The Khartoum Project

By Gabriel Timar

The Khartoum Project is a visit to the netherworld of the intelligence community. Monica Brett has what it takes to be a great secret agent. No matter how brave, ruthless, and inventive she is, the mission to Khartoum tests her to the limit and beyond.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: May 11, 2023
• ISBN: 9781613092323

Book preview

One

THE JURY WAS OUT ONLY an hour when the news spread around the courtroom like wildfire.

They have a verdict!

As the bailiff led the jurors into the courtroom, suddenly, like a thick, dark blanket, silence descended on the room. The twelve jurors took their place and poker- they stared at the blank wall facing them. The judge arrived, took his seat on the bench as the bailiff sounded off, Hear ye, hear ye, be upstanding the court is in session, His Honor Mister Justice Malcolm O’Connor presiding.

Be seated, the judge said. He turned to the jurors. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict?

The foreman rose and declared, Yes, your Honor, we have.

The defendant shall rise, the judge announced.

Monica Brett and her lawyer stood up.

On the sole count of murder in the first degree, what did you find? the judge asked.

The foreman cleared his throat, looked at the defendant, and in a clear voice announced, We, the jury, find the defendant...

YOU’RE LIABLE TO KILL someone, the principal told Monica when the attractive, willowy brunette, a star athlete and honors student against all odds, won the karate championship of the Province of Ontario by knocking her opponent out cold in the finals.

She displayed tremendous determination, willpower and inexhaustible reserves of energy. It was easier to stop a runaway freight train than to hold her back when she made up her mind about a project.

Monica hailed from a respected, middle-class family. Her father was a bank manager, and her mother ran a successful real estate business. They had a well-maintained, split-level house, two cars, a cabin cruiser, and an RV. The Bretts lived the American dream in a prosperous community in southern Ontario.

Although most people considered Monica a little bit wild, the small town’s elite expected her marrying her high school or college sweetheart, presenting him with several healthy babies, and raising them in the traditional way.

One day, a few weeks after her sixteenth birthday and the successful driving test, Monica had come home from school and found her mother in the kitchen. Normally, she did not cook, because their maid Francesca looked after the household chores. Nevertheless, food was on the table.

What’s the occasion? Monica asked.

We have some minor problems, darling, her mother said. I gave Francesca the afternoon off. The Mafia framed your father. He’s safe now because he’s at the Police station giving evidence against them.

Wow, what’s going to happen? Are we going to shoot it out with the bad guys? Monica asked.

No, silly, there is not going to be any trouble at all. You must go to the country club, play some tennis and Francesca will pick you up at eight o’clock.

Are you in any danger, Mom?

Not really, but to be on the safe side, I must disappear for a little while. Whatever you do, you should create the impression that I’m home with a headache, or just stepped out to see one of the neighbors, her mother explained.

I don’t like it, Mom.

I’m not crazy about the things I have to do, but they must be done.

Monica ate her light snack, grabbed her gear, and came back to the kitchen.

Her mother, the normally elegant, fashionable Mrs. Brett wore jeans, a tank top, and sneakers.

Are you going for a hike? Monica asked.

I’ll go for a really short one, her mother said. She smiled. Come on, I’ll drop you off.

They got into Mrs. Brett’s Buick and drove to the club.

Be careful, Mom, Monica said.

I will, darling. I love you, Jane Brett said. She quickly turned her head the other way and drove off, but had not managed to conceal the tears in her eyes.

I have a bad feeling about this, Monica thought. She headed for the courts.

At eight o’clock, Francesca, their Hungarian maid, arrived to pick Monica up. She drove Jane Brett’s Buick.

Is Mom home? Monica asked.

No, I dropped her at the office. She said she’ll work late and will take a taxi.

They spoke Hungarian, since Jane insisted on Monica learning the language of her ancestors. That was the reason for having the fifty-ish Francesca working for them.

They got home and since it was Friday, Monica left her books alone and settled down to watch TV. Near nine o’clock, someone rang the doorbell. Monica remembered her mother’s instructions, got up, and shouted to Francesca still working in the kitchen, I’ll get it, Fran!

Two men stood at the door, Monica knew one of them by sight...Fred Cussler, a detective with the local police.

We are looking for your mother, Monica, the officer said.

I’m afraid you came at the worst time, Mister Cussler...

Don’t tell me that she is not in. Her car is in the driveway, the detective said, interrupting.

She’s in all right, but if I were you I wouldn’t disturb her. An hour ago, she took a sleeping pill and two special Advil tablets for her migraine. She’s in her room sleeping. If you woke her, I doubt she’d know which way is up or down. If it is important, come back tomorrow morning and I’ll make sure she stays in and waits for you.

The two cops exchanged glances.

Okay, Monica, tell your mother we must speak to her. We’ll be here at nine.

Thank you, Mister Cussler, I’ll tell her. You can rest assured.

The men left and Monica returned to the TV.

If they come in the morning and find Mom’s car in the driveway, they’ll know I lied, she thought. I must hide the damned car.

She waited until Fran went to sleep and then put on her tracksuit, grabbed her purse, put on her driving gloves, and took the car keys from the telephone desk in the hall. Even though I’m not supposed to drive after dark, I must hide the Buick, she thought.

She started the car and very carefully drove to the country club. She knew there was a way to drive onto the golf course, ending up near the sand trap of the sixth hole. She got there without the police stopping her, parked the car on the golf cart track, locked it, and pocketed the keys. Walking across the fairway, she came out in the park, and began walking the half a mile to reach their house.

She was rather apprehensive walking through the park behind the house, but she had trusted her martial arts skills to defend herself against an attacker. Entering the dark area of the park, she heard noises coming from the bushes, but they did not scare her. The noises were rhythmic hard breathing and little sounds of joy. The buggers! They are having fun, while I have to play secret agent or Mafioso.

When she got home, she realized that Fran was still fast asleep, but her father had not come home yet.

I don’t like this. She went into her parents’ bedroom, rumpled the covers to make it look like someone slept there, and from the nightstand; she took her father’s revolver. With her bedroom door bolted, and the gun tucked under her pillow, she slept like a log.

MONICA WOKE REFRESHED. Earlier than usual, at six thirty, she went downstairs to the kitchen, fried two eggs, ate them with a slice of toast, and sat down in the living room. As soon as she heard Francesca getting up, Monica went to the kitchen.

Mornin’, Fran, she said. There is no need to make breakfast for Mummy. She already ate and left to meet an important customer.

I did not hear her car leaving.

Look for yourself. The car is gone.

The maid stepped into the hall and checked. The door was open and only her father’s SUV stood in the double garage. She came back to the kitchen.

You must be right. She made her own breakfast.

I told you so.

What was she wearing?

Thank god she asked this question, Monica thought. The cops will ask me too. I’d better tell the truth, because Fran knows mother’s wardrobe better than anybody. Strangely, she wore jeans, sneakers and a tee shirt.

I see. I think she’s going to show the property at Lake Helen, Fran said. Two days ago, a man left her several messages about it.

Dutifully, Monica ate a second breakfast and retired to her room. She was hard at work writing an essay about the French Revolution when Detective Cussler arrived. At first, he conferred with Francesca. Monica knew that the maid’s English was bad, and the cop could not understand her. She saved the file and went downstairs.

Good morning, Mister Cussler. Are you looking for Mummy?

Yes, I am.

She left early in the morning.

Where did she go?

I don’t know, but if I were to guess, I’d say she went to Lake Helen.

What makes you say that?

To start with, she wore jeans and sneakers. Meeting clients in town, Mother always dresses well. Besides, according to Fran, someone left several messages for her about the lakeside property.

Thank you, Monica. When she comes home, please ask her to phone me. Here is my card.

I’ll do that, Mister Cussler. By the way, where is my father?

In jail. He was arrested.

The world caved in on Monica. Why? What did he do?

I cannot say. Just make sure your mother calls me.

The detective and his partner left, leaving Monica at the door, gaping. Suddenly, she felt desperately alone. What the hell am I going to do?

She returned to the house and nonchalantly asked Francesca, What’s for lunch?

Your mother did not leave me any instructions. I don’t know if your dad is coming home or not.

I’ll find out.

How?

I’m going to see him.

Okay. Let me know what he wants.

Monica grabbed her bag and the keys of her father’s SUV. She got in and carefully backed the car out on the road. She pushed the gearshift lever into drive and headed for the police station.

The duty sergeant at the main desk, Mr. Duff, the guy who regularly lectured at the school, knew Monica well.

Good morning, Mister Duff.

Hi, Monica. What can I do for you?

I understand my father is here. Can I talk to him?

The cop’s attitude changed suddenly. I’m afraid you cannot. He’s not allowed visitors. His lawyer has not come yet.

Did he call him?

I don’t know.

Monica knew his father’s lawyer, Mr. Dennis, the only other Hungarian in town. He was old, but in top condition. Every morning he went for a run of three miles, by the river.

Thank you, Mister Duff, she said and headed for the SUV.

Finding the lawyer was easy; he was still only halfway through his run. When he heard that Monica’s father had been arrested, he abandoned his morning exercise, got into the SUV, and asked Monica to drive him home.

I’ll get him out...whatever he has done, your father will be home in time for lunch.

IT HAD NOT HAPPENED that way. It had taken Mr. Dennis several days to arrange for bail. Meanwhile, the newspapers were full of the Brett affair.

Monica had a hard time understanding what was happening. The media alleged that her father had embezzled a few million dollars and the management caught him. According to the rumors, Mr. Brett took the money to finance one of his wife’s shady transactions and something went wrong with the timing. The police and the Banking Commission started asking questions and the roof caved in on Mr. Brett.

The police put out an all points bulletin and issued a nationwide arrest warrant on Monica’s mother.

After her father came home on bail, he closeted himself with Francesca, and on the same day, the maid packed up and left for Hungary.

For a few weeks, sixteen-year-old Monica ran the household and still managed to maintain her high academic standing.

By this time, the police had amassed enough evidence to lay charges against Mrs. Brett as well. Executing a search warrant, the authorities had not found her passport, and her safety deposit box was empty. They could trace Jane Brett as far as Toronto’s Pearson Airport, but there the trail turned cold. Satisfied with running interference for her mother, Monica hoped that by then Mrs. Brett might have reached Timbuktu or any other place where she was safe. Eventually, she figured out that in addition to the police, Jane’s clients, allegedly the mafia, began looking for her. As they were as close as sisters, Monica constantly worried about her mother’s safety.

In preparation for the trial, Monica’s father spent most of his time at home discussing the case with his lawyer.

One day, Monica came home from school earlier than usual and overheard her father and the lawyer arguing about the case.

I don’t understand you, Chad. Everybody knows about Jane having the mob’s money in her possession. If you rolled over, giving the cops names, dates, and places, you could come out of this business smelling like a rose without having to go to jail, the frustrated lawyer said.

I’m afraid I cannot do that.

Why not?

They said if I did, Jane and Monica would be forced to take swimming lessons in Lake Ontario wearing concrete overcoats.

Do they know where Jane is? the lawyer asked.

I doubt it, but they created the impression of being able to grab her at will.

If so, why don’t they take the money back?

They probably have taken it already, but have not made it public.

I see. There is a good chance of them trying to scare you.

I know, but I do not dare call their bluff. Therefore, I’ll keep my mouth shut, serve my time in jail—

You’ll get at least ten years, the lawyer said, nervously interrupting.

Come on, I won’t, but even if I did, I’d be out in seven. By that time, the statute of limitations would be over and after stashing some of the money in a bank on Grand Cayman, Jane could safely reappear.

Again, it did not work out that way. The trial was over in a matter of hours. Even though part of the disappearing millions was mob money in the process of being laundered, the judge convicted Monica’s father. He actually had thrown the book at him. The court had seized the family assets to pay restitution to the bank, but the mob did not get a cent.

Suddenly, Monica’s organized, secure world collapsed.

After her father had begun serving his time in jail, and the family assets were seized, Monica became the ward of the Province. The authorities placed her in a foster home. It was tough to go from her comfortable room, move into a large one and share with two others. They came from working class families and had all kinds of hang-ups. One of them, Olga, became pregnant and had the baby in their room. The young mother wanted to do away with her offspring, but Monica stopped her in time. Later the girl thanked her and they became fast friends. Olga soon became a prostitute, was arrested several times and her child was put into the system.

By the time Monica graduated from high school, she had recovered from the shock of losing her parents and her home. She was tough as nails, and entering the senior karate championship, she lost the title on a technicality. From there on, Monica gave up competitive sports and concentrated on saving money for college. Being alone without any relatives willing to help her, Monica took a full time job, working as a waitress at a roadside diner.

However, it did not turn out the way she planned it. She could hardly save anything from the meager pay. One day a large Cadillac pulled into the parking lot and a young fellow, wearing the most expensive clothes, carrying half-pound of bouillon on his wrist and neck walked in.

Monica went to his table with the menu, but the man did not bother looking at it. He said, Bring me the largest, juiciest steak you have in your frig with lots of fried onions, mushrooms and a baked potato.

It is not priced, sir. I must ask the manager how much it is going to cost.

Never mind how much, I’m so hungry I could eat a horse and chase the rider.

Monica gave him a coquettish smile. Even if she looked like me?

For such a steak, I would.

Don’t move!

In ten minutes, the man got exactly what he wanted. The T-bone steak was huge, filling the plate. The mushrooms, the onions, and the potatoes came on a separate platter.

Finishing the meal, the man was ready to leave and after paying the bill, he stepped to Monica. I promised to chase you.

You can’t, I’m working.

You’ll be off in half an hour and I could drive you home.

How do you know?

I checked with your boss.

The man’s approach impressed Monica. She knew what the guy wanted.

Okay, you may drive me home, she said.

The fellow introduced himself as Rusty Ash and led her to the elegant car. Nevertheless, the ride turned out to be very short. He drove around the diner, pulled into the motel next door, took a room, and invited the curious girl inside.

After the phenomenally successful, mutually satisfactory conclusion of their exciting wrestling bout, Rusty reached into his wallet and extracted a hundred dollar bill, putting it on Monica’s handbag.

For services rendered, he said. Now you’d better go.

She quietly dressed, thanked him, and walked back to the room she had rented nearby. During the following months, Rusty appeared occasionally, inviting Monica to the motel for shorter or longer exciting exercises.

The landlady did not care about Monica coming home late. By this time, she was past the legal age of consent.

Despite saving every penny, she did not have enough to see her through the first semester. However, trusting her business acumen, Monica moved to Toronto and enrolled in the university.

Next, she took an evening job, waiting on tables in the cafeteria of an elegant downtown hotel, but as she could not devote enough time to her job, the money was not enough. A student loan was out of the question, as Monica could not finance her studies and supply her imprisoned father with the little necessities of life. As she was determined to get her degree, Monica decided to go into business. She acquired a phony driver’s license stating her age over twenty-one, and started working the bars of better hotels.

Eventually, she became a classy call girl, gave up her job in the cafeteria, and concentrated on her studies while carrying on with her new, lucrative enterprise. The customers passed her name on to each other and in a few months, Monica had select clientele. The men kept her busy two or three nights a week, leaving her enough time to study. Apparently, she was willing to do anything her clients asked. According to one of her regulars, Monica should have been writing scripts for porno movies.

At university, contrary to expectations, she did not associate with anybody, shunned the parties, and kept to herself. She did not join a sorority, but enjoyed the company of the teaching staff, constantly challenging her peers. She had no meaningful relationship with anybody but occasionally decided to seduce a member of the faculty. She always got the man she picked. By the end of the first semester, Monica had straight A’s in her transcript and a marriage proposal, but refused the guy because he was twenty years her senior.

I’m fed up with the old guys, she told herself. Nevertheless, she occasionally spent some time with her aging suitor, keeping him happy, as he was the chair of the department and staying in his good graces gave her many advantages.

One day when she returned to her studio, two somber looking individuals were