Chapter 7
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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.
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