in the city. The atmosphere was nothing less than solemn, not to say stuffy.

"Now, Doctor, could you describe for the court the victim's state of health and the injury or injuries that caused the death of Mr. Ishmael Assor, known to everyone as Ben Slimane, the first victim in this case?"

"Yes. The victim, a Caucasian man, 35 years' of age, 6'1" in height, 176 lbs., in excellent health at the time of his death, died as a result of a gunshot wound to the head. The bullet pierced the frontal lobe just above the right temple, traversed the frontal lobe and lodged itself inside the skull of the victim, just above the left temporal lobe. Death was instantaneous."

"Did you ascertain the size and calibre of the bullet upon its recovery?"

"No, sir. I recovered the bullet, and sent it to the forensic lab for examination."

"Did you receive a report of their findings?"

"Yes, I did."

Billycan moved back to his table and picked up a binder, which he brought to the witness. "Is that the report you received from forensic?"

"It looks like it, yes."

"Would you mind turning to page 3 of this report and read the highlighted portion?"

Adelman turned to the page in question and read; "The bullet recovered from the victim was shot from a Gamo Silent Cat .22 Air Rifle with 4x32 Scope."

He closed the binder and handed it back to Billycan.

"Your Honour" —the US Attorney turned to the judge— "the Prosecution offers this forensics report, marked Exhibit 1 and tender to opposing counsel."

"No objection, Your Honour," Mr. David Simmons replied distractedly from the defence table.

Muhammad Sadir, sitting beside his attorney, appeared very indifferent to what was happening.

"You may proceed, Mr. Billycan," Judge Silverman said.

Silverman was a thin-faced man. Everything about him was thin and lanky.

Billycan bowed slightly and turned again to the M.E. "When you examined the body of Mr. Assor did you find anything apart from the gunshot wound?"

"Yes. I found several contusions on the shins and knee caps of the victim's legs."

"Were those in some way indicative of trauma, in your opinion, Doctor?"

"Yes, those are consistent with slamming one's legs and knees against a hard object."

"I see. And were you able to determine what this hard object was?"

"The contusions and bruising were consistent with the victim's legs hitting the lower part of a dashboard in a vehicle."

"And you determined the cause of the contusions and bruising to be the result of an impact against the lower part of the dashboard of a vehicle how?"

"The victim died at the wheel of a vehicle which he was driving at the time of his death as was determined later upon forensic examination."

Billycan bowed to the witness. "Thank you, Doctor." Then he turned to the judge. "Your Honour, the prosecution intends to introduce the forensic report mentioned by the witness at a later time."

"Very well, Mr. Billycan. If Defence Counsel has no objection to the introduction of this particular forensic evidence at a later time, we will make a note for the record and move on."

"No objection, Your Honour," Simmons mumbled without looking up.

"Thank you, Your Honour." Billycan nodded to Silverman and returned his attention to Dr. Adelman. "Doctor, did you discover any other injuries on Mr. Assor's body?"

"Yes, sir. Mr. Assor had a ruptured spleen, and several rib fractures."

"Did you determine the cause of these particular injuries?"

"Those were consistent with the victim sustaining a sharp and extensive blow to the abdominal cavity and thorax."

"Now, Dr Adelman, could you tell us if these injuries were caused prior to the victim being shot?"

"Some of the injuries were sustained prior to the gunshot wound, yes."

"Are you telling us that some of the injuries were sustained _prior_ to Mr. Assor's death, and some others were sustained _after_ his death?"

"Yes, that's correct."

"Now, Doctor, there is a detail that you haven't broached during your description of these injuries. Did you discover any indication on Mr. Assor's body that he had been wearing a seat belt at the time of the accident?"

"Ah, yes... Well, I mean no." Billycan looked at the witness fixedly. "I mean there were no marks on the victim's torso or left shoulder indicating he had been wearing his seat belt, no."

"Thank you, Doctor. So, we could be fairly certain that the injuries—whether sustained before, during or after the accident—could have been the result of Mr. Assor being projected against the steering wheel and underside of the dashboard. Is that your testimony?"

"Yes, Mr. Billycan."

"But you determined the cause of death to be the gunshot wound, didn't you, Doctor?"

"Yes, I did. The gunshot wound was the primary cause of death, yes."

"That's all, Doctor, thank you," Billycan said, walking back to his table. "Your Honour, I'd like to reserve the right to recall this witness later in the proceedings."

"So noted, Mr. Billycan. Mr. Simmons, your witness."

"Thank you, Your Honour," Simmons replied, rising from the defence table and buttoning his suit jacket. "Good afternoon, Dr Adelman. Let's go back to the last answer you gave to Mr. Billycan; you said that the gunshot wound was the primary cause of death—could you explain to the court what you meant by that comment?"

"Yes. I meant that the victim died from the gunshot wound, but could have died from the injuries I described, which he sustained during the accident. Since the victim didn't die as a result of these injuries, the primary cause of death is therefore the gunshot wound."

"So, you are saying, and correct me if I am wrong, that the victim _could_ have died from the injuries he sustained during the accident, if he had not been shot—is that what we are to conclude from your testimony, Doctor?"

"Yes, that's right."

"But, when you said the victim _could have died_ as a result of these injuries, did you imply there was a possibility he could have survived such injuries?"

"Yes, that was a possibility, in my opinion, but..."

"That's all, Doctor. Thank you for answering my questions." He turned and smiled at Billycan.

_He's playing right into my hands_ , the US Attorney thought, returning the smile.

Simmons reverted to the witness. "All right, Doctor, just a couple more questions... When were you called to the scene of the accident?"

"It was rush-hour—about 6:00PM."

"Was the vehicle a modern car...?"

Billycan literally jumped off his seat. "Objection! This witness is not an expert in this field... _Move to strike_."

"Sustained," Silverman exclaimed, banging his gavel. He was not happy. "Mr. Simmons, this witness cannot answer questions which are not part of his field of expertise." His eyes traveled to the bewildered jurors. "The jury is instructed to disregard the question—it will be stricken from the record."

"I have no more questions for this witness at this time, Your Honour," murmured Simmons.

"Very well then." Silverman turned his head to the M.E. "You may step down, Dr Adelman."

When the doctor left the courtroom, Judge Silverman adjourned the proceedings to the next day at 9:00AM.

His Honour had been right when he had said that it had been a long day already. The morning had been dedicated to the opening statements, which, for the Prosecution, had been delivered most aptly by Marcel Fauchet.

Marcel had described the accident and shooting of Ishmael Assor (a.k.a. Ben Slimane) that had resulted in the man's death in Flint, Michigan. He had given a detailed description of the events that had led to the victim's death, and then moved on to the description of the attempted murder of Ms. Talya Kartz and the events that had preceded that particular shooting. Marcel then had attracted the jury's attention to the fact that both victims were of Jewish descent and religious persuasion and that the accused was known to be a practicing Muslim. He had concluded his statement by pointing out that, although an Israeli government agent by the name of Samuel Meshullam had carried out the shooting of the two victims, no less than three United States national and international government agencies had purportedly been involved in these crimes. The two felonies had allegedly been elaborated, designed and subsequently ordered by the accused, with complete disregard for the consequences of his actions or assumption of his responsibilities as a CIA agent.

At the end of Marcel's delivery, Billycan had observed the jury's reaction during the hour it took him to make his opening statement and had found that all seven men and five women jurors had been quite taken by Marcel's various descriptions of the incidents. The women had certainly shown a degree of compassion for the victims, especially for Talya. They had been expecting to see her in court since the day they had been empanelled. However, Billycan had made it clear to her that she was to remain away from the courthouse until she would be called to take the stand. He had told her about 'testimony contamination'—she might be influenced by other testimonies before she would herself testify.

Mr. Simmons's opening statement, on the other hand, gave Billycan pause. Simmons had opened the door to introducing Ishmael Assor and Talya Kartz as traitors that had to be punished. However, Simmons had also introduced the idea that a Mossad agent had instigated the two crimes, a suggestion which may prove helpful.

Simmons had gone on to conclude, "Ladies and Gentlemen of the Jury, being a government agent employed by the CIA requires the person to obey orders given without asking questions. Mr. Sadir was such a person. He had been with the CIA for more than ten years and had obeyed the orders that had been given to him, without question. The prosecution will try to demonstrate that Mr. Sadir acted of his own accord, which could not possibly happen when you are a CIA agent. In the case of the felony murder of Agent Assor, Samuel Meshullam — an agent working for Mossad — pulled the trigger. We will show that Samuel Meshullam received his orders from Mossad, his employers—not from the CIA." He paused to let that sink in, turning to Billycan with a smirk on his lips. He then pivoted on his heels to face the jurors again. "In the case of Ms. Kartz's shooting, here again Agent Meshullam carried orders received from Mossad—not from the CIA. Yes, members of the Jury, I put it to you, Mr. Sadir could not have ordered these crimes to be perpetrated, because he was a CIA agent—an agent responsible for following orders given by his superiors in the agency. We will also show that Mr. Ishmael Assor—the first victim in this case—was a Mossad agent who had overstepped his bounds when he conspired with Ms. Kartz to have faulty armaments sent to their country of origin. And that, Ladies and Gentlemen, is the main reason for Mossad ordering their elimination. They were believed to be traitors against the State of Israel and Mossad was exacting reprisals on both of them. The CIA or Mr. Sadir himself did not give any orders to have them eliminated—how could he? Not only was he a CIA agent, but he is also a devout Muslim. Mossad would not abide suggestions against two of their own coming from an Islamic person—that's inconceivable." He paused again and then finished with, "After you will have heard the evidence and testimonies, you will have no choice but to return with a verdict of not guilty."

## Chapter 62

The next morning, Judge Silverman entered the courtroom with a decisive stride. As soon as the bailiff declared the court in session, Silverman turned to the jury. "Ladies and Gentlemen, the next few days will be dedicated to presenting the court with the relevant evidence to this case. During this process, you will have a chance to examine the evidence first-hand. Therefore, I will ask you to only note down your comments and reserve your arguments for your deliberation at the conclusion of the trial."

His Honour raised his head to look at the US Attorney. "Mr. Billycan, your next witness, please."

"Yes, Your Honour. The Prosecution calls Mr. Lieberman to the stand."

The bailiff called Mr Lieberman, who stood in front of the witness chair and faced the judge. "For the record, sir," Silverman said, "would you mind saying your name and state your occupation?"

The witness nodded. "My name is Stan Lieberman. I am a forensic specialist at the Michigan State Forensic Research Laboratories in Flint, Michigan."

After being duly sworn in, Mr. Lieberman sat down.

"Thank you, sir. Mr. Billycan you may now proceed."

"Thank you, Your Honour." Billycan got up and strode toward the witness stand. "Mr. Lieberman, good morning."

"Good morning, Mr. Billycan."

By stating the US Attorney's name in open court in front of the jury, Lieberman let everyone know that he had had contact with Billycan prior to coming to court. Billycan raised an eyebrow—imperceptible to the jury. "Mr. Lieberman, can you tell us how long you have been working in the Michigan Forensic Laboratories as a forensic expert?"

"Yes, sir. I have been with the lab for almost twelve years."

"And as part of your duties, did you have many opportunities to examine vehicles involved in accidents or in say in other forms of criminal activities?"

"Yes I have."

"How many do you go through on average over the period of a year, say?"

"It's difficult to say, but about twelve to fifteen cars or SUV type vehicles go through the lab each year."

"And as an expert, do you attend to the forensic analysis of each vehicle yourself?"

"Me and some other guys do, yes."

"Would you say that every vehicle you examined was in a serious accident or only some of them?"

"Some were not involved in a vehicular accident at all and some, yes."

"Thank you, Mr. Lieberman. Now, I'd like you to turn your attention to the report I have in my hand." This time Billycan brought a thick binder to the witness stand. "Is this the report you wrote at the end of your forensic analysis of Mr. Ishmael Assor's SUV, which was involved in the accident that occurred in the fall of last year in the city of Flint, MI?"

"Yes, that's the one."

"Thank you." He turned to Silverman. "The Prosecution offers this forensics report, marked Exhibit 2 and tender to opposing counsel."

"No objection, Your Honour," Simmons said mechanically.

"All right, Mr. Billycan, so noted. Proceed."

"Thank you, Your Honour. Now, Mr. Lieberman, could you tell us what specifically struck you as peculiar concerning Mr. Assor's vehicle, if anything?"

Lieberman shifted in his seat.

"There were three items that could be qualified as peculiar in the vehicle..." The US Attorney moved away from him to face the jury.

"Could you tell the court what these were?"

"Sure...," Lieberman said, shifting his position again. "First, even before we got the car towed to the lab, I noticed that the car wasn't fitted with airbags."

"I see. And do you think the lack of airbags in the steering wheel, for example, was due to a manufacturing defect?"

" _No, sir_. Not at all." Lieberman was emphatic about this.

"So, you are saying the airbags had been removed from the vehicle after it was purchased, is that your testimony?"

"Yes, it is."

"Have you been able to locate proof that the airbags had been removed?"

"Yes. When we dismantled the steering column we noted that the airbag had been removed."

"Thank you. Now, sir, what else did you notice as peculiar about this car?"

"Well, the second item was a leak in the power-steering fluid container."

"And without being too technical about it, could you describe for the jury, what would happen when you drive a car without power-steering fluid?"

"Well..., once the fluid escaped, the car would go out of control."

"When you say the car would 'go out of control,' do you mean the driver would then be unable to control the vehicle?"

"Yes, sir, that's what I mean."

"And what about the third item in this series of peculiarities?"

"We found two sets of latent handprints on the passenger side of the vehicle."

"Could you explain to the jury what you mean by 'latent handprints'?"

"Latent prints are not visible to the naked eye."

"And you were able to lift these two handprints?"

"Yes."

The US Attorney strode to his table and picked up a transparent folder, which he handed to the witness. "Are those the developed handprints you've just described?"

"Yes, they are."

"Your Honour, the Prosecution offers this evidence, marked Exhibit 3, and tenders to opposing counsel."

"So noted, Mr. Billycan. Please move on."

"No objection, Your Honour," Simmons uttered once again.

"And now, Mr. Lieberman, where did you find these two handprints, exactly?"

"On either side of the glove compartment on the right hand side—the passenger side—of the dashboard." A wave of murmurs and whispers among the audience accompanied the witness's statement. That description got the jury's full attention.

"Thank you, Mr. Lieberman. Now, I'd like you to turn to page 154 of the report in front of you and read the highlighted portion for the jury." Billycan faced the jury again.

Lieberman found the page and the highlighted paragraph. " _The latent handprints found on the passenger side of the dashboard of the SUV were identified as belonging to a Mr. Samuel Meshullam._ " He looked up and closed the binder amid a growing chatter in the audience.

Silverman pounded his gavel, demanding silence. Once he got what he wanted, he turned to the witness. "Mr. Lieberman, would you mind answering a question for the court?"

"Not at all, Judge, go ahead."

"Would you be able to tell the court how you determined the identity of the owner of these handprints?"

"Well, at first we had no idea whose prints these were, but then when we were suggested that they were maybe the prints of someone involved in this case, we tried matching them with the witnesses and suspects in the case, and we got a hit when we examined Agent Meshullam's prints."

"Thank you, sir." Silverman looked at Billycan. "You may resume."

Billycan nodded. "Now, Mr. Lieberman, did you come upon Agent Meshullam's prints in the regular manner?"

The forensic expert appeared nonplussed. "I don't know what you mean by 'regular manner'—sorry."

"What I meant was; were these prints part of the set that you received from the police department in Flint?"

"No, sir, they weren't. They came later in an envelope... with some other plastic envelopes in it..."

Billycan held up a hand to stop the witness, went to the prosecution table and picked up a plastic envelope. "Is that the plastic envelope you referred to just now?"

"Yes, sir—that's it—that's one of them."

Billycan turned to the judge. "The Prosecution offers this evidence, marked Exhibit 4 and tender to opposing counsel, Your Honour."

"Go ahead."

"No objection, Your Honour," Simmons replied.

"Okay, now, Mr. Lieberman, do you recall where this package came from?"

"Yes. The envelope came from the office of Mr. Van Dams—the CIA deputy director here in D.C."

"And you determined that how?"

"The courier had me sign a receipt that indicated where the envelope came from." Again, Billycan went to his table, came back with a large brown envelope, and showed it to the expert. "Yes, that's the envelope I received."

"Your Honour, the Prosecution offers this envelope, marked Exhibit 5, and tender to opposing counsel."

"So noted," said the judge.

"No objection, Your Honour." Simmons commented.

"Now, Mr. Lieberman," Billycan resumed, "you testified this envelope and its contents are what you received from the office of Mr. Van Dams and which helped you in identifying the handprints as having been made by Agent Meshullam, is that correct?"

"Yes, sir, that's correct."

"Now, if we could return to the other two items that attracted your particular attention. By that, I meant the lack of airbags in the steering wheel and the fact that there was a leak in the power-steering fluid container. Could you tell us if you drew any conclusion from these findings, based on your long experience in forensic analyses of vehicular accidents?"

"In my experience, this vehicle was tampered with in order to cause the driver to lose control." The witness took a breath. "And if the car hit a solid object, the driver would have been thrown against the steering wheel with such a force—given that there was no airbags in the steering wheel—he or she could have died on impact."

"Thank you, Mr. Lieberman, you've been most helpful." Billycan turned to Silverman. "I have no more questions for this witness, Your Honour." He walked to the prosecution table and sat down.

"Your witness, Mr. Simmons." Silverman reclined in his seat.

"Thank you, Your Honour." Today, dressed in a very expensive-looking grey suit, the calculating defence lawyer seemed ready to prance in front of the jury. "Good morning, Mr. Lieberman."

"Good morning, sir."

"My name is David Simmons. We haven't met before today, have we, sir?"

"No, we haven't."

"And we haven't discussed your testimony prior to this trial, have we?"

"No, sir, we haven't."

"Well then, it would be fair to say that your answers today haven't been rehearsed, wouldn't it?"

Billycan was on his feet. "Your Honour, where are we going with this? Relevance?"

Silverman advanced his chair to the bench. "Move on, Mr. Simmons, we've got a lot of grounds to cover yet."

"Yes, Your Honour, I'm sorry." Simmons went to stand in front of Lieberman, placing both hands on the railing. "All right Mr. Lieberman, we have ascertained that the accident occurred during rush hour, correct?"

"Yes, it's in my report."

"And did you arrive on the scene of the accident immediately after it occurred?"

"I wouldn't say immediately, no."

"How long did it take you to get to the scene then?"

"Half an hour... About that."

"Was the scene secured when you arrived?"

"Yes, it was. The police department had already taped the area and had put barricades up, yes."

"Were there a lot of people around—apart from the police officers—observing the scene, did you notice?"

"The neighbours were standing behind the tape, yes, and there was a fire truck parked just two houses down the street."

Simmons turned to the jury. "Was there a need for the fire department to be there?"

Lieberman nodded. "In my experience, cars that meet an unmovable object at any speed are liable to burst on fire soon after impact—so yes, the fire department might have been needed."

"Was the car doused with water before you arrived?"

"No,it was dry."

"Thank you. Now, do you remember if the car doors were closed or open?"

"I believe the passenger side door was open, yes."

Simmons leafed through the forensic report, and brought the open binder to the witness. "Does this picture depict the passenger side of the car the way you found it when you arrived?"

Lieberman looked at the picture and nodded. "Yes, that's the way I found it."

Billycan was getting visibly irritated. He bent to Marcel Fauchet to his right and whispered in his ear, "Did this come up in the interview with Meshullam?" Marcel shook his head. "Let's get him in my office tonight." Marcel nodded.

"Your Honour, may we show the photo to the jurors?" Simmons was asking when Billycan returned his attention to the witness.

"Now, Mr. Lieberman, you said that you lifted a set of two handprints from the dashboard on the passenger side of the vehicle—is that correct?"

"Yes, sir, that's right."

"Good. Could you ascertain when these prints were made?"

"No, sir. We can't be entirely sure when prints are made."

"Okay. But could you tell us if these prints were 'fresh' or 'old', in your expert opinion?"

"They were relatively fresh."

"Could you qualify 'relatively fresh' for the jury then? Were they a week old, a month old or could they have been made on the day of the accident?"

"Objection, Your Honour," Billycan burst out. "Defence Counsel is leading the witness."

"Overruled." Silverman didn't like this sort of unwarranted interruption. "Answer the question, Mr. Lieberman."

Meanwhile, if Sadir had looked bored yesterday, today he was all ears, nodding his approval and even smiling.

"Relatively fresh prints mean that they were made recently—but I can't be more precise than that," said Lieberman.

Simmons turned to Billycan, watching for his reaction to his next question. "So would you say it is possible they were made on the day of the accident?"

"That's a possibility, yes,"

The implication of that statement didn't escape the jury or the audience..

## Chapter 63

After the luncheon recess, Judge Silverman seemed more relaxed.

"Your next witness, Mr. Billycan," he said in a booming voice once the bailiff had declared the court in session.

"Yes, Your Honour, thank you. The Prosecution calls Dr. Valance to the stand."

Dr. Valance, a surgeon in his mid sixties, strode to the witness stand. He was sworn in, sat down and crossed his long legs.

"Thank you, Doctor, for making the trip," said Billycan. "You are a neurosurgeon with the St Paul Hospital in Vancouver, BC, correct? How long have you been occupying this position, Doctor?"

"For about sixteen years."

"Thank you, Doctor. Now, in the fall of last year, you operated on a woman who was admitted at St Paul Hospital with a bullet wound to the arm and chest, is that correct?"

"Yes, that's accurate."

"Could you describe the extent of the victim's injuries?"

"I assume you're talking about Ms. Kartz?"

"Yes."

"Well, for one thing, I had never seen a victim with such a _precise_ injury, and then when we went in and examined the extent of the damages to the tissues and bones surrounding the bullet's trajectory, we were even more amazed."

"In what way were you amazed, Doctor?"

"I could perhaps draw you a picture...? It would be easier to understand as I explain what we discovered."

Billycan looked up at the judge. "If Your Honour doesn't mind, we would like to bring in a drawing pad and easel."

"That's fine, Mr. Billycan."

"While the bailiff gets the equipment, I'll ask you another question, Dr Valance. Would you mind telling us why a neurosurgeon would be called for a bullet wound injury—any particular reason?"

"Yes. Dr Latimer, the first attending physician, determined that the bullet had lodged itself near the spinal column after examining Ms. Kartz's x-rays. In such cases I am usually called to attend or perform the surgery."

"Thank you, Doctor. Ah, and here's the easel for you."

"Excellent," Dr Valance replied, getting up. He approached the easel, and began to draw.

"Could you describe what you have drawn so far, Doctor?"

"Yes..." He pointed to the sketch. "This is the right side of a human torso... From the neck, the right arm, the thoracic cage limited on the left by the vertebrae, hosting the right lung, to above the waist."

"Now could you show us what you discovered during surgery?"

Dr Valance took his pen and traced a horizontal line across the upper arm, crossing the armpit, entering the thoracic cage and stopping a half-an-inch from the spine. He then described what he had drawn.

"The strange thing about the bullet's trajectory is that it only traversed the humerus at the most solid part of the bone, into and through the deltoid tuberosity, then went through the rib cage, scraping a thin hole through the right lung before stopping millimetres from the T6 vertebrae. It was slowed down by hitting bones prior to stopping. It did not damage the right lung as extensively as one would have expected, and the victim didn't bleed from the thoracic wound as much as she did from the hole in the upper arm."

"Thank you, Doctor." The US Attorney then again turned to the judge. "The Prosecution requests to introduce the drawing as evidence, marking it Exhibit 6, and tendering it to opposing counsel."

"Very well, Mr. Billycan, so noted."

The doctor, meanwhile, resumed his seat. Billycan turned to him once the easel had been set aside so that the jury could view it. "In your testimony you mentioned that the bullet stopped millimetres from the spinal column, is that correct?"

"Yes, it did."

"Did you extract the bullet from the victim's wound during the operation?"

"Yes, we did. I then ordered it to be taken to the lab and to be couriered to the police forensic lab in Vancouver."

"And to your knowledge that's where the bullet ended up?"

"As far as I know, yes.."

"Thank you, Doctor. Now if we could return to the surgery; would you explain for the court why the patient didn't show any response in the lower limbs since the bullet did not actually touch the spinal column?"

"The bullet only damaged the vertebra superficially, but it did severe some nerve sections before stopping where it did, causing the patient to lose all motor movements in her legs."

"Thank you, Doctor. Now, one more question; were you able to repair the damage to the vertebra or nerves at the time of the operation?"

"As usual in such instances, we couldn't repair any damages to either vertebra or nerves, no."

"Why was that, Doctor?"

"Because of the swelling around the wound."

"But you did repair the damages eventually?"

"Yes, we did, this spring, yes."

"And during the first operation, were you able to repair any other of the patient's injuries?"

"Yes, absolutely. The patient was able to use her right arm after appropriate recuperation, and never lost the use of her right lung. The ribs that had been damaged healed themselves over time under care."

"Thank you, Doctor. You've been most helpful." Billycan turned to the judge. "Your Honour, I have no more question for this witness, but would like to reserve the right to recall him at a later time."

"So noted, Mr. Billycan." He looked over his glasses at the defence attorney. "Mr. Simmons, your witness."

"We have no question for this witness at this time, Your Honour."

"Very well then." The judge turned to the surgeon. "You may step down, Doctor. We will advise you as soon as your presence in court is required again."

"Thank you, Your Honour, my pleasure." Dr. Valance then stood up, stepped off the witness stand and strode out of the courtroom as flexibly as he had come in.

## Chapter 64

Billycan, Marcel and Samuel were sitting around a small conference table in the US Attorney's office when Darlene came in.

Billycan said, "As I was saying to Agent Meshullam before you came in, Ms. Stovall, this is going to be an informal meeting, off the record." Darlene nodded and turned to smile at Samuel. There was something mesmerizing about the man, something mysterious. "But if there are some statements worth recording we'll call in a reporter to take down whatever is said—if that's all right with you, Agent Meshullam."

"Yes, I have no problem with that." Samuel appeared relaxed enough.

"All right then. The first question relates to your presence in Flint, MI. Could you elaborate on how and when you arrived in that city?"

Samuel stretched his legs under the table. "After I left Ms. Kartz in Chattanooga, I picked up a car and drove to Flint. I arrived at Ishmael's house in the evening but he wasn't there..."

"Did you know, or were you aware of his absence before you arrived in Flint?"

"No, I wasn't. I contacted Mossad then and they told me to wait for him."

"How long did you have to wait for Mr. Assor's return?"

"About a week."

"Okay then, could you tell us how you knew Ishmael Assor?"

Samuel smiled. "Well, I only knew him by reputation."

"Did you meet him before you arrived in Flint?"

"No, not in person, no."

"Okay, let's move on. How long did you stay with him?"

"When he came back, I let him believe that I had just arrived that evening. I wanted to stay only for as long as it would take me to get his routine down and where to take aim."

Marcel nodded slowly and looked at the Mossad assassin. He obviously didn't like him. "You mean you were taking the time to plan his assassination?"

"Yes, if you want to call it that, Mr. Fauchet. Mossad made the suggestion to have him eliminated, yes."

Billycan raised an eyebrow. "When you say, 'Mossad made the suggestion' do you mean you had a choice?"

"Yes, Mr. Billycan."

"And what happens if you don't do what is suggested?"

"Two things. First, the job is carried out by someone else, and then you're retired or forced to pay the price for making the wrong decision."

"And what happened in this case—did you carry out the _suggestion_?"

"Yes, I did."

"Then the question is: how did your prints got in Mr. Assor's SUV?"

To the other three people around the table there was no reason to smile, but Samuel did. He smiled and shook his head. "You mean the handprints on the dashboard?"

"Yes, Agent Meshullam."

"I don't know, sir. But you know, Mr. Billycan, there is something you may have overlooked."

"What's that?" Billycan asked.

"The fact that my handprints—entire handprints—were only taken when I joined Mossad. That's the only time I recall having made or left handprints anywhere. Besides, in many circumstances we wear gloves... but not in this instance, though."

"But then, that fact brings two questions to mind." Darlene's eyes didn't leave Billycan's face. "The first is how could these prints be considered as 'made recently' by the forensic analyst? And two, if someone wanted to indicate your presence in the vehicle at any time, why would they choose to leave whole handprints on the dashboard and not some casual prints on the passenger door handle, for example?"

Samuel swung his head slowly from side to side. "I don't know, Mr. Billycan. The only conclusion I could draw is that Mossad wasn't involved."

Marcel said, "So, you're saying that someone, who had access to your prints, tried to confuse the evidence by injecting doubt as to your carrying out your assignment?"

"But why?" Darlene asked suddenly.

Samuel turned his head to her. "Maybe someone is trying to shift the blame from Mossad to someone else."

"Then tell me this, Agent Meshullam, why would the CIA try to instil doubt as to you being responsible for pulling the trigger or trying to divert our attention onto someone other than either themselves or you, for that matter?"

"Because, Mr. Billycan, the CIA needs to uncover who is working in their midst and against them. The car tampering seemed to have been designed to kill Agent Assor. I was quite surprised when I saw the car veer out of control as I was about to shoot the man."

"But the evidence proves that you finished the job, didn't you?"

"Yes, I did."

"And according to the forensic lab, the bullet that was extracted from Mr. Assor's skull was indeed fired from your rifle. But as you said, the handprints confused the issue. You could not have been in two places at once." Billycan paused, joined the fingers of his hands in front of his chest and began flexing them. "But then, I've got a problem. For one thing, the forensics' expert is going to testify that according to their analysis of the car, the passenger door couldn't have been opened on impact, during the accident. His calculations will ascertain that _someone opened the door after_ the accident. So, the question is: did you observe anyone else in the car beside Mr. Assor at the time you took aim?"

Samuel bent his head and brought his legs back under his chair. "I cannot be sure, Mr. Billycan. I was focused on the target, and after the shot I had to escape before police officers arrived."

"Did you walk or run to the main road?"

"You don't run from the scene. That's a sure way to get caught. I walked and took the first bus that came along at the stop near the corner." Samuel gave this explanation as if he were talking about missing the last train for the night. His face was expressionless.

Marcel had met many criminals in the few years since he entered the US Attorney's office, but rarely one as cold as this one.

Darlene shivered inwardly. She, too, could scarcely believe that a human being could be so deadly.

"I can tell you," Billycan said almost inaudibly, "that in all my years as an attorney I seldom had the occasion to interview someone as unfeeling as you, Agent Meshullam. And yet, behind that façade I'm convinced there resides somebody with a heart and soul. You sir, hold the key to unlock the door to the many mistakes that have been made in this case."

Samuel smiled faintly.

"Would you mind if we discuss something else right now?" Billycan asked.

"Not at all, sir. I'll try to help."

"Okay. Let's talk about the car tampering."

Samuel nodded. "I thought it was definitely something Mossad would not do. As I said, Mossad does not leave anything to chance, and the tampering of a vehicle leaves too much to chance."

"Then who? Who would you think ordered such a thing?"

"It would have to be an individual who could have done it hours—not days or weeks—before I was to do my job. To do that, the person would have had to have access to the car during the time I was with Ishmael. And Mr. Sadir is the only person I could think of who may have had this opportunity—not himself mind you—but he could have ordered someone to tamper with the vehicle while Ishmael was away."

"What makes you think that?"

Samuel hesitated. "He may have had doubts that I would carry out my assignment when I reported to my contact that I had talked to Ms. Kartz and Agent Gilford in Georgia."

"So, you're saying this was just a job to ensure that Mr. Assor was killed no matter what happened?"

"Yes, but there is something that bothers me in what you said..."

"What's that?"

"You described the passenger door of the car being opened by someone who was in the car..." He paused. "To me, it means there is yet somebody else involved." Everyone nodded. "And thinking about what Ishmael said when I was with him, I can't think of anybody..." He shook his head. "And Ishmael's routine was quite simple. Also, he had not dared contact anyone from the CIA in days. Sadir had made sure of it. He shied away from the neighbours, and he hadn't been there long enough to make any friends. We generally don't as a rule, anyway."

"And you never rode with him in his SUV?"

"No, I had no reason for doing so."

"I see..." Billycan was pensive for a couple of minutes before he said, "Let's leave the subject of the incident in Flint for the moment. We have a more troublesome situation in our hands now. As we came out of the courthouse this afternoon, Mr. Fauchet and I were approached by a man who asked us if we had arrested Agent Lypsick yet." Billycan paused. Darlene's mouth fell open while Samuel's eyes didn't leave the US Attorney's face. Billycan gave both of them a tentative smile. "Yes, Agent Meshullam, someone is playing games." Samuel gave him a slight nod. "But that's not all. The man further told us that warnings were important and to watch my back. What do you suppose he meant by that?"

Samuel folded his hands in front of him and then laid them flat on the table. "Mr. Billycan, I think it is time for you to realize what and who you are dealing with. You have put Sadir behind bars and for that—as temporarily as it may be—I am grateful. Yet, the agent who was my contact was not Mr. Sadir. He didn't send me any messages himself, of that I am sure. The man who contacted me in the two instances—that of eliminating Mr. Assor and shooting Ms. Kartz—was Agent Lypsick."

"How did you come to that conclusion?"

"I didn't have to reach any conclusion, sir; Agent Lypsick was waiting for me in Sydney when I returned to Australia to wait to be called back to the States to attend this trial. Besides, I had an inkling that he was indeed a Mossad agent when he interviewed me in Vancouver."

"I see, and what else should we know about Mossad or Agent Lypsick then?"

"Agent Lypsick has been what you call in English a 'prime-mover' in Mossad's organization. He himself doesn't make decisions but he executes the decisions emanating from the direction of the organization, as I understand it."

"So, he's the one who would have suggested Mr. Assor's assassination, is that correct?"

"Yes, but he was not the one who decided that Mr. Assor should be eliminated. And he is not the one who ordered the shooting of Ms. Kartz either."

"Do you know who made the decision?"

Samuel shook his head again and looked down at his hands. "It is not one person, Mr. Billycan; it is a group of men, which cannot be identified by anyone of us. And apart from the Director of Mossad who enacts the decisions, there is what you would call a board of directors who investigates the problems and then render a unanimous decision to the Director."

"I see. But now to come back to our little warning..."

"I wouldn't demean the warning, Mr. Billycan, this is very serious. You and Mr. Fauchet are facing repercussions if you were not to arrest Agent Lypsick; that's what the warning meant."

"But we can't just go and knock on his door and arrest him on your say-so. We haven't got any evidence to issue such a warrant."

"That's where you're wrong, Mr. Billycan." Samuel smiled at seeing the US Attorney frown at him. "Yes, sir. You need to look at the conversations Mr. Sadir had with his co-workers, with Agent Lypsick himself when they were in Vancouver and those pieces of correspondences they exchanged. Mr. Sadir is not clever, but Agent Lypsick is extremely astute."

"How do you know this, since you have only discovered him being your contact when you were in Sydney last?"

"Because he explained what he did."

"He did?"

Samuel nodded. "Yes, Mr. Fauchet; he told me what he did in order to have Sadir arrested and tried. You have probably gathered by now that Mr. Sadir was, or is, an Islamic terrorist, whose aim was to kill as many Jews as he could while being a CIA agent of some standing. However, the fact that you have discovered, or will soon do, that Agent Lypsick accepted to forward his recommendation to Mossad, has put him in a precarious position. Mossad probably wants him arrested for collusion with the enemy. Lypsick must be aware of the pending reprisals and he's on the run. From what you described just now, Mr. Billycan, I would conclude that Mossad is protecting itself from appearing as a willing participant in the murder of Agent Assor and the assault on Ms Kartz. Until Lypsick clears his involvement from blame, he's going to stay in hiding."

"And how is he going to do that?" Darlene asked. "Mossad must know that Sadir was the driving force..."

"Yes, Ms Stovall, they do. Yet, I think there is someone else who's behind this whole affair. Lypsick needs to find out who he is."

"You mean who's the 'Puppeteer'?" Marcel put in. Everyone looked at him enquiringly. "Lypsick himself used the name when he questioned Sadir in Vancouver..."

"Yes, that's right," Billycan agreed.

Samuel nodded again. "In the meantime, let me assure you, Mr. Billycan, that if you consider me dangerous, you have a lot more to fear from Agent Lypsick than you do from me."

## Chapter 65

Billycan reached the kitchen counter to find his cup and coffeepot set beside the morning paper—as usual. He stared at the front page.

OUR US ATTORNEY WARNED!

He sat down and started eating while reading the article, which went on to describe the man who accosted the US Attorney. A piece of toast in hand, Billycan got up and went to the phone, which he brought back to the counter and punched the number.

"Van Dams here," he heard the Deputy Director say when he picked up the phone.

"Top of the morning to you, Mr. Van Dams. Billycan here."

"I'm on it, Billycan," Van Dams answered gruffly.

"On what?"

"I gathered you're calling about this morning's paper, right?"

"Right. I want to know where he comes from—what's his relationship with Mossad, if he's got any. You understand what I'm saying?"

"How do you know he's Mossad?"

"Long story, Van Dams. I just do."

"Okay, I'll try call you back before 9:00."

"Good enough. Oh, and before I forget, you should send me those communication records you've got between Lypsick and Sadir, which you seemed to have omitted to transfer to my office before the trial started."

Not waiting for an answer, Billycan hung up and went back to eating his breakfast.

## Chapter 66

The first thing Billycan noticed when he entered the Judge's chamber that morning was the paper lying on top of the desk. Silverman pointed at the headline. "Could you tell me what this is all about, Mr. Billycan? Give me details."

Billycan nodded. "All I can tell you is that Agent Lypsick is a CIA agent who seems to be pulling strings for Mossad as well."

"Are you telling me we're looking at a threat from Mossad?"

"No, Your Honour. Agent Meshullam, who's been with the agency for many years as you know, contends that Mossad is actually trying to protect my office from making a mistake and that we should set our sights on Agent Lypsick to avoid a disaster..."

At these words, the two men heard a knock at the door. "Come in," Silverman said, putting the paper face down.

"Good morning, Your Honour. Mr. Billycan," Simmons said, entering the judge's chamber hesitantly, the paper folded under his arm.

"The reason I called you both in chamber this morning, gentlemen, is simple," Silverman said. "I have reviewed the evidence you presented yesterday, Mr. Billycan, and there seems to be a question as to where Agent Meshullam was located at the time of the accident." He sat down at his desk again. "We have a set of conflicting evidence and we need to clarify matters for the jury."

"Your Honour," Billycan replied, "I interviewed Agent Meshullam last night and he assured me that he was in the house across the street taking aim at the time of the accident."

"No, Your Honour, he wasn't," Simmons burst out to the judge's utmost surprise. "I have a witness that saw Agent Meshullam exit the car just after it rammed into the tree."

"It can't be..."

The judge raised a hand to stop Billycan. "And who might that be, Mr. Simmons? Will you produce this witness during your defence?"

"Yes, Your Honour. He is a neighbour who witnessed the accident."

"And did he recognize Agent Meshullam?"

"Yes, he did, Your Honour."

"Is this witness is reliable, Mr. Simmons?"

"He is. He saw Agent Meshullam and Mr. Assor together the day before the accident."

"I see." Silverman rose from the chair and so did the lawyers. "That's all for now, gentlemen." The attorneys nodded and walked out with the judge.

Simmons rushed to talk to his second-chair before this morning's proceedings started. "Gill, get on the line with the District Attorney in Flint," he said, panting and sitting down. He leafed through his witnesses' list and pointed at a name on it. "And tell him to fly him down here today."

The lawyer exited the courtroom as the bailiff declared the court in session.

"Your next witness, Mr. Billycan," Silverman said amiably.

"I'd like to recall Mr. Lieberman to the stand, Your Honour."

"Very well then."

"Good morning, Judge," the forensic expert said as he took a seat.

"You've been sworn in already, so we'll proceed directly... Mr. Billycan, please."

Billycan picked up an evidence packet. "I am showing you Exhibit 3, which you identified yesterday as the handprints of Agent Meshullam, is that correct?"

"Yes, those were made by Agent Meshullam, yes."

"But what you could not determine for us was _when_ the prints were made, correct?"

"Yes, that's right." Lieberman looked up at the judge. "May I make a comment here, Your Honour?"

"Very well then."

"Thank you, Judge." Lieberman turned to the jury. "The handprints that we lifted from the SUV _were made_ by Agent Meshullam—they matched this person's prints on file—but they may have been made elsewhere and transferred to the dashboard."

Billycan then continued with his questions.

"Okay. Now, I'd like you to turn your attention to the open car door of Mr. Assor's vehicle, which you determined to have been opened after the accident occurred. Could you tell this court how you arrived at this conclusion?"

"Yes..., well..., we introduce the speed of the vehicle on impact and the metal stress into several formulas and we then determine whether the door hinges have been affected or distorted during the accident."

"And according to your calculations and given that the door hinges were not affected by the accident, someone could have opened the car door after the accident occurred—is that your testimony?"

"Yes, sir."

"Very good. Let me ask you this then; did you find any prints on the door itself that would indicate that someone opened the door after the accident?"

"Well, again, sir, that's difficult to say. We've found a few prints on the door, yes, but we cannot determine when these prints were made."

"I see, but did you determine who these prints belong to?"

"No, sir. None of the prints belonged to anyone on file, no."

"Thank you, Mr. Lieberman. I have no further question for this witness at this time, Your Honour."

The judge nodded and looked down at Simmons. "Mr. Simmons?"

"No question, Your Honour, thank you."

"Very well then... Mr. Lieberman, you may step down."

## Chapter 67

"The Prosecution calls Thomas Peterson to the stand," the US Attorney said as soon as Lieberman had left the courtroom.

His suit and tie looked awkward on him. The young man stepped up to the witness chair and sat down, a look of fear mixed with curiosity masking the line of his youthful face.

"Thank you for coming in on such short notice, Agent Peterson," Billycan said as he approached the witness. "You have been employed by the CIA for how long now?"

"About five years, sir. Joined right after graduating MIT, sir."

"When were you assigned to oversee the exchange of correspondence between the people involved in this case?"

"I was assigned to quite a few surveillance assignments at once so it's difficult to say... But around two years I think."

"And you have a supervisor, don't you?"

"Agent Cameron Sheffield."

"Is Agent Sheffield the only person giving you your assignments?"

"Mostly yes, sir."

"Did Mr. Sadir, at any time, ask you to do anything in particular?"

"A couple times, yes, he did."

"And what did he ask you to do?"

"Well..., I think the first time was when the guys were trying to get a handle on Agent Slimane."

"You mean, Ishmael Assor?"

"I only knew him as Agent Slimane. We're not told of the agents' aliases—for security."

"Agent Peterson, are we to believe that you didn't know Agent Slimane's real name, when you are the one person who can access information of this kind any time you choose?"

Thomas raised his head, a pleading look on his face. "Well, I wasn't supposed to know..., but I got curious when the guys were following Agent Slimane's movements in Paris."

"So, you knew his name then, and did you find out anything else about the man?"

"Yes. I found out that he was from Israel and that he had been trained by Mossad."

"And what did you do with this information, if anything?"

"I gave it to Agent Sadir here."

"I see. Let me ask you this then; why did you give this information to Mr. Sadir and not to Agent Sheffield, your supervisor?"

"It's because Agent Sadir was the one following Agent Slimane's movements in the first place, and then I didn't actually know what else to do."

"Could it be that you would have been facing sanctions if you had revealed your findings to your supervisor?"

"Yeah, I'd say so."

"Why was that?"

"Well..., I'm not supposed to pull any intel on the agents I've got under surveillance."

"Okay. Let's move on to something else you discovered." Thomas nodded while Billycan grabbed a folder. "I have here a couple of 'Instant Messaging' communications that have been exchanged between Mr. Sadir and Agent Lypsick." He turned to Silverman. "Your Honour, at this time, if I may be permitted to introduce Agent Lypsick to the court..."

"By all means, Mr. Billycan, go ahead."

Then to the jury, "Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, up to this point the name Jack Lypsick has not been mentioned during these proceedings. In order to remedy this lack of identification and provide you with appropriate background information, I will now tell you that Agent Lypsick is a CIA agent of long standing. He has overseen the activity of many important operations overseas on behalf of the agency and has a blameless record." Billycan turned abruptly to Thomas. "Do you know Agent Lypsick, Mr. Peterson?"

"Only by name. He's never been in the office."

"And you've collected Instant Messaging and other form of communications between him and Mr. Sadir, have you not?"

"Yes, sir, I did. The Deputy asked me a while ago to monitor their communications, yes."

"When would have that assignment come down, do you recall?"

"About the time Agent Slimane returned to the States."

"All right then. Would you mind reading the highlighted part of this communication for us, Agent Peterson?"

Thomas took the sheet from Billycan and recognition of what he read at a glance made him shiver. He read:

Lypsick: He's back. So what do you want to do with him?

Sadir: He's gone his way, so there's only one thing we can do.

Lypsick: Yes. Let me arrange it. Just make sure he goes to Flint as we discussed.

Sadir: Who's going to do it?

Lypsick: None of your business. We've got him and the Kartz woman for conspiracy. That's all you need to know.

Sadir: Do you want my help?

Lypsick: Organizing a little accident wouldn't be a bad idea, just to ensure we've got him out by the end of the week.

Sadir: No problem. I'll get someone up there right now. But what about Ms. Kartz?

Lypsick: Don't worry about her. We'll take care of her.

Thomas handed the sheet back to Billycan with shaking hands.

As Billycan replaced the sheet into the folder, he turned to Simmons. The latter didn't look up. He obviously knew the chips were down. Billycan had just demonstrated that Sadir and Lypsick knew each other and that Sadir had organized the accident in Flint to " _ensure they had him_ (presumably Ishmael Assor) _out by the end of the week_."

Billycan turned back to the witness. "Thank you, Mr. Peterson. Now, did you send the message to the Deputy Director immediately after you recorded it?"

"No, I didn't."

"Why was that, Agent Peterson? Were you afraid of something?"

"Yeah..." Thomas hesitated. "See..., I could have shown it right away, but like I said, I didn't know where Agent Lypsick fitted in the scheme of things. He might have been acting on the Deputy's orders or Agent Sadir might have received his orders from him, too. So, I decided to keep that I.M. for myself until I knew who was doing what for whom."

"Also, I gather that there was more than one communication you kept under wraps, is that right?"

"There was only one other that I hadn't shown yet."

Billycan took another sheet out of the folder. "Is this the second I.M. communication?" Thomas looked down at it and began reading it aloud, without being asked.

Lypsick: I'll get you the details later, but our business in Flint is done.

Sadir: But we've got to take care of Ms. Kartz. She's still on the loose.

Lypsick: Not so fast. Our man will be in Vancouver by the end of the week. He'll take care of that business then.

Sadir: What about the Prince?

Lypsick: Don't go there yet, Sadir. Let the dust settle for a bit. We'll have ample opportunities later to get him. He'll trip himself somehow, I'm sure.

Thomas lowered the sheet to his lap and hung his head.

"Thank you for that, Agent Peterson."

Once Billycan introduced the two I.M. records in evidence, he went to sit down. Something was nagging at him; it had been at the back of his mind since he had received the two I.M. communications from the Deputy Director. _No wonder Van Dams had kept these under wraps_. Why didn't Van Dams arrest Lypsick as soon as he had taken possession of these I.Ms communications between Sadir and Lypsick? If not arrest him, he should have at least questioned his involvement. Or was it another one of these CIA cover-ups? It would have been clear at the time that Lypsick was the organizing party behind Assor's murder and Ms Kartz's attempted murder. Billycan would have to talk to Van Dams, and the sooner the better. _What's more the warning makes sense now_.

Simmons got up and walked over to Thomas.

"Agent Peterson," Simmons began, "You were well acquainted with Mr. Sadir for several years, weren't you?"

"Yes, sir. He was working on the same floor and we had coffee together in the morning sometimes, yes."

"Did you ever happen to mention to Mr. Sadir that you knew about the communications he had with Agent Lypsick?"

"No, I didn't. I'm not supposed to talk about anything like that with anybody."

"I see. So, you kept the two Instant Messaging communications, now in evidence, to yourself. Were you afraid to show them to Mr. Sadir, perhaps?"

"Yeah..., I was a bit."

"And why would that be, Agent Peterson?"

Again, Thomas shifted in the chair. He seemed reluctant to answer. He raised his eyes and turned his head in Sadir's direction. Simmons was quick to notice the imploring look in Thomas's eyes and moved in front of him to block his view.

"Well..., like I said, I didn't know where Agent Lypsick fitted in this operation, and it looked like Agent Sadir was working with him... And..., well..., I wasn't sure how he'd react if he knew that the Deputy Director had him under surveillance."

"Ah-ah, now we come to it." Simmons planted his hands on the railing and stared at the witness. "But these instant messages are not specific in their contents, are they, Agent Peterson?"

"I don't know what you mean..."

"Well, let me refresh your memory then." The defence counsel turned to the evidence table and brought back the two I.M. records to the witness. "In this first one it only shows that Agent Lypsick is arranging for something to happen in Flint, Michigan. There is nothing specific" He showed the sheet to Thomas. "Then Agent Lypsick asks that Mr. Sadir arranges for a _little accident_ —again, we have no knowledge of what he's referring to, do we, Agent Peterson?"

"No..., but it says..."

"Just answer the questions with a 'yes' or 'no'," Simmons cut-in. Thomas nodded. "So, Agent Peterson, would you agree with me that we have no direct knowledge of what or who these two agents are talking about?"

"NO!" Thomas exclaimed unexpectedly. Aggressiveness had suddenly replaced his timid and reserved demeanour. "No, sir, I cannot agree with you."

"I see, could you then tell this court why?"

"Because, there were emails beside that first I.M. you've got that clearly showed that Agent Lypsick and Agent Sadir were trying to prove that Agent Slimane and Ms Kartz were traitors and they had to eliminate them," he shouted.

An awkward silence fell over the entire courtroom.

Judge Silverman didn't hesitate. "In my chambers, Gentlemen, now!" he ordered. "Court is in recess for ten minutes," he added, pounding his gavel and stepping off the bench.

When Simmons and Billycan were in front of him, in Silverman's chamber, the judge said, "Okay, Mr. Billycan, tell me why you have not introduced these emails the witness has just mentioned"

"We have no such emails, Your Honour—we didn't know..."

"Then, I suggest you get them, now!"

"Yes, Your Honour." Billycan hung his head dumbfounded.

"As for you, Mr. Simmons, I suggest you consider moving for a mistrial or at least move to strike this witness's answer from the record, and re-present this evidence during your defence."

Simmons nodded. He knew Thomas's statement was more damaging than he could have ever imagined and he had to close the door on it _immediately_. "Thank you, Your Honour."

"Besides, I have no idea why you're not moving for a mistrial right now, Mr. Simmons. Could you explain your position?"

"My client wants to proceed with this trial, Your Honour. That's all I can say."

Silverman's eyebrows shot up. "Even if the jury declares him guilty of the charges?"

Simmons nodded. "He's not admitting or confessing to the crimes, but he's not comfortable about taking a plea in exchange for putting anyone in the hot seat, Your Honour. That's all I could surmise at this point."

"All right then. Let's go back in there."

As soon as Silverman had apologized to the jury and the bailiff had declared the court in session again, he had looked at the Defence Attorney. "Please proceed, Mr. Simmons."

"Your Honour, I move to strike Agent Peterson's last answer from the record."

"Mr. Billycan?"

"No objection, Your Honour."

"Very well then. So ordered," Silverman said, nodding in the court recorder's direction. "The answer will be stricken from the record. Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, I will ask you to disregard this witness's last answer. Proceed, Mr. Simmons."

"No more questions, Your Honour."

Billycan smiled in Marcel's direction when Simmons had his back turned and went to sit at his table. "Would you mind getting the rest of these damned emails from Van Dams?" Billycan asked Marcel.

"Right now?"

Billycan shook his head. "No..., we've got other things on our plate at the moment, but soon wouldn't hurt." He paused. "I wonder why Van Dams didn't surrender the lot...," Billycan remarked musingly.

"Maybe because they contain something we're not supposed to see?"

"Right! And I wonder what that could be."

Silverman was staring at Billycan. He got to his feet. "Redirect, Your Honour?"

"By all means, Mr. Billycan. Proceed."

"All right, Agent Peterson, when you read the first I.M. communication for us, we noted that Agent Lypsick asked Mr. Sadir what he should do. How would you interpret this question?"

"Well..., I don't rightly know, sir, but it seems to me Agent Lypsick was asking for instructions from Mr. Sadir."

"Thank you, Agent Peterson. And that's all, Your Honour."

## Chapter 68

Detective Sergeant Hamilton of the Vancouver Police District was next on the list. His testimony confirmed that a sniper took aim from a gazebo located in a small park near Ms. Kartz's apartment and shot the woman as she was on her way home. The bullet that was taken out during Ms. Kartz's first surgery had been identified as having been shot from a Gamo Silent Cat .22 Air Rifle with 4x32 Scope—the same weapon that had been used in the first crime.

Billycan then asked the bailiff to bring in the weapon to the courtroom.

"Now, Detective Hamilton, could you tell us when and how you recovered the rifle?"

"Pieces of the weapon were found by the cleaning staff in four garbage cans located in the men's washroom of the Vancouver International Airport."

"And did you sent the rifle either in pieces or reassembled to the forensic lab yourself?"

"We sent it in pieces and it was reassembled at the lab after examination."

"Thank you, Detective." He turned to the judge. "Your Honour, the Prosecution offers the rifle in evidence, marked Exhibit 7, and tender to opposing counsel."

"Any objection, Mr. Simmons?"

"No objection, Your Honour."

"Go on, Mr. Billycan."

"Thank you, Your Honour." The US Attorney bowed slightly. Then to the witness, "Now, did you ascertain the trajectory of the bullet at any time during your investigation?"

"No, sir, I did not, but the forensic guys did. They stated that the trajectory of the bullet demonstrated that the aim taken by the sniper resulted in Ms. Kartz being shot in the right arm and through the upper body."

Billycan showed the witness a white binder. "Is that the forensic report you were referring to?"

"Yes, sir, that's the one."

"Thank you, Detective. Your Honour; the Prosecution offers this forensic report, marked Exhibit 8, in evidence and tender to opposing counsel."

Receiving approval from the judge and no objection from Simmons, Billycan went on, "Would you mind reading the highlighted paragraph on page 35 for us?"

Hamilton read, ' _The rifle had been aimed at the upper part of the body and not at the victim's head_ '."

"Thank you, Detective. Now, would you mind turning to page 93 of the report, and reading the highlighted sentence, please?"

Again, Hamilton flipped through to the page and read, " _The latent prints lifted from the rifle described above, have been identified as belonging to Mr. Samuel Meshullam—the registered owner of the said weapon_."

"Okay, Detective, thank you. Now, were there any other prints on the rifle?"

"No, sir, none."

"Thank you for your assistance, Detective." The US Attorney then went back to his table saying, "I have no more question for this witness, Your Honour."

"All right then. Mr. Simmons?"

"Yes, Your Honour, thank you." The defence attorney got up from his chair and walked slowly toward the witness."Detective Hamilton, good morning."

"Good morning, sir."

"You testified a few minutes ago that the bullet's trajectory indicated that the sniper actually aimed at the body of the victim rather than the head, is that correct?"

"That's what the forensic people said in their report, yes."

"And we've heard in a previous testimony that the shot appeared to be designed to do harm to the victim but not to kill. Would you agree with that conclusion?"

Billycan raised a hand. "Your Honour...? Detective Hamilton is not an expert in medicine."

"Objection sustained." Silverman frowned down at the defence attorney. "Rephrase, Mr. Simmons, and watch your step."

"Yes, Your Honour—I'm sorry." Crestfallen, Simmons returned to face the witness. "I'm sorry, Detective, let me rephrase the question. If you were in a position whereby you had to stop a perpetrator from running away from you, would you then shoot the said perpetrator anywhere in particular?"

"I guess if I had to stop anyone in any circumstances, and use a gun, I would not fire it at the body of the person, rather at his legs or even his feet, to make sure I'd stop him without injuring him too seriously."

"That's all I wanted to know," said Simmons. "Thank you Detective."

## Chapter 69

As the day drew to a close, Billycan was asked once again to elaborate on any evidence that had been presented during the day. Having established that the prints on the rifle belonged solely to Agent Meshullam and that the same weapon had been used in both crimes, Billycan stressed that it was unlikely that the Mossad agent could have been a passenger in Mr. Assor's SUV at the time he was shooting the man.

Given that his corroborating witness—the person who had supposedly seen Agent Meshullam come out of Mr. Assor's vehicle after the accident—had disappeared suddenly, Simmons didn't object to Billycan demonstrating that Meshullam was the person who committed both felonies.

Once court was adjourned, Marcel rushed to the US Attorney's office to make sure everything was ready for their meeting with Meshullam and his solicitor. Meanwhile, Billycan decided he had time to swing by the newspaper's office, and there he found the Editor.

"Well, well, look at what the cat dragged in," said the Editor as he pulled himself out of his chair. "Come in, Mr. US Attorney, and have a seat. I gather our front page this morning stirred quite a few emotions, didn't it?"

"As you say, yes it did. One in particular, I was curious to find out why you let this person go so easily. None of your reporters chased him after he proffered his little warning to me. I found that very strange and led me to conclude that perhaps he was a plant..."

"No, Lucien, nothing like that. The guy came to us beforehand and told us what he wanted to do."

Billycan recovered from the shock quickly. "Well then, I suppose you've given his description and particulars to Van Dams when he called you today—at least, I hope you did—otherwise I'll have you up on charges for obstruction so fast it'll make your head spin."

"I told Mr. Van Dams what I will tell you. The guy introduced himself as a CIA agent. He said he had something to tell you that night and if we were interested to hear what he had to say, to be there when you came out of the courthouse."

"Is that it?"

"Well..., not quite... He said if he was asked questions afterward, the CIA was ready to make trouble for us—so we didn't."

"All right, thanks for seeing me..." Billycan got up, stopped and then turned around. "One more question; did Van Dams confirm this guy was CIA?"

"No." Bill exhaled a breath of dismay. "As a matter of fact, he was fuming when he hung up this morning."

Billycan smirked and walked out of the Editor's office without another word.

Short of asking Lypsick to attend this evening's gathering, Billycan decided to have Mark Gilford attend the meeting. Mark held information regarding his and Lypsick's first interview of Samuel, and he thought it would be a good time to confront the CSIS agent with it.

Mark was in the hotel lounge, sitting in front of a tall drink reading the paper.

"Good afternoon, Agent Gilford." He stood still, looking down at the agent.

"Mr. Billycan, this is a surprise. Why don't you join me?" He indicated a chair beside his.

"No time, Agent Gilford. I came to invite you to attend a meeting in my office in a half-an-hour."

"All right, I'll come, as long as I don't have to put myself in an awkward position, from which I would have to extricate myself later."

"As long as you tell the truth, you won't have anything to worry about," Billycan replied, smiling.

Mark got up and so did the US Attorney. "That's a phrase I've heard before..." He chortled. "Let's go then."

## Chapter 70

When Billycan and Mark reached the US Attorney's offices, Samuel and his solicitor, Mr. Michael Greenstein, were already waiting in the anteroom. Marcel came out of the conference room at the same moment.

"Are we ready, Mr. Fauchet?"

"Yes, sir." Marcel took a few steps toward the four men. "Agent Meshullam, nice to see you again, sir." He turned to Samuel's solicitor. "I am Marcel Fauchet, Assistant US Attorney." He offered his hand to him.

The lawyer took it in a limp, sweaty handshake. "How do you do, sir." Then to the US Attorney on his right, "This is Mr. Lucien Billycan, our US Attorney."

Greenstein shook hands with Billycan. He grimaced. "And I'm sure you recall Agent Gilford," he said to Samuel, switching his attention to the CSIS agent.

More handshakes. "Hi, mate, how are you?"

"Keeping on the prowl," Mark answered, patting Samuel's shoulder. The latter chuckled.

Marcel then stretched a hand and pointed to the door of the conference room, which they all went into.

Mark sat to the US Attorney's right while Samuel and Greenstein sat to his left.

"I'll be in my office, sir," Marcel said, "If you need me" and left the room quietly as Billycan nodded knowingly to him.

The US Attorney then unbuttoned his jacket and looked at the three men. "This is going to be an informal discussion about Agent Meshullam's testimony, gentlemen." The men smiled and nodded, although the Australian solicitor appeared nervous.

"As you are no doubt aware, Mr. Greenstein, the justice department has granted full immunity to Agent Meshullam, in exchange for which he will give us all relevant information he can provide in regards to the crimes for which Mr. Muhammad Sadir is on trial right now."

Greenstein nodded.

"Mr. Greenstein interviewed me soon after being retained as my solicitor and I gave him a statement that, I believe, fulfilled these conditions," commented Meshullam.

"I will now show you this statement"—Billycan took out a sheaf of paper out of the folder in front of him and handed it to Samuel—"and ask you if you could confirm for us that this is indeed your statement."

"Yes, Mr. Billycan, that's the statement I made."

"Thank you, Agent Meshullam. Now, do you have anything to add to the statement?"

Samuel didn't know what he should or should not say. "I don't think so..."

"Let me help you then. Let's go back to the time you arrived in Vancouver and when you were taken to an apartment where you were interviewed by Agent Lypsick of the CIA and Agent Gilford of CSIS in Ottawa. Do you recall the interview?"

"Yes, I do."

"Good. Now, Agent Meshullam, could you tell us what you discussed during the interview that occurred in Vancouver about eight months after Ms. Kartz was shot in the park across the street from her apartment?"

Samuel brushed a side glance past his solicitor. "Agent Lypsick asked me several questions about my relationship to Ms. Kartz and..."

"I'm sorry to interrupt you, Agent Meshullam—my fault—but we'll need to go through one question at a time." Samuel nodded and stretched his forearms on the table. "So, did you answer Agent Lypsick's questions then?"

"Yes, I did. I told him that I knew Ms. Kartz for about ten years then."

"And during those ten years, did you and Ms. Kartz develop an intimate relationship?"

"How is that relevant to proving Mr. Sadir guilty?" Greenstein interrupted.

Billycan's eyes, imposing of severity, fell on the solicitor's reddened cheeks. "I'll let you decide, Mr. Greenstein." The US Attorney threw a kinder and fleeting look to Samuel. "Do you mind answering my question, Agent Meshullam?"

"Yes, we did."

"And that was prior to you leaving Australia and being enrolled in Mossad as an agent?"

"Yes."

"What else, if anything, did Agent Lypsick ask you during that interview?"

"He asked if I knew who my contact in Mossad was."

"And were you able to tell him?"

"No, sir. None of the agents in the organization knows who their contacts are. We all receive instructions either by phone or coded emails—mostly emails lately."

"Did Agent Lypsick indicate that he knew of this being a fact during the interview?"

"Yes—not clearly mind you—but to me it was obvious that Agent Lypsick knew about Mossad and its inner workings."

"Did you have any knowledge about this being the case prior to the interview?"

"Yes, sir, I did." Greenstein turned his head with a jerk toward his client. He had no idea. "When we're about to be interviewed or about to meet agents from other organizations, we are given information about the person we're to meet."

"And this was the case in this instance?"

"Yes, it was. I received a full set of information on Agent Lypsick during my stay in Australia, and I was told that Agent Lypsick would meet with me at some point in relation to an assignment that I had carried out in the past."

"Thank you, Agent Meshullam. We'll go over this a little later." Billycan turned to Mark. "But for now I'd like to ask a few questions from you, Agent Gilford, would you mind?"

"No, I don't mind, go ahead."

"During the interview in question, do you recall asking Agent Meshullam anything in particular?"

Mark sat up straight. "Yes, I did. I was curious to know why he had not killed Ms. Kartz."

"And did you obtain an answer to your question?"

"Yes, I did."

Billycan returned his attention to Samuel. "What was your answer, Agent Meshullam?"

Greenstein couldn't hold his annoyance back. "I suggest you do not answer the question, Agent Meshullam."

Samuel threw him a dirty look. "I said that my contact suggested to 'teach her a lesson she would never forget' because of her alleged treacherous deeds against Israel."

"And did you know what these 'alleged treacherous deeds' consisted of?"

Samuel nodded ever so slightly. "It was my understanding that Ms. Kartz had collaborated with Mr. Assor in sending faulty weapons to Israel."

"And how did you come to this understanding, Agent Meshullam?"

"I was fed this information through my contact at Mossad, before I went to Vancouver to fulfill my assignment. And during the interview we speak of, Agent Lypsick confirmed to both Agent Gilford and me that ' _Mr. Sadir, for all these years, stayed quiet, merely feeding Mossad with information designed to demonstrate his neutrality, even his allegiance to Israel, such as persuading Mossad to kill and maiming two of their own_ ' to quote his exact words."

Mark shook his head and then chuckled. Billycan's brow furrowed as he eyed the CSIS agent. "I can tell you right now," Mark uttered, "that those are Lypsick's precise words."

Billycan nodded in Samuel's direction. "So, let's go back to what you just said; you said that Mr. Sadir (according to Agent Lypsick) had fed information to Mossad which was designed to apply blame onto Mr. Assor and Ms. Kartz in regards to sending faulty armaments to Israel, is that a fair summary of Agent Lypsick's statement?"

"Yes, it is. But there was something else that struck me as relevant at the time. Agent Lypsick was clearly aware of what Mr. Sadir was doing 'for years' as he said, and that raised a question to my mind: why didn't Agent Lypsick inform someone of the fact when he became aware of what was happening?"

Billycan chuckled and stretched to the back of the chair. "I think I should have you take this seat at the head of the table, Agent Meshullam. You hit the nail on the head. Thank you."

Greenstein was livid. He looked as if he was sitting on a pincushion. "Are you accusing Agent Lypsick of treachery, not to say treason? Because, if you are, you'll have the CIA to answer to, I can assure you they won't take this lying down."

"I think you should calm down, Mr. Greenstein," Billycan said. "I'm not accusing anyone of anything at this time. But I have to ask, Mr. Greenstein: who's instructing you in this case—Agent Lypsick or Agent Meshullam?"

Greenstein's face paled. He knew either way he was now losing the battle. "Hum..., Agent Meshullam is, of course."

Samuel lost his cool when he heard the answer. He stood up shouting, "LIAR!" and walked out of the room.

"Mark. Go after him," Billycan ordered. "And bring him back!"

Greenstein was about to get up as well when Billycan stopped him. "I wouldn't leave just yet, if I were you." Greenstein sat down, reluctantly.

"So, let's get back to my question; who's instructing you in this matter, Greenstein?"

"Off the record...?"

"Of course."

"I was retained by Agent Lypsick. He is instructing me, but leaves most decisions to Agent Meshullam."

"Thank you. Could you tell me if Agent Lypsick has made any statement to you designed to coerce Agent Meshullam into giving a false or distorted testimony on the stand?"

"I wouldn't use the words 'coerce' and 'false testimony' in the same sentence, Mr. Billycan. But there were instances, I noticed, when Agent Lypsick insisted on my persuading Agent Meshullam to say things that were not in his initial statement."

"I see. Well, I suggest that from now on, you ignore these sorts of instructions from Agent Lypsick."

Samuel was already in front of the elevator when Mark joined him. "What's the matter with you? We all know the guy is a liar. You've demonstrated that already. So why did you have to yell it at his head?"

"Do you have any idea what Lypsick is capable of?"

"I think I've got a fair idea, yes."

"Well then, mate, you tell me how you and all this legal mumbo-jumbo is going to help Talya?"

"Is that what this is all about? They're still after Talya?"

"Not _they_ , Mark, Lypsick is. If she makes it to the stand, she's as good as dead. Lypsick has got her in his scope. He knows she is fully aware of what he's been doing. And Sadir is, too. That's why he's not talking. If he did, he might as well order a funeral for his entire family while he waits to be executed."

Mark could only stare. He was out of words. He was shaking when he finally uttered, "Did you tell Billycan?"

Samuel nodded, pressing the elevator button again. "Yes, I did last night... I've got to get to her, Mark. Lypsick is out there, and I'm the only one who can stop him."

"No, you don't!" Mark shoved the Mossad agent away from the open elevator door. "She's under protection. He won't get to her, I promise you. But, you, you've got to let Billycan dispose of Lypsick the proper way, so we won't have to chase him forever or hide from him anymore."

Samuel hung his head. He was spent. He no longer knew how to fight. "All right. But as soon as we're done here, I've got to see her, Mark."

"And you will. Let's get back in there, because the sooner we do, the sooner we'll be done."

## Chapter 71

Van Dams was pacing the length of his office. He couldn't come to terms with the fact that Lypsick was nowhere to be found. Since the CIA's mandate didn't authorize the agency to operate in the States, he had begrudgingly surrendered the search to the FBI.

Van Dams's contact at the Bureau had told him Lypsick was a visible entity—people couldn't help but notice his scarred face—and they would find the man in no time. Yet, Billycan was well into the trial now, his star witnesses were soon to take the stand, and the FBI had not been able to locate Lypsick. Both Ms. Kartz and Agent Meshullam were in danger. From the first days of the trial, Billycan had shown that Sadir was indeed guilty of feeding information to Mossad. This ultimately led them to believe that both individuals had conspired to provide faulty weapons to Israel. The US Attorney had also shown that Sadir had ordered the tampering of the SUV that Ishmael was driving at the time of the accident. However, Agent Meshullam, once on the stand, would demonstrate that Agent Lypsick had persuaded him to kill Agent Assor. What wasn't clear yet was whether Agent Meshullam had taken upon himself to maim Ms. Kartz or if that was a suggestion made by Mossad. Until now, the Mossad agent had maintained that it had been his agency's decision. Yet the facts pointed in either direction.

When it came to Ms. Kartz's statement, or her testimony on the stand, it would certainly show the extent of the CIA's involvement in the affair—whether authorized or not—and would inevitably implicate Lypsick and himself in a big way.

Van Dams picked up the phone and called his friend at CSIS—Fred Gibson.

Fred answered at first ring. "Fred Gibson here."

"Van Dams, Fred. Do you know Lypsick has disappeared?"

"I do, yes. What's up, Dietrich?"

"You should know that Ms Kartz and Agent Meshullam are Lypsick's next targets if Billycan is right. And since the Bureau can't seem to locate the guy, I need your help to protect both witnesses."

"Mark Gilford is with both of them—as far as I know—and he knows Lypsick, which is always a plus with Mark."

"True, but Meshullam is the one worrying me. He'd kill Lypsick in the blink of an eye, and I don't want a bloodbath at this juncture..."

"Yes, but I have to ask, Dietrich, why the hell didn't you arrest Lypsick as soon as you had knowledge of his collaboration with Sadir?"

"Because, it was too late, Fred. The CIA could only rein Lypsick in—we couldn't arrest him openly without divulging and admitting that the agency had tried to subdue all parties concerned with the West African operation."

"I see. Okay well let me see what I can do from this end."

"Thanks. I'll be waiting to hear from you."

When Fred hung up the phone, he called Namlah Badawee to his office.

Fred explained the situation quickly, and looked at Badawee expectantly.

The latter caressed his moustache concertedly before he spoke. "I think you should ask Prince Abdullah for his assistance in this matter."

The uncomprehending surprise was painted clearly on Fred's face. "What can he do? He's the last person I'd have thought could help."

"The Saudis would like to clear their name."

"Ah, I see... but wouldn't that put the prince and Khalid at risk?"

"Not at all, Chief. Those two are untouchables. Lypsick wouldn't dare make a move against either of them, without risking the needle or worse, facing a Saudi court."

"All right then, let me think about this."

Namlah nodded. "However, I think it would nonetheless be a good idea if Mark would keep an eye on Khalid until this is over."

"It's good to be cautious, Mr. Badawee, I agree."

Namlah got up and went out as quickly as he came in.

## Chapter 72

As the US Attorney for the District of Columbia, Billycan's first duty was to serve the people—and the people demanded that justice be done. In this instance, he was prosecuting a federal case and he had enough evidence to add two more charges to Mr. Sadir's warrants—those of felony murders on the persons of Mr. Al Nadir and Mr. Salaman Abib.

However, the law would not allow him to prosecute Muhammad Sadir for these two felonies during the current trial. Instead, he would have to let the Florida DA deal with it later.

Aside from the judicial reasons, Billycan wanted, more than ever, to demonstrate to Lypsick—wherever the guy might be—that he would not be able to reach Sadir to eliminate him any time soon. He first contacted the Florida US Attorney and discussed the issue with him. Upon receiving his approval to use the evidence involving Sadir in the double murder—after lengthy legal arguments—Billycan then contacted the ADA in Jacksonville, Glenda Blake, and asked her to transfer the files to his office in DC, and asked if she would like to be second chair. She agreed.

Alerted of Billycan's latest addition of witnesses to the list, Simmons wanted to file motions to block the US Attorney's move. However, Sadir had again objected to him making waves that would inevitably introduce doubt as to his innocence into the jury's mind.

When the next Monday morning came around, Glenda was ready, sitting beside Marcel with Billycan on the other side of her.

The first witness was the Florida M.E., Dr Helldish. After being sworn in, the Doctor described his being called in the early hours of the morning and traveling to the scene of the crime to arrive there soon after the bodies were fished out of the Jackson River.

Billycan went on, "And you attended to the victims—Mr. Al Nadir and Mr. Salaman Abib—at the scene when you were told that a double murder had been committed on the Marianne, a fishing trawler that was moored on the Jackson River. Is that correct, Doctor?"

The audience was sitting on the edge of their seats, a feeling of imminent revelation in the atmosphere. Thus far, the evidence and witnesses had provided everyone with a sense of direction—a direction leading to the truth and Sadir's conviction.

"That's correct, Mr. Billycan."

"Did you notice anything particular about either or both corpses?"

Doctor Helldish, a man in his forties, looked up at the US Attorney. "I noticed that one man had a bruise on his jaw. Other than that neither man had any marks on them that indicated that there was a struggle or fight."

"Now, Doctor Helldish, did you determine the cause of death of both victims?"

"Yes, sir, I did..."

"What was the cause of death for Mr. Al Nadir?"

"Mr. Nadir's neck had been broken, likely by a forceful chokehold which snapped the cerebral vertebrae."

"Thank you, Doctor. What about Mr. Salaman Abib?"

"There was a single puncture mark on the man's abdomen, which I determined to be a knife wound."

Billycan turned to the evidence table, picked up the plastic bag containing Talya's knife and brought it to the witness. "Is this the knife that caused the wound?"

"Yes, it matched the wound."

"Thank you, Doctor. Your Honour"—Billycan looked up at Silverman—"the Prosecution introduces this knife, marked Exhibit 10, into evidence and tender to opposing counsel."

"So noted, Mr. Billycan. Mr. Simmons?"

"No objection, Your Honour."

The US Attorney faced the witness again. "Did the victim, Mr. Salaman Abib, die from the knife wound?"

"I initially thought so, but after the autopsy I concluded that Mr. Abib actually died by drowning."

"Thank you, Doctor." Billycan bowed slightly. "And then, did you determine how long of an interval there was between the times the victim was wounded and his body reached the water?"

"As far as I could tell, the victim hadn't lost much blood after being knifed, so I concluded that his body reached the water within minutes of being injured."

"Were there any other determining factors that helped you in reaching your conclusion, Doctor?"

"Yes, of course, there was the length of time the body had been in the water and the body's lividity, both of which provided me with an approximate time of death."

"Thank you. Now, moving on, the forensic technicians who examined the boat, did you know they were from the FBI?"

"The agent in charge of the investigation identified himself as being FBI so I assumed the forensic guys were, too."

"I see, and did this agent give you his name?"

"Yes, he said his name was Agent Verduccio." Glenda looked up at the witness suddenly. She remembered the officers, who led the investigation later, mention the name.

"Did you know why the FBI led this investigation and not the regular police department at the time?"

"No, sir, I had no idea. I just did what I was told."

"And when you finished 'doing what you were told', Doctor, did you send your report to the FBI as well as to the Florida police?"

"Well, not exactly..."

"What do you mean by 'not exactly', Doctor?"

"Well..., Agent Verduccio asked me to send him two copies of the report and said that he would forward a copy to the Jacksonville Precinct himself. I assumed he did so in due course."

"Wasn't that against procedures?"

"Yes, it was—or at least I thought it was—but when the FBI is involved you don't ask questions."

"Thank you, Doctor, for your patience and precise answers." The US Attorney then turned and walked back to his table. "I have no more questions for this witness, Your Honour."

"Mr. Simmons—your witness." Silverman said.

"Thank you, Your Honour." Simmons rose and went to stand in front of the witness. "Good morning, Doctor."

"Good morning," the M.E. replied mechanically.

"Now, Doctor, did you have an occasion to examine the knife that was used in the wounding of Mr. Abib?"

"Only to verify that it matched the victim's wound."

"Had you ever seen such a weapon before?"

"No, sir. The knife appeared to be some sort of artefact or relic."

"Thank you, Doctor."

Billycan knew where this line of questioning was going to lead, once Simmons would have his chance at calling witnesses for the defence. The knife was of North African origin and he would endeavour to show that Talya was tied somehow to the Al-Fadir family and to the alleged conspiracy between her and Ishmael Assor. He bent down to Glenda's ear. "Did you have a weapons' expert examine the knife?"

The Florida ADA shook her head.

Simmons went on, "When you said that the FBI was at the scene of the crime when you arrived, did you ask Agent Verduccio to show you his badge or proof of his identity?"

"No, sir. I didn't see any reason to do so."

"Well perhaps Agent Verduccio was not the person he pretended to be. Is that a possibility, Doctor?"

The M.E. nodded slowly. "Yes, I suppose it could be possible."

"Thank you, Doctor, that's all," Simmons said, going back to his table.

Billycan was on his feet. "Your Honour, at this point we would like to ask for a ten minute recess—time to confer with Ms. Blake."

Silverman frowned again. He didn't like this sort of interruption. "All right, Mr. Billycan, you got it."

As soon as the judge was out of the courtroom, Billycan caught Marcel's gaze. "Get a weapons' expert to examine that knife as soon as possible. I would also like to see His Highness, Prince Khalid, take the stand as soon as he can free himself." Marcel was practically running out of the courtroom when he heard the last of Billycan's words.

Glenda showed her surprise. Her mouth fell open. "You mean the Prince is here—in D.C.?"

"Yes, my dear, he is, and his uncle is too."

"I can hardly wait to meet him." She looked up at the US Attorney with regained composure in her eyes.

## Chapter 73

Billycan couldn't help but gawk at Marcel when he told him what the prince had said about his brother being prepared to take the stand and answer questions about not only the knife, but also the events that led their father to be involved with the drug trafficking, which the CIA had organized originally with the assistance of Mr. Osnoir. "Are you telling me that we will be able to get a full explanatory statement from the prince's brother?"

Marcel nodded.

"All right then, we've got to get a continuance or at least an adjournment for the day. We've got to prepare for this. Get Ms. Stovall in my office as soon as you can."

"May we approach, Your Honour?" Billycan asked Silverman immediately after the bailiff declared the court in session again.

"Yes, Mr. Billycan. Mr. Simmons, please approach."

When both attorneys were close enough to the bench, Silverman placed his hand on the microphone. "What's going on, Mr. Billycan?"

"One of our witnesses is flying in from Nouakchott, Your Honour, and we would like to have the time to interview him in the morning. We will be asking for a continuance, Your Honour." Billycan turned to Simmons. "If my colleague doesn't mind."

Simmons said, "We've got no objection, Your Honour."

"Well, it seems that everyone would be happy for the break, so go ahead, Mr. Billycan... How long?"

"Three days, Your Honour."

"Okay then, go ahead."

Within a few minutes court was adjourned for three days—until the following Thursday at 9:00AM.

"Okay, let's see if Prince Khalid can see us in a half-an-hour." Billycan said to Marcel.

"Yes, sir. I was just talking to Ms. Stovall; she'll be at your office anytime her presence is required for that interview."

Glenda was trying to keep up. She looked up at Billycan while Marcel was on the phone with Khalid again.

"What would you like me to do?"

"Stay with us and observe, Ms. Blake. Just observe. You'll be attending interviews in the next two and half days that could be useful for you to recall if I ask you to examine witnesses on the stand."

"Me? You want me to examine your witnesses? I don't think I can, Mr. Billycan, I might bungle things for you..." That was a polite rebuff when, in fact, Glenda looked forward to having her chance at the Al-Fadir family.

Billycan smiled kindly down at her. "I'm quite sure you won't, Ms. Blake, and it's about time you get your feet wet, don't you think?"

Billycan then turned to Marcel. "All right, is the prince available?"

"Yes, sir, he's invited us for lunch, in his suite."

"Great."

## Chapter 74

"So what did you think of Prince Khalid?" Billycan asked Glenda. They were in the car, going back to the US Attorney's office.

"He's clever, but not used to divulging his thoughts unless he's forced to do it."

Marcel turned his body in the front seat to look at Billycan. "But he comes up with the right assumption in the end, doesn't he?"

"Yes, he does," Billycan agreed. "What he deduced about Sadir plotting to have Gilford kill Meshullam after Meshullam would have taken him out, and then concluding that Sadir had probably arranged for Ms Kartz's elimination in Vancouver, was right on the money."

"But can you prove any of it is the question," Glenda put in pensively.

"I think we can. We have three witnesses to confirm that Prince Khalid was sent to confront Meshullam. Plus, we have Sadir renting an apartment adjacent to Talya's. Then we have Mossad that could confirm their suggestions to have the prince eliminated—on Sadir's advice."

Marcel didn't know about this. He raised an eyebrow. "Is Mossad prepared to come forward then? And who's going to be their spokesman?"

"I don't know yet. But Van Dams left a message on my phone saying Mossad wanted to be involved in the trial."

"That's going to be very interesting," Glenda remarked.

## Chapter 75

Salamir looked particularly uncomfortable. He was dressed in a suit, which fitted him perfectly but seemed to be the prime reason for his discomfort. Sitting in the witness chair he looked definitely ill-at-ease.

He had spent a day with Khalid and Billycan answering numerous questions. From the little Salamir knew, Billycan and Khalid managed to re-construct the chain of events that eventually led Khalid to be embroiled in the Sadir Affair.

Billycan rose from his chair and approached the witness.

"Mr. Sahab, I'd like you to turn your attention to the time you first met Madame Kartz. When was this exactly?"

"My brother, Prince Khalid Sheik Sahab Saif Al-Fadir, bring her down from Paris in June of two years past, Monsieur Billycan. I am sorry, my English not very good, Monsieur."

"Don't apologize, Mr. Sahab. You're doing very well. So, Madame Kartz came down from Paris in June two years ago and do you know why she came to Mauritania?"

"My brother said Madame Kartz attack in Paris and we need take her to the desert."

"And how long did you stay in the desert with Madame Kartz?"

"Maybe week, maybe less."

"And when you arrived at Nbak in the Sahel, what did you do then?"

"Caravan say goodbye to Madame Kartz and I give her knife for protection."

That was Billycan's cue. He went to the evidence table and took the knife to Salamir.

"Is this the knife you gave Madame Kartz?"

"Yes, it is knife I make for her. Yes, it my work."

"Thank you, Mr. Sahab. Can you also tell us why this knife is so special to you?"

"Yes, yes—this is very old way to make knife. For protection. Very sharp and straight—not bow like knife to fight."

"Thank you, Mr. Sahab. Just one more question: did you see Madame Kartz again after she left the caravan?"

Salamir shook his head. "No, Monsieur Billycan, I never seen her again."

"Mr. Sahab, I thank you again for your patience. I will not ask you any more questions now, but my colleague, Mr. Simmons may have questions for you."

Salamir nodded and appeared a little more relaxed, although the gaze he shot in Simmons's direction and the look he threw at Sadir were not the most amicable Billycan had ever observed. He knew Salamir, if allowed, would have throttled the accused and killed him right there and then.

Silverman turned to Simmons.

"Mr. Simmons, your witness."

"I have no question for this witness at this time, but would like to reserve the right to cross-examine Mr. Sahab's testimony later."

"Very well then. Mr. Sahab, you may step down." Salamir looked up at the judge, visibly surprised that he didn't have to stay any longer on the stand or answer any more questions. He hesitated, stepped down and stopped by the defendant's table. "رحمه الله على روحك, _May Allah have mercy on your soul,_ " he said and then went out of the courtroom quickly, straight to Khalid's side.

"Don't talk now, Salamir," were Khalid's first words to him in Arabic. "Come and sit down with us." He indicated a bench where uncle Abdullah was sitting, his arms crossed over his chest. "We will talk when we return to the hotel."

Salamir nodded and went to sit by his uncle, who smiled at him. "I am sure you did very well, Salamir. I know Allah guided your steps," uncle Abdullah said reassuringly. "It will be Khalid's turn soon, and we will stay with Mr. Gilford here for a while."

## Chapter 76

During the lunch break, Simmons decided it was about time he had another talk with his client. The odds were stacking pretty high against him, yet Sadir was still not talking.

"Mr. Sadir, I can't do my job if you won't talk. We've got the Prince on the stand this afternoon, and I tell you right now he'll bury you. Billycan is digging your grave as we speak."

"I didn't pull the trigger, I am not responsible. That's what you've got to show them," replied Sadir.

"You're wrong, Mr. Sadir! That's not the way it works. You have instigated the murder of Mr. Ishmael Assor, which makes you legally responsible for his death. The same applies for Ms. Kartz. These clear demonstrations of _intent_ , Mr. Sadir, are what makes you responsible for her injuries and attempted murder.

"Whether I talk or not, Billycan and all his lawyers haven't got anything on me."

"Except—and again—showing that you _intended_ to do away with no less than four people. Billycan has one compelling witness who's going to see you through to the needle, Mr. Sadir."

"If you mean Prince Khalid, he's not going to do anything to me. We only talked once and I helped him do what he wanted to do all along." Sadir's face reddened. "He wanted to find Meshullam and do away with him. I only showed him the way... with CSIS's assistance, if you recall"

"It might be his word against yours but..., Billycan can show links between you and the four crimes without much problems."

"If you're talking about these instant messages again and all that; that doesn't prove anything."

Simmons shook his head. "You keep on focusing on flimsy evidence, which, I have to agree with you, do not prove much, but you must listen to the witnesses, Mr. Sadir, they hold _compelling_ evidence showing _intent_ on your part. That's what you've got to focus on."

"But they've got nothing of this _compelling_ evidence or my showing _intent_ of the two murders on the Marianne, have they? I had nothing to do with that."

"Wrong again, Mr. Sadir. They will show that you instigated the murder of Ms. Kartz if she were to find the Marianne and the two CIA agents on board the trawler. They had their orders to kill her, didn't they? The prosecution will easily show that you were the one who _intended_ to have Ms. Kartz killed. If she and Agent Gilford did away with the two agents, it was in self-defence, Mr. Sadir."

Sadir scowled, but said nothing.

"There's more too." Simmons paused to watch his client's reaction. "Mossad—you do remember them, don't you?" Sadir stared. "Well..., they've just advised Van Dams that they'll assist the US Attorney in the prosecution."

Sadir pounded his fist on the table. "They can't do that! They promised me..." Sadir stopped abruptly. However, it was too late; the words were out of his mouth.

"Ha-ha! Finally, we're getting somewhere. What did they promise you?"

"I'm not saying anything!"

"Look. Billycan has discovered that Lypsick is a Mossad agent. So, if you hope to play this hand without losing everything, you're not going to succeed. Just let me talk to Billycan and give him the name of the person who's been keeping you on a short leash."

Sadir shook his head. "If I do that, they'll find a way to eliminate me, even in here. I won't see my family alive again."

Simmons simply shook his head, got up and left.

## Chapter 77

Billycan, Glenda, Marcel and Darlene were sitting around the conference table in the US Attorney's office.

Glenda looked at Darlene. "Thank you for getting Ms Kartz's knife to me."

"Glad to be of help," Darlene replied. "What did you think of Talya and Mark Gilford's statements about the second attack?"

"Umm..., yes..., but that's the only information I've got on that incident. There was no police report on it..., so I can't do anything with it."

"I'd like to know who this Verduccio character is." Billycan looked at Glenda pointedly.

"Billycan, I told you, I only have the statements from Ms Kartz and Gilford. Nothing else."

"I think Mark Gilford would strongly disagree with you, Glenda," Darlene put in quietly, not lifting her head from her last piece of chicken. "He's got the scar to prove it."

"Did you know anything about this Verduccio... when your precinct investigated the Marianne incident?" Billycan asked Glenda.

"No... It's only when they finally got hold of the M.E. and lab reports that the guys recalled being told to get off their crime scene by this Verduccio."

"Didn't the captain find it strange not to get a report from the M.E. at the time?"

"Actually..., I think he must have also been told to stay away since the FBI was handling it. And it's only when Van Dams got me on the rack for accusing Ms. Kartz of killing Al Nadir and we got the knife and made a DNA comparison, that the M.E. report appeared mysteriously on one of the police officers' desk."

"You mean to tell me, the FBI or this Verduccio fellow gave false information to the police?"

"Huh-huh that's what happened, but we still don't know who instigated the false allegation against Ms. Kartz."

"Marcel, get me Van Dams on the phone. Now!" commanded Billycan.

"Yes, sir!"

Billycan glared. "When did you become aware of this situation, Ms. Stovall?"

Marcel came back into the room.

"He'll be on the line in a minute, Billycan."

"Do you intend to put him on the stand when they find him?" Darlene asked.

"Depends... I'll hear what he's got to say first."

The phone rang on Billycan's desk. He pressed a digit on the speaker device on the table. "Billycan here... How are you, Dietrich?"

"Not as well as I'd like. What's up?"

"We need the FBI to produce a man by the name of Verduccio. He's—"

Van Dams didn't let him finish. "Way ahead of you on that one, Billycan. We've got the FBI on his tail right now. He is an FBI agent all right. He's been suspended since the knife reappeared."

"When do you expect they'll grab him?"

"Give me 24 hours and he should be in a detaining cell. I'll contact you as soon as we've got our hands on him."

"Good. Thanks."

"Well people," said Billycan, "let's see where this leads us."

## Chapter 78

"The Prosecution calls His Highness, Prince Khalid Sheik Sahab Saif Al-Fadir to the stand." Khalid came in, a decisive step in his stride, and went to stand in front of Judge Silverman.

"Please state your name and occupation for the record, sir."

"Prince Khalid Sheik Sahab Saif Al-Fadir, originally from Saudi Arabia." Khalid's voice was calm and modulated. "I am a private aircraft licensed pilot."

"You live at the Hotel the Crillon in Paris, do you not?"

"Yes, Your Honour, that is my residence."

"Thank you, Your Highness. Please have a seat."

Once Khalid was sitting in the witness chair, Billycan approached him. "Your Highness, thank you for traveling from Paris to attend these proceedings."

Khalid nodded. "It is my pleasure and my duty, sir."

"I will begin by asking you a few questions pertaining to your meeting with the defendant, Mr. Sadir, earlier this year. You called on Mr. Sadir when you arrived in Washington, D.C. and asked him to have lunch with you, to discuss your trip to Sydney, Australia, is that correct?"

"Yes, it is."

"Was there anything that perhaps bothered you about the recommendations Mr Sadir made to you at this lunch?"

"Two things actually. First, I wondered why, after recommending that I stayed in Washington or made my way back to Paris, Mr. Sadir went to extreme lengths to assist me to find and confront Agent Meshullam. Second, I asked myself how Mr. Sadir could have known about Agent Meshullam's precise assignment—or that he was in fact waiting for me to arrive in Sydney."

"What did you deduce, if anything, from these inferences?"

"When I had a chance to think about his latter encouragement, I concluded that he had conspired all along to have me assassinated."

"Could you explain to the court how you came to that conclusion, Your Highness?"

"Yes, I will try." Khalid paused. "When Mr. Sadir agreed to help me, he managed to enlist the assistance of a CSIS agent to accompany me to Sydney to protect me. However, this agent is also known to be a marksman of note. When Mr. Meshullam would have pulled the trigger and succeeded in killing me, the CSIS agent would have shot him, thus eliminating yet another witness to Mr. Sadir's alleged unlawful activities."

"Thank you, Your Highness. And what about his knowledge of Agent Meshullam's assignment—did you draw any conclusion in that regard?"

"I couldn't help but question the fact that Agent Sadir seemed to be well informed as to the movements of an agent belonging to a foreign agency that is well-known for keeping its actions or movements totally secret."

"Did you confirm your suspicions about Agent Sadir's relationship with Mossad at any point in time?"

Khalid threw a brief glance in Sadir's direction. "Yes, I did, Mr. Billycan."

The US Attorney was startled. He didn't remember reading anything like that in Khalid's statement. "How did you come about this information and when were you made aware of Mr. Sadir's alleged duplicity?"

"When I returned to Paris I called my uncle in Riyadh, who provided me with the name of the CIA Director here in D.C., with whom I confirmed Mr Sadir's status, and with the name of another person, a name I'd rather not mention in open court."

"Thank you, Your Highness. You said the Director of the CIA confirmed Mr. Sadir's status at the time; could you tell us what Mr. Sadir's status was?"

"Yes. Mr. Sadir was a liaison officer and was apparently in charge of relating messages or assignments received from or transmitted to the CIA or Mossad field agents, and in particular messages and assignments that pertained to the West African region."

"Did you have an opportunity to verify this?"

"Yes, I did. In the first instance, I received a visit from Agent Lypsick of the CIA..."

"I'm sorry, Your Highness," Billycan cut in, "but I will have to ask you how you know Agent Lypsick."

"I do not know Agent Lypsick per se, Mr. Billycan. The man came to my door showing me his credentials, which described him as a CIA agent, and asked me several questions regarding my uncle, Prince Abdullah Saif Al-Fadir, and his proposed visit to Riyadh. In fact, Agent Lypsick appeared to be on a 'fishing expedition'. The CIA had apparently intercepted an email that my uncle had sent regarding Ms. Kartz's health, and Agent Lypsick wanted to obtain more information as to my uncle's meaning behind a phrase that had been written..."

Billycan handed Khalid a plastic envelope.

"Is this one of the emails you're referring to?"

"Yes, it is."

"And looking at the text, which of these phrases was put into question by Agent Lypsick, do you recall?"

Khalid read aloud.

Not wanting to sound remiss in my concern, I must ask you if you have been able to see Ms Kartz lately. 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.

"' _What she suffered is my fault_ ' led him to think that my uncle was in some ways responsible for Ms. Kartz being confined to a wheelchair."

"Was that also your contention?"

"No, Mr. Billycan, it was not my contention then, and it is not now."

"What did you understand then the sentence to mean?"

"For several months—almost two years then—my family, Ms. Kartz and I (as well as several other innocent parties) were embroiled unwittingly into various affairs that my uncle felt he could have stopped or averted. His past friendship with Mr. Sadir, I believe, was weighing heavily on his conscience at the time he wrote this email."

"Thank you, Your Highness." Billycan turned to Judge Silverman. "Your Honour; the Prosecution introduces this email, marked Exhibit 11, and tender to opposing counsel."

"So noted, Mr. Billycan. Mr. Simmons?"

"No objection, Your Honour." The defence attorney shook his head and returned to making notes.

"Now, Your Highness, could you describe the second opportunity whereby you were able to verify that Mr. Sadir was in fact a liaison agent with the CIA?"

"Yes, Mr. Billycan. This is a little more complicated and dates back to the time Mr. Assor came to Paris. At the time, I was far from realizing that Mr. Assor, who was then known to everyone as Agent Slimane, was trying to avert my uncle's assassination."

"Do you mean to tell us that the CIA was trying to assassinate Prince Abdullah Saif Al-Fadir?"

"No, Mr. Billycan, not the CIA, but apparently Mr. Sadir was."

"How did you determine this and when?"

"As I said, this chain of events is a little more complicated, but I will try to abridge the story as much as possible. In essence, Mr. Assor—apparently under the CIA's orders—tried to demonstrate that my uncle had orchestrated the sale of drugs to West Africa and had organized the shipments of weapons to Gaza. None of the parties involved, including me, could believe these accusations. When Mr. Assor showed up in Paris, he pretended to blackmail me into going to Zurich to meet my uncle in order to have him divulge his ties to this operation to me. I accepted the deal and was intending to go to Zurich when I heard that my uncle had been stopped at the airport, and had been declared persona non grata in Switzerland. Later, when my uncle was informed of the deceit, he discovered that Mr. Sadir had somehow organized his assassination and that Mr. Assor actually blocked the CIA's order of execution by having my uncle arrested as he stepped off the plane in Zurich."

"Was anyone else present when Mr. Assor blackmailed you?"

"Yes, there were several people sitting around the table."

"Anyone in particular?"

"Yes, Mr. James Flaubert the president of Carmine Resources, and Agent Mark Gilford, were present."

"And what was the subject of the blackmail, do you recall?"

"Agent Slimane threatened to reveal Ms. Kartz's involvement in the death of the CIA undercover agent, Mr. Al Nadir, and have her arrested if Mr. Flaubert and I did not go to Zurich to confront my uncle."

"Thank you once again, Your Highness, for your thorough answers and your patience." Billycan turned to Judge Silverman. "Your Honour, I have no more questions for this witness at this time."

"Very well, Mr. Billycan. Mr. Simmons—your witness."

"Thank you, Your Honour," Simmons said, rising from his chair.

"Good afternoon, Your Highness, I will now ask you to go over some of your answers with me."

"By all means, go ahead, sir."

"First, I'd like to go back to you confirming Mr. Sadir's status with the CIA. You said that you received confirmation of Mr. Sadir being a liaison agent with that agency. Would you say then that it stood to reason that Mr. Sadir would send and receive messages to and from the foreign field agents assigned to work in his region?"

"Yes, it would."

"Therefore, that Mr. Sadir was well informed of Mr. Meshullam's movements would stand to reason, would it not?"

"No, sir, it would not."

"Why, Your Highness? You've testified that the Director of the CIA gave you confirmation of Mr. Sadir's duties in the agency. Why then would you not find it appropriate for Mr. Sadir to be informed of Mr. Meshullam's movements?"

"Because, Mr. Simmons, if you go back to my testimony, you would read that the Director of the CIA specified the area in which Mr. Sadir was working, which was West Africa. And as far as I know, West Africa is nowhere near Australia."

Simmons peered into Khalid's eyes. He knew the prince wasn't going to take it easy on him. "Your Highness, you said that Mr. Meshullam wasn't an agent assigned to the West African region..."

"I'm sorry; Mr. Simmons, but I didn't say that. I said that I found it somewhat strange that Mr. Sadir was well informed about the movements of an agent who was not apparently assigned to the West African region where Mr. Sadir worked."

"All right. Now, Prince Khalid, when you arrived in Australia and you were informed that Mr. Meshullam was going to be arrested and extradited to Canada to stand trial, why didn't you go to Vancouver to be with Ms. Kartz?"

"Because the Australian authorities had arranged for me to return to Paris and instructed me to do so."

"I see. And when you learned that Mr. Meshullam was on his way to Vancouver, did you make any attempt to go to Canada then?"

"Yes, I went to Vancouver at the bidding of Mr. Fred Gibson of CSIS in Ottawa, who asked for my assistance in a matter."

Billycan gawked at the prince. He had not heard this before.

"And what was the substance of the assistance Mr. Gibson requested from you?" asked Simmons.

"When I arrived in Vancouver, I found out that Agent Lypsick had arranged for me and Agent Gilford to interview Mr. Sadir."

"Did you have this interview with Mr. Sadir then?"

"Yes, we did, yes."

"Then what happened when you and Agent Gilford met with Mr. Sadir?"

"Agent Lypsick had coaxed Agent Gilford into pretending that he was a wealthy merchant wanting to resume drugs and arms' trade in West Africa with the help of Mr. Sadir."

"Are you telling this court that Agent Lypsick of the CIA persuaded Agent Gilford to set a trap for Mr. Sadir?"

"That's what it appeared to be, yes."

"Did Mr. Sadir accept the proposed involvement?"

"No, he didn't. He seemed to think that he had nothing to fear from Mossad since he was adamant that he had followed the CIA's orders to quash all remaining evidence of the organization's operation in West Africa."

"When you say 'quash all remaining evidence,' do you know what the 'quashing' may have entailed?"

"Mr. Sadir was quite clear on that point. He said that the CIA intended to eliminate all parties involved..."

"I'm sorry for the interruption, Your Highness, but is it your understanding then that the CIA had ordered Mr. Sadir to kill anyone who had been involved in this particular operation?"

"Yes, Mr. Simmons, that was my understanding."

"And this interview occurred when, do you recall?"

"When Mr. Sadir was held against his will in Vancouver—soon after he had been dismissed from the CIA, I believe."

Simmons paused. He seemed lost in thought for a moment. "Do you have a record of this conversation, Your Highness? I don't seem to recall you mentioning this interview in your statement."

"No, sir, I don't. However, I know that Agent Gilford recorded the conversation on tape."

"All right. Now, Your Highness, you testified that you wanted to kill Agent Meshullam; what made you change your mind?"

"When I finally visited Ms. Kartz in Canada, she explained to me the reasons behind Agent Meshullam's action, and that explanation served to change my mind."

"She must be an exceptional woman..."

"She is, Mr. Simmons."

"Well, let's assume that your answer can be corroborated, and that Ms. Kartz convinced you to stay away from Mr. Meshullam, did she also tell you that it was Mr. Sadir's plan to have you killed in Australia, as you, yourself surmised before going to Sydney?"

"No, Ms. Kartz was not aware nor had any knowledge of Mr. Sadir's activities at that point."

Simmons nodded. "I have no more questions, Your Honour," the defence attorney said, and went to sit down.

Billycan rose in a bound. "Redirect, Your Honour?"

"Yes, Mr. Billycan, go ahead," Silverman agreed, seemingly relieved.

"Your Highness," said Billycan, "you have testified during Mr. Simmons's cross-examination that you agreed to meet with Mr. Sadir and that, during this interview, you learned that the CIA was supposedly directing some sort of clean-up of their operation in West Africa. Did you draw any conclusion from the fact that Agent Lypsick was apparently setting up this trap for Mr. Sadir?"

Khalid nodded. "Yes, at the time, I thought Agent Lypsick was trying to extract information from Mr. Sadir which would indicate that _someone_ in the CIA was trying to eliminate every possible witness to their failed operation in West Africa."

"Is it your contention then that Agent Lypsick was aware of this ' _someone's_ ' intention and was intending to confirm his findings?"

"Yes, I believe that's what Agent Lypsick was trying to accomplish, yes."

"Now, Your Highness, just one more detail; since Agent Gilford pretended to be a wealthy drug dealer, could you explain to the court what your role was during this interview?"

Khalid looked uneasy. "Yes. This dates back to the time my father was involved in the CIA's operation in West Africa. Agent Lypsick was apparently aware of the fact and asked me to pose as the person who intended to follow in my father's footsteps."

"Thank you, Your Highness." Billycan looked up at Silverman. "I have no more questions for this witness, Your Honour." He walked back to his table and sat down.

## Chapter 79

As soon as court was adjourned for the day, Billycan rushed out of the courthouse and into his car at kerbside. Marcel was waiting for him in the backseat.

"How did it go with Prince Khalid?"

Billycan groaned. "The man keeps his aces up his sleeve. He's been talking to the CIA Director, and we now have proof that Sadir was interfering in Mossad's business, and have evidence of his direct involvement in the CIA's operations in West Africa."

Marcel's mouth dropped. "Why didn't the prince let us have this information before the trial, do you think?"

"I can think of only one reason; protecting Samuel and Talya. And right now, we need to see Van Dams to find out if Sadir had any connection whatsoever with the FBI. I have no doubt of it now, but I want Van Dams to confirm it, even if I have to put him on the stand to do it."

"Does Van Dams know we're coming?"

"No, Marcel, he doesn't. And I don't want him to be prepared for this meeting. I want to look in his face and see for myself if he's lying."

"Lying about what?" Marcel looked surprised.

"Come on, Marcel. Do you really think the man was ignorant of the fact that Sadir was working primarily in West Africa or that he had knowledge of the plot to assassinate Prince Abdullah while making him the scapegoat for the CIA's failed operation? What's more—a question that's been nagging at me ever since we introduced the two IM communications we have on file—why on earth didn't Van Dams arrest Lypsick when he learned of the plot between him and Sadir?"

Marcel shook his head. "You're right. We need to talk to him."

When Marcel and Billycan arrived at their destination, they saw Van Dams come out of the building as they were about to enter it. A shot rang out and Van Dams fell to the ground in a heap.

"Call 9.1.1., NOW!" Billycan shouted to Marcel. He was already dialing. "Hang in there, Dietrich. Hang in there, my friend," the US Attorney said to the dying man.

"Lyp... sick..." was Van Dams's last word.

Billycan pressed his hand to the bleeding chest for a few seconds until he felt the heart stop beating.

## Chapter 80

Billycan poured a stiff scotch for himself and Marcel.

"I should think that bullet was not meant for Van Dams, but for you," said Marcel.

Billycan put the two glasses on the coffee table before he answered, "Maybe..." He sat down. "Yet, if you think of everything we've heard thus far, you have to conclude that Van Dams was the linchpin that moved the wheels in this affair. Look, Van Dams knew of Sadir's involvement in West Africa. He had access to these communications that our defendant had with Mossad and with Assor. He was aware at least of Lypsick's movements if not of his menacing Sadir's family, and last he was well informed of the FBI's participation into fabricating evidence to inculpate Ms Kartz."

Marcel continued staring. The picture became clear in his mind. "Would you then conclude Van Dams was the 'Puppeteer'?"

"No, Marcel, but he was sure near the top of the chain."

Marcel took a swig of his drink. He was replaying the incident in his mind, drinking his scotch concertedly. "Did Van Dams say anything before he died?"

"Huh-huh; he said just one word, 'Lypsick'."

"Do you think he meant Lypsick fired the shot?"

"I don't know. Maybe he meant that they found the guy; but we'll find that out soon enough."

## Chapter 81

The news of Van Dams's sudden death spread over all forms of media within minutes of the shooting. Within an hour, the CIA was on "lock-down alert".

When Khalid heard the news, he knew he needed to get to the ambassador's house before anyone had an opportunity to tell Talya and Samuel what had happened. He found Mark already in his car, waiting for him.

"What do you think about all of this?"

"I think the person who shot Van Dams must have been in court this afternoon, and when he heard what I said about Sadir being a liaison officer in West Africa..."

Mark's questioning expression receded into a stunned one. "You mean you told them about the meeting with Sadir in Vancouver and you contacting the CIA Director—why?"

"I had to do it, Mark. The CIA Director himself asked me to keep the information quiet—for obvious reasons—and he was right. His deputy is now dead because of my divulging that someone was interfering with their operation before it fell apart."

"So..., we're back at the beginning, aren't we?"

Khalid nodded. "Yes, Mark, we are. All of us have tripped one way or another on information regarding the CIA and Mossad's operation, and now someone is definitely trying to shut our collective mouths."

"But that means whoever it is, is after a dozen people. He won't make it."

"Maybe not, Mark, but he'll surely try. I have no doubt of it."

## Chapter 82

If there was ever a busy night for the police force, the FBI and the CIA in the District of Columbia, this was it. Soon they determined that a sniper shot Van Dams from behind one of the trees that surrounded the CIA's compound.

Meanwhile, the Florida police, with the FBI's assistance apprehended Verduccio and brought him back to D.C. within hours of Van Dams's shooting taking place.

Billycan walked into the visitors' room of the detaining centre at 6:00AM the next morning. The two officers who had participated in the investigation of the Marianne incident were already there. The older of the two detectives made the introduction. "I'm Jim Laslo, sir, and this is Craig Fisk."

"Lucien Billycan." The US Attorney shook hands with the officers. Billycan then waved to the guard at the door for him to bring the witness to the room.

Verduccio came in, sat down, facing Billycan.

"Agent Verduccio, I'll come to the point. You were assigned on or about June of last year to a clean-up operation that occurred on and near a disused pier of the Jackson River in Florida, is that correct?"

"Yes, that's correct."

"Who gave you the order to attend to the clean-up in question?"

"Special Agent Fillmore did."

"And did Agent Fillmore give you any specific instructions regarding the clean-up and how you should handle the reporting afterwards?"

"Nothing specific, no. He said that I was to accompany the bodies to the morgue and make sure we got all evidence packed and tagged properly for the lab."

"What happened that got you suspended from your functions at the Bureau?"

"It was when Fillmore got a call from somebody—I don't know who—saying that the knife that killed one of the CIA men had been recovered and that I had tried to cover up the fact that Agent Nadir had not been killed with a knife."

"So you were accused of falsifying the M.E. report, is that it?"

"Yeah, that's what Fillmore said."

Laslo then approached the table. "Why did you tell me Al Nadir had been stabbed by Ms Kartz?"

"Because that's what I was told to say...Agent Fillmore said: ' _CIA Agent Nadir has been stabbed by Ms Kartz.'_ Those were his words, as I remember."

Laslo huffed and shrugged his shoulders as he retraced his steps to the back of the room and joined his colleague.

"Thank you, Agent Verduccio." Billycan opened the second folder. "Now, I'd like to go over something with you that needs clarification before I go into court this morning. The incident in question occurred the morning after the Marianne incident. Of course, at the time you were busy cleaning up at Jackson pier and nowhere near the scene of the second event. Yet, we believe that the FBI knew or was aware of a second trawler being sent to chase after Ms Kartz down the inlet while she and her companions were bringing back their launch to the boat rental shack. In the course of these events, Agent Gilford of CSIS was shot. So my question is this; do you have any knowledge of anyone being ordered to chase after Ms. Kartz's launch while you were doing the clean-up of the Marianne?"

"No, not specifically about that day, no."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Well..., we'd been on Ms. Kartz's tail for weeks then, ever since she landed in Florida. Fillmore had received a call for assistance from the CIA—as you know these guys can't operate in the States—they were asking that we tail her until she'd lead us to one of their agents, a guy by the name of Ben Slimane."

"Thank you. I've just got one more question—did you at any time while you were cleaning up the Marianne scene fished out a vacuum-packed crate of cocaine?"

"No sir. All we got out of the water were the two victims, that's all."

"Did anyone ever accuse you of planting such evidence at or near the scene of the crime?"

Verduccio hesitated.

"Yes..., sir. Special Agent Fillmore mentioned something about this crate when he interrogated me before I got suspended."

"Was that the reason for you being suspended?"

"That and my being accused of falsifying the autopsy report, yes."

"Would you say then that someone is trying to pin these felonies on you?"

"It appears that way, I guess."

"Okay, Agent Verduccio, I have no more questions for you at this time. You're now going to remain in protective custody for a while."

As soon as the US Attorney left the detaining centre, he called Marcel.

"Verduccio was made a scapegoat. Get Special Agent Fillmore in my office tonight. And get a police escort for Talya and Samuel to accompany them to court this morning."

"All right, I'll arrange everything."

## Chapter 83

The courtroom was packed to the rim—standing room only. At 9:00AM Ms. Talya Kartz was called to the stand.

As soon as Talya was sworn in, she sat down. Her face was a perfect mask of calmness and determination. In a fleeting glance, she noticed Aziz sitting beside the Ambassador. Her eyes traveled to Sadir, who was staring; he had never met the woman.

Billycan stepped toward her. "Ms Kartz, I shall start by asking you to identify the person who accompanied you into the courtroom this morning, would you mind?"

"Not at all. The man who walked at my side is Mr. Samuel Meshullam."

Gasps of surprise roamed through the audience and the jurors.

Billycan resumed once he felt that people were over the shock of seeing a Mossad assassin in the courtroom. "And could you tell this court how you know this man?"

"I first knew Mr. Meshullam when we both lived in Australia."

"Did you have a chance to meet him again before today?"

"Yes, Mr. Meshullam came to Bowen Island, near Vancouver in Canada, where I was recovering from my injuries."

"What was the reason for his visit, do you know?"

"Yes, Mr. Meshullam wanted to explain why he had fired the shot that landed me in a wheelchair for almost a year."

"Could you tell this court what his explanation entailed?"

"Yes. Mr. Ishmael Assor and I had been accused of treason against the State of Israel, and Mr. Meshullam had been ordered to kill Mr. Assor and to wound me in order ' _to teach me a lesson I would never forget_ '."

"I'm sorry, Ms. Kartz, but it was this court's understanding that Mr. Meshullam had been ordered to kill both of you. Are you saying we drew the wrong conclusion?"

"Yes, sir, I am. You see, Mr. Assor was labelled a traitor, and so was I. However, in my case, I had been acquainted with Mr. Meshullam for many years, and Mossad had reason to believe that perhaps Mr. Meshullam had participated in the alleged conspiracy. They wanted to test his loyalty. If he had killed me, it would have demonstrated to the agency that he had yet eliminated another witness to his own treason. Therefore, he had to shoot me but only wound me in order to save both our lives."

"Thank you, Ms Kartz. That has cleared a few things for us. Now, I'd like to go back to the time you were aboard the Marianne—a fishing trawler registered in Jacksonville, Florida. Could you describe for the court what happened the night you boarded the vessel?"

"Yes. Dr. Hendrix, Agent Gilford of CSIS and I were looking for proof—evidence—of drug trafficking on the part of Mr. Slimane, I mean Mr. Ishmael Assor. We had been looking for two trawlers, one of which was the Marianne."

"I'm sorry to interrupt you here, Ms. Kartz, but could you explain—as briefly as you can—what you thought you would find on these trawlers?"

"Illegal drug shipments."

"And did you find the evidence of such shipment?"

"Yes, once we boarded the Marianne, I found bills of lading showing frozen crates being shipped from Nassau to Miami on two corresponding dates."

"But you didn't find these bills of lading right away, did you?"

"No, I didn't."

"What happened in the meantime, when you found the trawler?"

Talya grimaced before she answered, "We were waiting until dark to board the Marianne in order to remain unseen. As we were waiting and wondering if we shouldn't call the authorities to help us out, I noticed and recognized a man coming out of the wheelhouse and lighting a cigarette. He was the man who had abducted me and tortured me in Paris—Mr. Al Nadir. When I told Mark Gilford who the man was, he boarded the trawler and attacked Mr. Nadir. Dr. Hendrix and I rushed after him, but we were too late to stop Agent Gilford from killing Mr. Nadir. Seconds later, another man came out of the wheelhouse, but Mark had his back turned to him. I didn't think... I took my knife out of my sling and stabbed Mr. Salaman Abib in the stomach."

"Did you also know Mr. Abib?"

"Yes, he was the second man who participated in my abduction in Paris."

"And what happened then?"

"Since the man was only injured, he rushed me against the door of the wheelhouse and then Mark turned him around and punched him senseless. After that, Agent Gilford dragged both victims and heaved them over the railing. We then fled, as we needed to stay free until we were sure Prince Khalid and the others were safe, and to prevent the people who held my colleagues hostage in Guyana from killing them."

"And could you remind the court why your colleagues were held hostage in Guyana?"

"Once again, someone was trying to stop me in my investigation of Ben Slimane's activity. And locating me was part of the abductors' ransom demands.

"Thank you, Ms. Kartz, for being very honest and forthcoming with your answers. Let's go back to a minor point; you said that you pulled your knife out of your sling—why were you wearing a sling at the time?"

"I had been shot a couple of days earlier by yet another sniper who was trying to stop me."

"So, if we understand you correctly, it has been three years now since this affair started and three years since you have been chased and targeted at various times by person or persons yet unknown, is that correct?"

"Not quite, Mr. Billycan." Talya paused, seeing an expression of surprise register on Billycan's face. "Yes, it's been about three years now since this whole thing started, but _I know_ the people who have tried to see me through my next life more rapidly than I'd like. You see, Mr. Nadir and Mr. Abib were employed by Mr. Osnoir, a renowned drug lord in West Africa who was responsible for ordering my abduction and injuries in Paris."

"Thank you." He turned to Simmons a smirk on his face. "Now then, Ms. Kartz, who is the next responsible party for your injuries?"

"Well..., when I left Africa I assumed that Mr. Slimane—or Assor—was at the origin of my other injuries, until it became clear that Mr. Assor was acting on someone else's orders, possibly a CIA agent. And lastly, Mr. Meshullam acted under the orders of Mossad."

"Do you have any knowledge of who misinformed Mossad and falsely accused you and Mr. Ishmael Assor of conspiracy against the State of Israel?"

"Yes, I do!"

From the corner of her eye, Talya saw Sadir literally shrink in his seat. Simmons hung his head in defeat. They both knew the game was up.

"Could you tell this court how you acquired this knowledge?"

"Yes. When Mr. Meshullam came to visit me on Bowen Island, we talked at some length about Mr. Sadir. We could not reconcile the fact that Mr. Sadir being a Muslim person was able to persuade Mossad of our alleged misdeeds. Although there is much understanding between Muslims and Jews, especially among some of those residing in the Middle East, in this instance, Samuel and I could not believe that a Muslim man could influence Mossad to such an extent; the person who could plausibly influence Mossad's actions in any way would have to be Jewish. However, the initial accusation of conspiracy against Mr. Assor and me, originated from Mr. Sadir—according to the Director of Mossad."

"Did you receive confirmation of this assertion at the time Mr. Meshullam was visiting you in Vancouver, or later?"

"We did not receive confirmation of the name of the person who sent the messages to Mossad or of Mr. Sadir's involvement until two days ago when we were the guests of Ambassador Alasghar."

"Now then, would you divulge for this court the name of the party who forwarded Mr. Sadir's messages to Mossad?"

"His name is Agent Jack Lypsick."

The hush of relief that traveled through the audience reflected the audible breath that Sadir exhaled the moment Talya pronounced Lypsick's name.

"Thank you, Ms. Kartz."

Billycan then went to the evidence table, fetched yet another plastic pouch from it, and brought it to Talya. "Ms. Kartz, would you be able to tell the court if these are the bills of lading that you found aboard the Marianne?"

"Yes, they are."

"Thank you, Ms. Kartz. Your Honour; the Prosecution introduces these bills of lading, marked Exhibit 12, and tender to opposing counsel."

"Very well, Mr. Billycan, so noted. Mr. Simmons?"

"No objection, Your Honour."

Billycan walked back to the table again, and took the knife, which he brought to Talya. She quickly recognized the weapon as being hers, and Billycan went to put it back on the table. He then turned again to Talya and asked, "Ms Kartz, do you have evidence or a copy of the emails and correspondence you and Mr. Meshullam transmitted and received from Mossad?"

"Yes, Mr. Billycan, I have." Talya slid a hand in her jacket pocket and extracted a flash-drive that she handed to Billycan. "Every correspondence Samuel and I exchanged during his brief stay on Bowen Island has been recorded on this drive."

Billycan took the flash-drive and handed it to the Judge.

Silverman told the court secretary print its content, record it and bring back the hard copies to court as soon as it was done.

"Please continue, Mr. Billycan."

"Thank you, Your Honour. Now, Ms Kartz, would you be able to produce evidence of receipt and transmission of correspondence between yourselves and the Director of Mossad?"

"Not me, Mr. Billycan, but his Excellency, Ambassador Alasghar, can. He brought the file with him to court, I believe."

Billycan raised an eyebrow. If not properly introduced or admitted, this evidence could destroy all of his hard work. Ultimately, he feared that Simmons would introduce a motion to have the evidence suppressed in such circumstances.

Simmons rose from his seat slowly. _This is it; he's going to make trouble..._ "Your Honour, this is most unusual. We have not been advised that such evidence existed."

Silverman nodded. "It is unusual, but I'm going to allow Mr. Billycan to proceed."

"Thank you, Your Honour."

Just then the Ambassador rose to his feet. "If Your Honour doesn't mind the interruption, I would like to address the court at this time."

"You may proceed, Ambassador Alasghar."

"Thank you, Your Honour." The Ambassador bowed to the court. "I shall preface this by saying that I realize that I am not under oath nor have I been invited to be a witness during these proceedings. However, I have been asked by both His Highness, Prince Abdullah Saif Al-Fadir and the Director of Mossad himself on behalf of the State of Israel to carry these documents, and remit them in your hands in the hope that this affair could be concluded judicially once and for all."

Judge Silverman then replied, "Mr. Ambassador, on behalf of this court and in the interest of justice, I will accept the evidence that you have in your custody."

Ashram went to the bench and gave Silverman the port-document. "Thank you, Your Honour." He then turned toward the door of the courtroom and walked out, bowing as he passed Khalid in the front row.

## Chapter 84

Simmons was perhaps disheartened about the fact that Sadir's name had been confirmed as the name of the person who had sent messages to Lypsick, but there were a few items that hadn't been discussed, and the defence attorney saw his chance at turning the tables on Talya approach rapidly.

"Ms Kartz," Simmons said, bowing slightly, "You stated that you had known Mr. Meshullam while you lived in Australia, is that correct?"

"Yes, that's correct."

"Were you romantically involved with Mr. Meshullam at that time?"

Talya seemed to resent the question, and wasn't looking forward to where this was going. She breathed out slowly before answering.

"Yes, we were."

"And then you said that you didn't meet Mr. Meshullam again until he came to visit you in Vancouver... or Bowen Island, pardon me..., is that correct?"

"No, sir, not quite. I saw a man who called himself Isaac Whittlestein when I was traveling with Agent Gilford and Dr Hendrix in Georgia."

"And you recognized him as actually being Samuel Meshullam?"

"I recognized him, yes, but he didn't seem to acknowledge me when we picked him up on the road to Chattanooga."

"And why was that? Did you perhaps want to hide the fact that both you and Mr. Meshullam were involved, as presumed by Mossad, in a conspiracy against the State of Israel? Wouldn't that be a fair assumption, Ms Kartz?"

Talya scowled. "No, Mr. Simmons."

"Would you then tell this court why you did not tell anybody, not even Agent Gilford, that you had recognized Agent Meshullam?"

"Because Agent Meshullam did not reveal who he really was—not even to me—and I thought I wasn't going to be the one to say anything about something he apparently wanted kept quiet."

"Did you have any opportunity to talk privately to Agent Meshullam when you traveled with him?"

"No, I did not."

"And when he came to Vancouver, did you try to avoid Agent Meshullam?"

"Not quite."

"Could you elaborate on what you mean by that?"

"Yes, Mr. Simmons. CSIS in Ottawa had informed me that I was targeted for elimination and that they suspected Agent Meshullam to be involved. So, I put my personal affairs in order and planned to meet with him at a neighbourhood restaurant that night. I wanted to know if he was really the one who had killed Ben Slimane—I mean Mr. Assor—and if I was next on his list."

"But, I gather you didn't have a chance to do that?"

"No, I was on my way home when Samuel shot me."

"And now that you know he is the one who pulled the trigger, why would you insist in accusing someone else of these crimes?"

"Because, Mr. Simmons, Agent Meshullam may have pulled the trigger but he is in no way responsible for ordering these crimes to be perpetrated."

"Thank you, Ms Kartz," Simmons concluded, turning to the judge. "I have no more questions for this witness, Your Honour."

Over the lunch adjournment, Simmons went back to the detaining centre where he found Sadir waiting for him in the visitors' room. The defence attorney had now confirmed that his client was guilty as charged. The only way out of this mess was for Sadir to get on the witness stand and reveal in open court who was behind this affair—from the beginning. The prosecution had demonstrated that Lypsick was a messenger, and Billycan had now shown that Sadir was also near the issuer of these orders. Simmons was convinced Sadir had only been a link in the chain. However, if Sadir wasn't going to give up the name of the 'Puppeteer', the only thing Simmons could do was to instil further suspicion as to Ms Kartz and Agent Meshullam being traitors.

Of course, even that was a long shot. Simmons didn't have much hope left at this point, and he wondered if his client did either.

## Chapter 85

Sitting now in the front row and beside Samuel, Talya was watching Mark being sworn in. She knew he was in for a hard time.

"He'll be fine, don't worry," Samuel whispered in her ear. Talya nodded.

"Agent Gilford," Billycan began as he approached Mark, "Could you describe for the court the events that occurred on the evening you went with Ms Kartz in search of the fishing trawler, the Marianne, along the Jackson River, in Florida?"

Mark went on to explain what happened in as many details as he recalled until the moment he heaved the victims overboard. Billycan then asked, "Could you now tell the court why you threw the two men overboard?"

"Yes. I had kept Ottawa informed of what we were doing. Yet, we needed time to bring proof of Mr. Slimane being involved in the shipping of drugs to West Africa. By my way of thinking, if we alerted the local authorities of what happened that night, we would possibly be arrested and questioned, which would have put the people held captive in Guyana in danger. We needed time to gather evidence before we would inform the local police of what we were doing."

"And what happened after that?"

"As we were about to start searching for evidence of drugs aboard the trawler, we heard the radio in the wheelhouse crackle and a man call for a reply."

"What did you do then?"

"I sat at the radio desk and talked to the guy."

"What language did this man speak?"

"He spoke Arabic."

"And you know the language?"

"Yes."

"And what did the man ask?"

"He asked me if I had seen Ms Kartz, and I told him that I hadn't seen her all day."

"What did the man say to that?"

"He said to call him back when I saw her."

"Did you agree to do that?"

"Yes, I did."

"And what happened after that?"

"Dr Hendrix and I went down the hull of the boat and searched for traces of drugs."

"Did you find any?"

"No, we didn't. The hull was empty."

"What did you do next?"

"When Ms. Kartz told us that she found some bills of lading regarding frozen crates being shipped from that boat, I decided to call it in. I contacted Ottawa, told my boss what happened and asked him what we should do with the evidence."

"And did your boss make any suggestions?"

"Yes; he said that he would call the FBI and the Florida authorities to take care of the clean-up and that we were supposed to go back to Miami to take a flight back to Canada as soon as we could."

"I'm sorry, Agent Gilford, but would you explain to the court what the 'clean-up' entailed?"

"That meant Chief Gibson was going to brief the FBI and the Florida police of what happened that night and ask them to get the men out of the water and survey the scene of the crimes."

"So, you admit that crimes were committed aboard the Marianne?"

"Yes, I do. If I hadn't killed Mr. Nadir as soon as I boarded the trawler, he would have eliminated Ms Kartz on sight."

"So, when you were told who Mr. Nadir was, you climbed aboard with the intention of killing him, is that correct?"

"No. I only wanted to put him to sleep in a chokehold, but then he said something that indicated to me that if he saw Ms Kartz he would eliminate her, so I maintained the hold and broke his neck."

"Could you tell this court what Mr. Nadir told you that made you react the way you did?"

"He said, ' _You better kill me now or someone else will_.' I didn't understand it at first, but then he repeated what he had said and told me, that we all knew too much to let us live."

"Thank you, Agent Gilford. Could you now describe what happened the morning after the Marianne incident?"

"Yes..., well..." Mark hesitated and shifted in the chair. "The next morning, we—I mean Dr Hendrix, Ms Kartz and I—were about to check the only ice factory on Front Street, near our hotel when we got a call from Prince Khalid telling us that Slimane—that's Mr. Assor—was definitely behind the abduction of Carmine's geologists in Guyana and that Ms Kartz was still in danger."

"Did you abandon the investigation of the ice factory then?"

"Yes. It was essential that we returned to Canada as soon as possible. So, when we were on our way to bring back the launch, we realized that the second fishing trawler was chasing us and somebody was taking puck-shots at us. We tried to avoid the bullets, but we got hit anyway."

"When you said that 'we got hit anyway', did you mean bullets hit the three of you?"

"No, just me..."

"I'm sorry about that. And what happened after that?"

"We got the launch back to the rental place and Dr Hendrix rented a car—we wanted to drive to Miami."

"But in the end you never did get back to Miami, did you?"

"No. When we were driving south Ms. Kartz said that, because somebody had been chasing us since the night before, we would do well to go in the opposite direction and try to reach Canada by road."

"Was there anything in particular that convinced you that Ms. Kartz was right in having you drive northward?"

"Actually there was something that bothered me about the radio call I got on the Marianne. I was asking myself why the guy at the other end—which I thought was Slimane—asked me to call him back if I saw Ms Kartz. See, if he wanted to kill her, why would he ask me to call back? It didn't make sense. And then when I didn't call back and he couldn't reach anybody, whoever it was that called must have thought Nadir was dead and sent the other trawler to chase after us the next morning."

"And on the drive north, near Raleigh, you met Samuel?"

"Yes, but at that time he introduced himself as Isaac Whittlestein—supposedly going to visit his great uncle in Flint, Michigan."

"I see, and when did you realize that Mr. Meshullam's intention were quite different?"

"When I was told back in Ottawa that Slimane—I mean Mr. Assor—had been shot."

"And how long was it between the times you met Agent Meshullam on the road in Georgia and you heard that Mr. Assor had been shot?"

"I'd say about a week."

"And could you describe for the court what happened between those two events?"

"When we got to Ottawa, we learned that Prince Khalid had returned to Paris unexpectedly and the geologists in Guyana had been freed, but we didn't know why the prince had gone without saying anything to anybody. So, Ms Kartz and I made our way to Paris, France, under the pretext that she was going to join her boss, Mr. Flaubert, for a meeting."

"And then what happened?"

"When we got to Paris, the night after we arrived, we met Mr. Slimane at the Hotel de Crillon and that's when he said he was a CIA agent under cover. But when he said he wanted Prince Khalid to go to Zurich and confront his uncle, His Highness Prince Abdullah, I thought the man was not anything he said he was, so I forced Agent Slimane to come with me to the French Bureau and surrender himself."

"Thank you again, Agent Gilford. I'd like to return now to the time you were in Vancouver with Prince Khalid. At that time, Agent Lypsick asked you and Prince Khalid to interview Mr. Sadir, is that correct?"

"Yes, sir, that's right."

"And what did you understand the purpose of that interview to be, Agent Gilford?"

"Agent Lypsick wanted to extract information from Mr. Sadir."

"And what was your role in the interview?"

"I was posing as a European drug lord with connections in the West African underground who could plausibly reopen the CIA's operation in that part of the world."

"I see. And so, did you obtain any information such as you hoped from Mr. Sadir?"

"Yes, we did. Mr. Sadir confirmed his involvement in a clean-up operation conducted apparently by the CIA that was designed to eliminate most, if not all, of the parties involved in the original drug and arms' dealing trade."

"Thank you, Agent Gilford." Billycan paused for a moment before going to his next question. "This court has been informed yesterday that you made a recording of that interview. Do you have that recording on you today?"

"Yes, I do." Mark pulled a small tape out of his jacket pocket. He handed it to Billycan.

"I would like to ask the court to have this tape recording transcribed and the hard copies then introduced into evidence," said Billycan.

"So ordered, Mr. Billycan." Silverman said.

Billycan turned back to Gilford. "Now, Agent Gilford, did you inform Agent Lypsick of the information you obtained from Mr. Sadir?"

"Yes, I did tell him, yes."

"Do you know if Agent Lypsick did anything with this information?"

"No, sir, I don't. Agent Lypsick was recalled to Washington soon after that and I don't know what happened after he left Vancouver."

"Thank you, Agent Gilford." Billycan then looked up at the judge. "I have no more questions for this witness, Your Honour."

"Very well then. Mr. Simmons, your witness."

"Thank you, Your Honour," Simmons said as he walked to the witness stand to face Mark. "Agent Gilford; you said that you had no idea who the man who hitchhiked on the road in Georgia really was, is that correct?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well then, why did you plant your gun in this man's ribs as soon as you stepped out of the van—if you didn't know this man at all?"

"I did it because I knew we had been followed for two days by then, and I jumped to the conclusion that maybe this person was tailing us as well..."

"On foot...?" Simmons guffawed. "Come on, Agent Gilford, how could you, a seasoned intelligence agent, deduce that a man on foot was tailing a van going down the road?"

"I don't know..., but that's what made me react the way I did."

"Couldn't it have been due to the fact that Ms. Kartz recognized the man and told you that he might be involved somehow?"

"No, sir. Ms. Kartz never told me anything about him."

"All right, Agent Gilford, thank you. Now, I'd like to return to the time you met Mr. Sadir in Vancouver." Mark nodded. "Did Mr. Sadir reveal the name of the person or persons who gave him the orders regarding the so-called elimination of impeding parties in the CIA's operations in West Africa?"

"No, sir. Mr. Sadir only inferred that Ms. Kartz had been seen as a disrupting individual and that her uncovering the CIA's operation in West Africa had provoked a chain of events that had forced that agency to curtail all activities in the area."

"As an intelligence agent, Agent Gilford, and an expert in the profession, would you consider the answer Mr. Sadir gave you at the time as truthful?"

"I don't know about his answer being truthful, sir. During the interview, Mr. Sadir appeared to be scared of something or someone."

"Thank you, Agent Gilford." Simmons then looked at Silverman. "No more questions for this witness, Your Honour."

"Thank you, Agent Gilford. You may step down," Judge Silverman said, pounding his gavel and then declaring the court adjourned for the day.

## Chapter 86

"Marcel," Billycan said, "have you seen Samuel and Talya?"

"I think they're with Agent Gilford."

"Good. I'm a little worried about these two. Now that we've met the burden of proof by showing that Sadir and Lypsick conspired to kill no less than four people, Lypsick needs to get rid of the only two remaining witnesses. Did you talk to Simmons yet?"

"Yeah. Sadir wants to take the stand apparently, because he thinks that since Lypsick has been 'flagged' he won't have to worry about his family now."

"Sadir would get a better deal by revealing the name of the one who gave him these orders now than when he's on the stand." Billycan pondered for a moment. "You think Sadir wants something else?"

"I don't know, sir. Now that we've finally demonstrated that Lypsick was the messenger, Sadir wants to tell the world about it."

"Let's offer him felony manslaughter and see if he'd be ready to give us the 'Puppeteer' in exchange. Look, when he was in Vancouver with him, Lypsick kept asking him the name of the 'Puppeteer' and Sadir wouldn't budge."

"Yes, that's right. Maybe Lypsick wanted to know if Sadir knew who it was and if Sadir had told him anything, he would have had his family eliminated."

"You've got it. And now, Sadir's only way out is to tell us who the Puppeteer is. We've got to find Lypsick, and have a talk with Sadir, Marcel," Billycan said, rushing toward the courthouse's doors. "...if Lypsick's still alive..."

"What's happening with the investigation of Van Dams's assassination, do we know?"

Billycan shook his head. "No. It's the FBI that bothers me right now. Why would they want to pin a murder rap on Talya and tail her across the countryside? Those are questions we haven't got an answer for." Billycan looked out the car window. "Still, we might get lucky when we interview this Special Agent Fillmore guy..."

Billycan and Marcel arrived around 6:30, and found Darlene waiting for them. "Darlene? What are you doing here?" Billycan asked.

The attorney didn't answer.

Seeing her face pale and her lips tremble, Marcel couldn't help but ask, "What's wrong, Ms Stovall?"

Billycan looked into her worried face. "Come to my office right now," he ordered. Then to Marcel, "Put Fillmore in the conference room and make sure he's out of earshot."

"Okay..." Marcel marched away quickly in the direction of the anteroom where Fillmore was waiting for the US Attorney.

"Now, Darlene..., what's going on?" Billycan asked again as they made their way to his office.

"Talya and Samuel have disappeared!"

Not The End...

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