Chapter 23
1453 Words
Chapter 23Muhammad Sadir didn’t like the way things were going. Gibson’s agency had now alerted the Australians to find Samuel, and both governments had agreed to extradite the man back to Canada as soon as the Aussies would get their hands on him. “No, definitely, things are not turning the way I’d expected,” he said to himself. However, he was not alone in this sinking ship. Thomas Peterson was in it up to his neck as well. Muhammad wondered if he could shift the blame onto him—find a way to shine the limelight onto the guy for a change.
He rapped his fingers against the edge of his desk, a habit he had picked up long ago, and continued to think of what he could do to get out of this messy situation.
These days no one could be trusted; the Americans would think nothing of taking him out of the picture. He was of Saudi Arabian descent and he really couldn’t hide behind a face that told anyone looking at him, that he was Islamic.
He didn’t want to talk to Thomas just yet; the guy was not level-headed enough to plan anything effective that didn’t involve one computer or another. No, he had to do that on his own.
An hour later, Muhammad had made a decision. He poked his head at the door of his office and called his secretary. Linda picked up her tablet, practically jumped from her seat, and followed her boss back into his office.
Muhammad regained his chair behind the desk and the young lady sat opposite him.
“I’d like you to send an email to the Deputy Director, advising him that I’ll be on holidays from tonight until the end of the month.”
She wrote a few words down. She was a gorgeous woman. Looking at her shapely legs, Muhammad wondered when he would ever get a chance to get her in bed with him. Little did he know that Linda’s boyfriend, soon to be husband, a weight-lift champion, would never let him near her.
“And then I’d like you to send this passport”—he pulled Khalid’s travel documents out of the desk drawer and handed the folder to her—“back to the Hotel de Crillon in Paris.”
“Okay,” Linda said, “Do you want it to go on the overnight pouch to the embassy, or shall I send it registered mail to the Crillon?”
“Registered mail will be good enough. The man won’t be back at the hotel for a couple of days yet.”
“Very well, sir.” Linda rose from the chair and took a few steps toward the door.
“Oh, one more thing, Linda, if you don’t mind.”
“Yes?” She only turned her head slightly to look at the obese man. The expression on her face was that of someone who had looked at something disgusting for far too long.
“Book me a flight to Seattle for this evening, would you?”
“Return date?”
“Leave it open. I’ll make my own arrangements from there.”
Walking out, she blurted, “No problem.”
Back at her desk, Linda typed a short email to Dietrich Van Dams, the Deputy Director, marking it ‘urgent’.
The reply came almost immediately.
When Agent Sadir leaves his office, pack his belongings. Have them picked up by our courier and sent to his home. You’ve been re-assigned. We’ll notify you in an hour where you’ll be going next.
A satisfied gleam in his eyes, Muhammad decided it was time to tell Thomas what he had planned. Leaving his office, he nodded in Linda’s direction and told her he was going to lunch.
“See you later,” Linda said, without lifting her eyes from the keyboard.
As soon as she heard the sound of his shuffled steps decrease behind her down the corridor, she got up and went to the storage room a couple of floors below, took two or three cardboard ready-to-pack boxes and climbed the stairs back to Muhammad’s office. She grabbed everything she could find which she knew was his—books, photos, gadgets, etc.—and filled the boxes quickly and left them on his desk. She then unplugged his laptop and took it to her station. She would send it to the forensic department later. A half-an-hour later Muhammad’s office was clean, empty and as soon as the cleaning crew would have done with it, someone else would come and occupy it, but Linda would be gone by that time.
“How you doing?” Sadir asked flippantly when he reached Thomas’s cubicle. The latter raised his eyes from the screen and looked up at his colleague.
“Oh..., just fine. What’s going on?”
“Nothing special. Just wondered if you’d like to have lunch with me.”
That invitation took Thomas by surprise. He knew Muhammad was somewhat of a miser when it came to pay for a drink or even share in an employee’s gift. “Sure... That’d be great. Let me get out of this...,” Thomas said as he closed his computer program.
“Okay, I’ll wait downstairs for you.”
“Sure..., I’ll be down in a minute,” Thomas replied distractedly.
Thomas Peterson was the typical ‘Nerd’ or ‘Geek’. Of medium height, weight, stature and mild manners, his only distinguishing feature was perhaps his spiky, short hair and colourful clothes. A garish vest over a flowery shirt, green pants and sneakers, seemed to be the only pieces his wardrobe contained, in a variety of shades and patterns. He was a highly qualified technical analyst. If you were looking for something or someone anywhere in the world, he would find it. Among his successes, he counted numerous arrests due to his astute tracking of the perpetrators. Without leaving his station, Thomas was able to follow anyone’s movement any time of the day or night, a quality or talent that got him involved with Muhammad’s other business and with Mossad’s infiltration of the CIA. Deep down, Thomas was not a spy, he was not cut out to be anything else than a technical advisor, and he would rather never have been involved with any of Muhammad’s shenanigans, if it had not been for his interest in tracking down Mossad’s movements.
As he was about to leave, he saw something that attracted his attention on one of the side screen, a message from Prince Abdullah to his nephew. He had been tracking Khalid’s computer relays through his email service provider.
Thomas sat down at his desk again. He read the last three lines with a smile on his face.
How is she progressing? If you do see her, please give her my regards and my best wishes for her recovery. What she suffered is my fault.
Your uncle, Abdullah Saif Al-Fadir.
Thomas decided to keep this bit of intel for himself. Fuelling Muhammad’s tank of mischief was not a good idea. Thomas knew he had been too close to this affair, without alerting his supervisor, and he wanted to curb his involvement, or turn this thing around while there was still time to do so. On second thought, he decided to tell someone right now. Muhammad could wait.
“Hey..., Camy... Do you mind having a look at this?” Thomas called out to his supervisor, standing up and beckoning to Cameron Sheffield two cubicles down from his.
“Hold on..., I’ll be right there,” Cameron replied, saving whatever work he had on his screen. “What’s up?” He came to stand behind Thomas’s chair.
“This... Have a read...” Cameron did.
“Have you told anyone else yet?”
Thomas shook his head. “No. I thought you might be interested.”
“Okay. Let’s keep tracking the prince, I mean Khalid, and... Are you going somewhere?” Cameron asked, noticing that Thomas had his jacket on.”
“Yeah, Sadir’s invited me for lunch. He’s waiting downstairs...”
“Oh he did, did he? Well, sorry to have to tell you this, D., but our Muhammad is off the board as of ten minutes ago.”
“What do you mean?” Thomas’s sudden anxiety appeared in the beady eyes hidden in the reflection of his heavily rimmed glasses. “Is he going on holidays...?” He was hoping that’s all there was behind this strange announcement.
“You could say that. Actually, he is, but it will be an extended one. We’ll make sure of it. So, I think it’ll be better for you to quit the game with him right now, if you know what’s good for you.”
Looking up at Cameron, Thomas felt the blood drain from his face. He felt sick to his stomach. Had he gone too far?
“But don’t you worry your big head about it. What you’ve done will be very useful to us in the long run.”
Beads of sweat pearled above Thomas’s brow. “Do you want everything I got on Mossad then?” There was no need to beat about the bush; Cameron obviously knew what he had been doing.
“Sure, and everything you’ve got on Muhammad’s latest communications with anyone, and I mean anyone.”
“Yes, sir!”
“Okay... and I think I’ll have lunch with our vacationing fellow now. And you stay put, okay?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you!”
“You’ll owe me...,” Cameron said, walking away.
Thomas felt relieved. Camy had allowed him to get back into the team, a team he should never have left. As he turned to the tracking screen once again and took off his jacket, he let out a sigh of contentment. He wiped his face with a tissue he pulled out of the box on his desk, and with another, he wiped his glasses before putting them back across the bridge of his nose. There’s no place like home, he thought.
- Writer
