Krystal Scent (Krystal Vibration Series Book 2)

by Richard Corrigan

  “I will take it. Apply the fee for the other room and I will give you the difference,” Karen said, and then leaned back, looked to the right and said, “I see that room thirty-eight is also vacant.”

  The door was open, and the cleaning person was carrying in new linens.

  “Oui, Mademoiselle.”

  “I wish to rent that room, also.”

  “Also? Under what name?”

  “My name.”

  “Je suis confus. What about the upstairs room?” the concierge asked.

  “Use the name Ariel Ling.”

  The concierge looked at Karen and then shrugged her shoulders. “This is highly unusual.”

  “I will make sure you are compensated.”

  The concierge blushed, processed the request, and handed Karen both keys.

  Karen then said, “S'il vous plait, I do not wish to be giving you the suite key each time I leave. It will be with me. So, I do not want that heavy attachment weighting me down.”

  The concierge opened a cupboard door and slipped off another key from a hook.

  “Merci,” Karen said, returning the original key. And then she said, “I do not want anyone in the suite. I will make my own bed and straighten up the bathroom.”

  The concierge nodded and agreed to the arrangement, making a note and hanging it on the hook where the key had hung.

  Karen had one last question for the concierge. She asked for the direct phone numbers for both rooms.

  The concierge grabbed a slip of paper and wrote 38 est 46538 et la suite est 46531, and handed it to Karen.

  Karen looked at the numbers for the two rooms, thanked the concierge, and walked a few steps to room thirty-eight just off the roofless foyer. The room’s windows were fitted with shutters that the hotel staff closed in the evening assuring that the guests inside chamber thirty-eight had their privacy.

  Just outside the apartment was the open courtyard. The floor was tiled with large slate stones of various sizes. Ivy hung from the first floor roofs down to the flower beds that surrounded the common area.

  Karen stepped into the room and locked the door. The floors were covered with polished stone and the walls looked as if they stood deep within a castle. The ceiling was constructed of rough-hewn beams with ancient wood-inlaid panels between. The feeling of home washed over Karen.

  The toilet was a small room at the near end of the apartment and the bathroom/shower and two sinks were at the other end. In between, was the sitting room and the bedroom separated by an enclosed, wooden closet with a built-in safe. On the other side of the shared wall in the sitting room was a fireplace.

  Karen sat on the bed and called French National Intelligence to give Natalie the phone number to her room as Paul Durran had instructed. She only divulged room thirty-eight’s number, however.

  Having done that, Karen’s personal desire was to strip off her clothes and take a shower. She was still in the outfit given to her by the French Intelligence department when she was rescued. They placed her overalls in a sack that she insisted she take with her.

  Karen looked at the bag.

  “I wonder if they thought that those were my real clothes.”

  She remembered the shredded paper she retrieved from the mechanic’s room before she escaped. She removed the shreds, dropped the dungarees into the trashcan, walked to her suitcase, unzipped the front compartment, and stuffed in the loose paper and resealed it.

  The phone rang. She answered it. It was Durran.

  He said he would send a car for her tomorrow morning at 11:30. She and Lamboise could work for a while together and then go have a late lunch.

  She hung up and there was a knock on the door.

  She went to the portal, looked through the peephole, stood to the side and asked, “Who is it?”

  “Delivery from the U.S. Embassy,” the concierge said.

  Karen opened the door and accepted the package. She immediately smelled it.

  Yes, it’s from them. Their disinfectant.

  She opened it and took out a cellphone, a Glock 17 firearm, and a Glock G33 subcompact along with numerous boxes of extra ammunition and a multi-position holster.

  Before she did anything else, she forwarded room thirty-eight’s calls to her cell. Theoretically, she would never receive an outside call on the phone that was in the St. Germain suite, only from within the hotel.

  She loaded the guns, opened up her suitcase just enough to set them in along with the holster and surplus bullets, latched it, lifted it off the floor, and quietly opened the door a slit to peer outside.

  The concierge was not at her station. Karen exited the room, making sure she locked the door. She tiptoed down the hall to the elevator and made her escape unseen.

  She rose to the second floor, got out of the lift and walked up to the suite on the third floor. She unlocked the door and entered.

  CHAPTER 27

  Karen closed and locked the door to the 190-square-foot, Saint-Germain des Pres Suite on the third floor loft of Hotel d’Angleterre. She set down her luggage and expelled a sigh of relief.

  She walked alongside the back of the cream-colored leather couch and entered the kitchenette area. It had all the necessities: refrigerator, stove, microwave, and coffee maker. She inspected the cubicle that housed the toilet. She turned and spied the antique switchboard that sat regally in the lounge area. She walked over, picked up the handset, and lifted it to her ear.

  Ringing.

  “Oui, Mademoiselle Ling.”

  “Désolé, je accidentellement pris le telephone, au revoir,” Karen said, apologizing for picking up the phone and replaced the receiver.

  “Amazing, it still works.”

  Karen grabbed her suitcase and walked through the inside door and into the adjacent bedroom. Along with the king-sized bed there was a safe, a window overlooking the street below, and an oversized tub cordoned off with a graceful, half wall. She stopped to admire the original Louis XV fireplace that sat opposite the bed.

  She looked up at the rustic, beamed ceilings and sighed.

  Swan Nest.

  Karen set her suitcase on the chest at the foot of the bed and opened it up to grab an evening cover-up.

  Her eyes widened.

  “These aren’t my clothes. They dropped off someone else’s.” She closed the lid and inspected the label. It was hers all right. But...

  She reopened the suitcase.

  This is my make-up.

  She lifted out a dress and then she picked up the underwear sets and inspected them.

  The letters AB.

  Her eyebrows furled. She dumped all the clothes onto the bed. Every item had the letters AB on them.

  “Amanda’s Boudoir,” Karen said with disgust.

  Karen picked up her cell and dialed her home in Virginia. Sharon answered the phone.

  Before her sister could say hello, Karen said, “You replaced all my clothes with yours. I’m going to look like—”

  “Like what?” Sharon said. She knew what Karen was going to say. “Like a slut?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “No, but you thought it.”

  “You had no right to empty my clothes from my suitcase and replace them with yours. I’m not you.”

  “You’re in Paris! Do you realize how females dress in Paris?”

  “I don’t care how anyone dresses. Now I’m going to have to go shopping to replace my wardrobe.”

  “Good luck, Sis. The only things you’ll find will be the same as I’ve packed for you.”

  “Fine,” Karen said and hung up on her sister.

  She looked at the mound of clothes. She held up a pair of panties and her nostrils flared.

  Thongs.

  “She knows I don’t like these, they’re uncomfortable.” She threw them back atop the pile.

  Karen stripped out of the clothes she was given at French Intelligence and donned the hotel’s bathrobe. She then unzipped the front pocket of her suitcase, pulled out the mecha
nic room’s shredded papers and placed the pile on the table in the sitting room.

  Spreading the mound out, she could see that each slip of paper was covered with either colored or white spaces. There was also writing in English interspersed. She systematically straightened the pieces and began to lay them neatly down on the table.

  They covered the whole wooden surface, and she had to utilize the floor back into the entryway and down into the bedroom. Finally, the complete document or documents was fully exposed.

  She began examining the surface of each scrap. She became hungry and called room service for something to eat.

  The hotel concierge arrived, and she met him at the door, not allowing him to enter. He delivered a bottle of Cote d’Azur white wine, crackers, Brie de Meaux cheese, and some St. Dalfour Red Raspberry Jam.

  Once Karen poured a glass of wine and ate a couple crackers with cheese and jam, she proceeded to closely scrutinize both sides of each slip, placing them back down where they were.

  It took a little over two hours to study each scrap. When she was finished, her bottle was empty; and the Brie and crackers were gone.

  She decided to shower again; and this time, wash her hair. She’d then further study the shredded papers. But once the warm water began to flow over her body, her eyes became heavy. She dried her hair and careful not to disturb the placement of the strips, gingerly walked alongside the shredded document and climbed into bed. She fell asleep almost immediately. But her sleep was restless.

  She kept waking up and seeing the chards of paper turning over and over, moving back and forth, aligning, separating, and creating ever larger pieces of paper until in her sleep, complete sheets were formed.

  ***

  Karen rose early. She pulled on her sister’s nightgown; it was actually somewhat modest, slipped into a pair of flats, grabbed her room key, put the “Ne Pas Déranger” sign on the outside handle so no one would open the door, and descended one flight to catch the elevator.

  She walked unnoticed to room thirty-eight, unlocked the door, stepped inside and fastened the latch. She waited a few minutes, opened the door, and turned and relocked it again. The new concierge wished her a good morning.

  She walked across the courtyard to the dining area and poured a cup of coffee, added cream and sugar, put some fresh-cut fruit in a cup, and a croissant on a plate from atop the closed, grand piano. She then carried her food to a table in the open-air courtyard.

  The concierge took off up the stairs and Karen immediately gathered her breakfast and walked to the elevator and returned to her suite.

  The first thing she did was pick up all the strips of paper that she had confiscated from the mechanic’s room and had last night set on the floor throughout the loft. She put them into the plastic bag the hotel provides should a guest wish laundry service and placed the bag in her suitcase.

  Karen laid out on the bed all the clothes her sister had packed for her.

  While she ate, she decided what she was going to wear today for her assignment at French Intelligence and for her lunch with Jacques Lamboise. When she called Carl Etheridge, she tried to get out of the meeting, but he insisted that she cooperate with French Intelligence.

  She was uncomfortable wearing any of the outfits. Sharon had removed all of Karen’s underwear and packed all new panties and bras from Amanda’s Boudoir.

  Karen picked up a pair. They were a lace-lined top and bottom with a fleur-de-lis design. She scowled and slipped into the undergarments. She looked at herself in the mirror.

  The lace on the panties lay softly against her flat stomach. And the embroidery in the bra lay gently on her breasts.

  “These are sexy,” she said and turned from side to side. “Definitely sexy. But Lamboise won’t see them. Hmmm.”

  Karen searched through her suitcase, but none of her clothes were there. She was stuck wearing the Amanda Boudoir apparel.

  She then held up a dress with the tags still on it. Size five.

  “At lease it’s black.”

  It was a dress with a wrap front with pleated detail. She flipped the dress over to inspect the closure that hid the back zipper.

  Her curiosity got the better of her. She unzipped it and stepped into the shape-emphasizing garment. Sharon continually insisted that Karen dress more appropriately for someone her age and not someone in their 60s.

  She pulled on her pantyhose.

  At least she left these in the suitcase.

  Next, she slipped on a pair of her sister’s next-size-up shoes. Sharon called them her “end-of-the-day-swelled-feet shoes.” They were black, Patent leather; open-toed, spiked heals with a buckle closure.

  Karen examined them and said, “These must be at least four-and-a-half inches high.”

  She accessorized with gold jewelry that glowed against her suntanned skin. She looked in the mirror. The dress embraced her body as if it were fashioned exclusively for her.

  I’d better not eat too much.

  She had never thought of herself as a sexual object. But looking in the mirror, she knew at that moment she was.

  She looked at the clock on the nightstand. She had thirty minutes before she had to leave and meet the driver downstairs in the lobby for her trip to French Intelligence headquarters.

  She looked through the front façade window. There seemed to be an abundance of females briskly walking along the sidewalks, crossing the street, floating down the alleyways. Karen opened the window. She could hear the clack of their stiletto heels against the cobblestone. Their size three and four dresses hugged their bodies. There was no evidence of extra pounds on any them.

  There just aren’t any overweight French girls. At least not in Paris.

  Karen turned and looked at the bed where she had left the French Intelligence outfit.

  ***

  Karen exited the Saint Germain des Pres suite and walked down to the second-floor elevator. She really didn’t want to work with anyone. If she had to react quickly to something, she didn’t need a partner inhibiting her or slowing her down. Teammates on a soccer squad are one thing; everyone is working toward the same end. But in real life, it’s not so clear; especially when the person alongside you is a stranger.

  She knew little about Lamboise other than what was in his U.S. Intelligence file. He may have a hidden agenda.

  And then there’s his hypothesis of my involvement with the terrorists.

  Karen resented the fact that she very well may be a pawn in the political jockeying between France and the United States as a result of the U.S. getting caught spying on French diplomats and ambassadors via cellphone and text messaging espionage. She wondered if her reason for being in Paris was legitimate or just a token of goodwill.

  She came down to room thirty-eight, unlocked the door and entered. She waited for the arrival of the French Intelligence driver.

  A black sedan rolled to a stop in front of Hotel d’Angleterre and the hotel concierge immediately rang Karen’s room. She came out, locking the door behind her. She handed her room thirty-eight key to the concierge and he walked her out, holding the doors as she passed.

  The driver opened the car door and Karen slipped into the backseat. Within moments they were on their way. The escort said nothing as they drove the eight miles from Rue Jacob to the Direction Centrale du Renseignement Intérieur northwest of central Paris.

  The vehicle entered through a short tunnel and stopped at an iron gate. After about thirty seconds, the entry swung open and the sedan continued for another one hundred feet and stopped in front of a stone walkway that led to granite steps.

  The driver opened Karen’s door and she followed him up two flights of stairs through a metal door and into a small lobby with two elevators. He pressed the button to the left of one, and the doors opened.

  He stood aside, held the sliders, and said, “When you get in, press the star. It will take you to your meeting.”

  Karen thanked him and did as the man directed. The elevator closed and she
felt it lift her upward. After about seven seconds, the car stopped and the doors parted. She stepped out into a carpeted outer room with French doors leading to another larger area. The initials DCRI were over the portal.

  As soon as she entered, someone came from around the corner of the hallway and asked in perfect English, “You are Karen Krystal?”

  “Yes,” Karen said, feeling slightly uneasy being in a foreign country and in a strange office where they knew her but she didn’t know anyone except Durran.

  “Follow me. Monsieur Durran will be right with you.”

  The aide led Karen to a plush office with exquisite appointments. Durran’s.

  Karen stood in the middle of the room and waited. She looked around and determined it was soundproofed. From her vantage point, she scanned the area for recording devices. Nothing was evidently visible, but Karen knew they were there, she could hear them.

  The door opened and in walked Paul Durran.

  “Ms. Krystal, nice to see you again. Have a seat,” he said, pointing to one of the plush chairs in front of his desk.

  “You too, Monsieur Durran?” Karen said, and sat where directed.

  “Please, Paul. Call me Paul. Do you refer to Carl Etheridge as Mr. Etheridge?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, if you’re uncomfortable calling me Paul, then… Anyway, we have a situation. We’re just not quite sure what it is. We’ve received a couple threatening messages, threats against our president, government facilities, landmarks, and against our consulates in a number of Middle Eastern countries.”

  “The U.S. has had similar threats, and they’ve decided to close their offices in ten countries,” Karen said, knowing that she wasn’t divulging anything confidential.

  “We’re doing the same.”

  “I’m not convinced that the foreign offices of either of our countries are the target.”

  “And that’s why you’re here. To help us find out what’s really going on,” Durran said and pressed the intercom button on his phone. He leaned into the microphone and said, “Have Lamboise come in here.”