by Dale Amidei
I must be extremely careful, no matter what my decision. Far better to be an ally than the next target. “Agreed,” he decided aloud.
The voice on the phone made an approving sound. “Then we will watch for developments, Benedek. I look forward to toasting your accomplishments.”
“As do I, my friend.”
His beneficiary ended the connection, and Novak stared at the handset, wondering at the unexpected advent of the dangerous bargain he had just made. “Very careful, Benedek,” he muttered. “You must be very careful indeed.”
Champ-Dollon Prison
Thonex, Switzerland
Friday
“Prisoners! Stand for the door!” The order, as did they all, came in German.
Regardless, it was one of his languages, and he understood it perfectly. Had he not, the guards—using riot batons—would have translated their wishes well enough to achieve any detainee’s understanding, even the most stupid or recalcitrant.
Yameen al-Khobar was neither. He obediently took his place against the corridor wall and heard the noises emanate from inside as the men already occupying the cell assumed their own positions. He wore the same blue prison garb as did everyone except the black-uniformed guards. His head was cold. Shaved when he arrived, it had been maintained in the same condition as a precaution against infestation. Neither do I need any hair available for an opponent in this place to grab.
Once the door to the dormitory-like enclosure opened, al-Khobar strode inside as the swinging motion of nearly a meter of black-lacquered hardwood baton in the guard’s hand indicated he should. Another cell. Another test.
Operating well in excess of its planned capacity, the Champ-Dollon facility housed the five men—now six—in a space originally meant for three. Consequently, three sets of metal-framed bunk beds were lined up perpendicular to a wall featuring the small, reinforced window allowing a paucity of natural light into the cell. Each rack's occupants stood in formation in front of them. The men varied in size, ethnic makeup, tattoo coverage, and general level of hygiene. The smell is the same at least. It never seems to vary here.
The Saudi remained in pretrial detention as he had for the previous seven and a half months. In such time the shuffling of bodies between cells, the most the Canton could do to address the overutilization of existing space, had occurred twice before. When the door closed behind him, al-Khobar knew he was on his own. The moment came without preamble, and the slam and clatter of the heavy, metal panel and thick locking mechanism sounded ominously behind him.
Grinning at him almost as soon as the cell had been secured, the largest inmate said, “Ah! The new man! What is your name, little one?” His French was passable though delivered with the accent of an Albanian.
“You may call me Yameen,” he answered, planting his feet and cracking his knuckles.
The Albanian seemed unimpressed. “I do not like your name. I will call you kurve instead. You know this name?” The man took a step toward him, flexing his shoulders.
Regarding him with caution, Yameen calculated, He has me by at least fifty kilos. Al-Khobar remained cool. “I know the name. You may keep it for yourself.”
For the first time, the master of the cell seemed taken aback. “I am too big to be the bitch here, newcomer. It will not be long before it is dark, and then you might find I am too big in other ways.”
“Darkness can come unexpectedly … especially in prison,” al-Khobar observed.
Turning to grin at his cellmates—or subjects, the smaller man thought—the man from the Balkans then swung around to face him again. “You seem to have little sense, kurve. I might not wait for the evening after all.”
“No. Let us get this done,” the Saudi agreed.
The Albanian took another step forward, wiping his nose as a ruse and then swinging hard at al-Khobar’s head in a well-telegraphed haymaker punch. The smaller man ducked it easily, responding with a triple combination of punches to the body as the other men in front of the bunks, alarmed but silent, cleared the way for the contest.
Before the Albanian could catch his breath, al-Khobar latched onto his extended wrist and pulled his opponent off balance and into a stumble. The resulting momentum set the man up to be caught by his smaller opponent’s rising shoulder. His victim was airborne a moment later, crashing down heavily onto the unforgiving concrete floor.
Al-Khobar retained control of his opponent’s wrist, twisting it into a merciless pain-compliance hold. “Give me your other hand, bitch,” the Saudi commanded, wrenching the joint for emphasis. The move garnered a gasp of pain nearly loud enough to be a scream. It also produced the presentation of the man’s other hand. In seconds his other wrist was also locked in the crook of al-Khobar’s arm, and the Albanian grimaced, moaning as he was hauled to his feet.
“This way.” Al-Khobar marched him backward toward the sanitary facilities in the far corner of the cell, twisting and levering the Albanian’s arms until his head came to rest in the space between the concrete blocks of the wall and the stainless-steel bowl of the toilet. The cell’s newcomer then leapt into the air, his full weight bearing up on the big man’s immobilized wrists as he rode the painful collapse down into the restricted space. Al-Khobar rose, and, with a stomping motion of the heel of his prison shoe, forced the Albanian’s head the rest of the way into the not-quite-large-enough opening, slightly dislodging the toilet bowl.
The Saudi stood back and evaluated his work. The larger man, bleeding from his ears, was unconscious, wedged into the space where Yameen had planted him. Satisfied, al-Khobar unzipped his fly and took a welcome opportunity to empty his bladder into the bowl, afterward kicking at the button to flush once he had shaken and zipped. A small trickle of water seeped from the base of the fixture, soaking into the front of the unconscious Albanian’s shirt.
Al-Khobar turned back toward his obviously impressed cellmates, who stepped away nervously. “Which bunk was his, before his accident?” he demanded in French, then again in unaccented German.
“The top one, nearest the window,” a voice answered.
“Then it will be mine, if there are no objections.” None came. He walked to his new bunk and climbed onto his mattress. He preferred, truth be told, the ones nearer the floor. In this place, however, Yameen al-Khobar had learned he was even more partial to dominance.
There were no weekends in prison. Morning, midday and evening schedules were kept every day of the week. Fortunately for their departed Albanian cellmate, the same was true of the prison infirmary. The man was initially taken there after fracturing his skull in his unfortunate stumble, as unanimously confirmed by the four other uninjured occupants of al-Khobar’s cell. A maintenance crew had even detached and resealed the base of the toilet, efficiently restoring the cell's sanitary conditions before yet another inmate was moved into the open space left by the much larger man.
Yesterday had been Friday. Saturday began even earlier than usual, with the piercing screech of the prison’s fire alarm. Al-Khobar awoke instantly and knew from the smell and the seepage of smoke under the single metal door to this place it was no drill.
The Saudi jumped out of bed, grabbing his towel and running to the sink—also in the far corner—to wet it. He was at the door, kneeling to seal the bottom of the panel with the wet roll of terrycloth, before some of them were even out of their bunks. “Quickly! Get dressed! They will be coming to take us out!” he directed in German, and repeated in French and Italian. To a man, they complied, pulling on their denim shirts and trousers, then donning the thin deck shoes everyone but the guards wore here.
Al-Khobar stood as he heard the guard staff responding outside. He knew the smell of burning cotton mixed with sweat. Some idiots have set fire to a mattress with a cigarette lighter as a protest again. One of these days they will asphyxiate us all. Standing back from the door, he scanned the entire seam of the entryway, seeing it was tight enough to keep most of the smoke outside. He turned to his own bunk and dressed. Afterward
waiting, he realized, This is the nearest cell to the fire stairs. Even in this place, there is still the occasional glimmer of good fortune. The bitter thought was one of many tinged with enough hope to keep him going.
Sirens sounded in the distance. It must be a sizable disturbance. They are calling in fire crews. Al-Khobar was ready. At almost the same time, the rattle of the lock sounded in the heavy door, and it swung outward, gray and black smoke billowing inside.
“Out! Down the stairs to the yard!” the guard ordered as loudly as possible through his gas mask, pointing the way with his riot baton.
They complied, al-Khobar utilizing his undershirt as best he could to keep from choking on the acrid fumes. More guards were stationed in the stairwell and ground-floor corridor to prevent divergence onto any route other than the one specified. The Saudi shuffled with the rest until the guards herded them out into the chilly morning air. It was Switzerland, and it was now December. The growing crowd of prisoners huddled in the near-freezing temperature, grumbling at the unscheduled exercise time.
Guards were everywhere, dressed in identical black field uniforms. Smoke poured from an upper level, and fire crews were arriving to assist the facility staff in dousing whatever hazard had been ignited inside. Always observant, al-Khobar watched carefully. There is too much smoke, and too close to the ground. What is happening here? The white cloud drifted over them, obscuring the yard. This is not from the fire. This is chemical smoke, meant to mix into that from the disturbance.
Running now, the guards herded the men in the yard into manageable groups, cursing and threatening the prisoners. An amplified voice carried a warning: “Everyone! Stay where you are! Follow orders! We are prepared to shoot!”
Al-Khobar felt the authoritative tap of a riot baton on his shoulder. He turned. Another of the guards, in black and wearing a gas mask like the rest, led three more behind him. All were glaring directly at their target. “You, Saudi. You are being moved. Come with us at once.”
Without comment, Yameen complied, knowing well the consequences should he not. Afterward, their will would be imposed on him regardless of his struggle. They grabbed his arms, and he marched with them. The five headed toward the perimeter of the yard, nearest to where the firefighting vehicles were now parked. Their crews were in motion deploying lengths of hose toward the buildings.
Another prisoner stepped out of the smoke, appearing disheveled and confused. He was pushed forward by two more men, dressed as guards.
His eyes are shining … he is drugged! Al-Khobar noticed—as a black bag was being pulled over his own head—the other man to be also of Middle Eastern descent, shaved bald as well, and nearly of an identical height and weight as himself. What is—?
“Prisoner! Halt!” A voice called loudly. There followed the racking sound of a shotgun being loaded, and shortly afterward, the sound of a weapon discharging.
What are they doing? Even through the silk bag, al-Khobar found it difficult to breathe. He was being half carried now, moving fast. Soon, he felt himself thrown, and he landed face down on a rough surface of carpeting. An engine started immediately, and Yameen realized he was now in a vehicle under way, and the men in the guard uniforms had climbed inside with him.
“What is happening?” the Saudi demanded.
“Silence! Keep your head down. Most of all, keep quiet,” a voice advised in German. But accented with French.
The vehicle took two turns and accelerated onto what sounded to Yameen like a paved roadway. He then heard the sounds of gas masks being shed.
“Gentlemen, you appeared to have earned your pay with perhaps a bonus. Congratulations.”
“Craziness. It is all insanity,” another voice grumbled.
“Textbook insanity, mon ami,” the first voice corrected. “Just as we planned.”
Chapter 13 - Family Business
InterLynk Home Offices
Geneva, Switzerland
Monday morning
It was 0900 hours in McAllen’s office, and as usual, his executive officer, Bernard Schuster, had appeared in time for the morning briefing. Less routine was the attendance of Daniel Sean Ritter, the General knew. Curiosity reflected in the Colonel’s eyes, contrasting with Bernie’s expectant expression. Yeah, men … something’s up. “Morning, Colonel,” InterLynk’s President greeted the only man in the room not nursing a cup of caffeinated cheer.
“General,” Ritter responded, his hand on the open door.
McAllen raised a finger. “Not yet, son. Expecting one more. Not to worry, I asked her to come in a little late this morning.” The sound of a confident stride out in the reception area seemed to validate his announcement.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” Boone said from behind the tall, retired Air Force officer. Dressed to the nines in white silk and heels, and sporting her maximum complement of gold and jade, she also wore the identification hanger of an InterLynk employee, configured as part of the executive team. Her smile seemed to result from genuine satisfaction as much as from the looks on the faces of her new colleagues.
“Boone,” Ritter replied easily, having been trained long ago to accommodate the unexpected.
Less able to contain his surprise, Schuster appeared to be momentarily at a loss. “Boone? Well … hello again.”
Ritter let her inside. Unslinging her handbag and tossing it and a coat on the nearby sectional, she grabbed a seat at her father’s left side, leaving Bernie his usual place at the General’s right.
Nice move, kid, her father thought. “Go ahead and get the door, Colonel,” McAllen advised. “We’re all here.”
Ritter closed them in, and the first meeting of InterLynk’s new executive team could begin. McAllen cleared his throat.
“Becky here,” the General stated, “has decided to join the family business. Sean, I hope you’ll get her settled into place as your Assistant Director. Load her up with enough work to do. She’s little, but she’s tough.”
“I’ve known it since before Russia, sir,” the man acknowledged. “Boone, let me welcome you aboard.”
“Sean, thank you. What my father said goes for me, too. I’m here to learn,” she encouraged her new boss.
“Sudden change of direction on the old career path?” Schuster inquired.
“Sudden, certainly. Dad can explain.”
Raising his iPad, McAllen’s eyebrow followed suit. “Nice segue into the first item on our agenda, Becky. It looks like the United States government is offering us all a chance to become affiliated bureaucrats.”
“Hot dog,” Schuster muttered into his coffee.
Ritter’s face remained impassive. True to form, he merely waited for an explanation.
Continuing, McAllen referenced his tablet. “A new Presidential Determination has been born, gentlemen. All intelligence operations contributing to the data sets of the United States will become wholly incorporated entities under the oversight of the United States Intelligence Community … sez them.” His Apple device dropped a few degrees. “I ain’t terribly worried. I got the legal team on it already, and since Becky is present I ain’t gonna call it what I would usually. Needless to say, I’m not interested in the offer, and we’ll explain that to the Feds in any terms we need to. This brings us, I reckon, to the story of how we happened to acquire our latest junior executive.”
“Related?” Schuster guessed.
Boone nodded. “ODNI tasked me with accomplishing your transition. As you can imagine, my Director’s announcing the assignment didn’t go well.”
“And here we are, with a dandy heads-up as to what’s on the White House Christmas wish list this year. Bad little girls and boys … every damned one of ‘em.” McAllen let his electronic organizer rest on the conference table.
“It sounds like just another day on the cutting edge of private intelligence,” Schuster quipped. Even Ritter smirked at the idea, albeit only slightly.
McAllen nodded. “We’ll take it one day at a time, gentlemen … and Boone.”
“Item two. Bernie?” McAllen gave the meeting over to the usual agenda.
Picking up his own tablet, Schuster opened his list. “News of a former associate. There was a fire and prison riot in Thonex over the weekend. Looks like not all the population made it through the excitement.”
“Anyone we know?” Ritter asked with expectation.
A grim look took over Schuster’s face. “Yameen was taken off the count. The report makes it sound like he made a break for it in the confusion, and ran into a guard with a 12-gauge riot gun.”
“Damn,” Ritter intoned, otherwise unreadable.
“The stories mention any other inmates hurt?” McAllen asked his XO.
“Not a one,” Schuster confirmed.
“Then I don’t want to just read about the slippery little Arab son of a bitch being dead. We better go see for ourselves. Sean—are you up to making a definitive identification?” The tone of McAllen’s question prompted its answer.
“Kind of curious myself, sir.”
McAllen looked at his daughter. “You’re on Mister Ritter for your probationary period, Doctor. It’ll be a good chance to meet some of the Canton officials, in any case.” Her expression, he saw, was unwavering. Dead bodies don’t faze her at all anymore, do they?
“Yes, sir,” was her composed reply.
The General sighed. My little girl. Never would I have imagined what you’ve grown into, baby doll. He glanced at Schuster. “Item three, then.” InterLynk, his from the beginning, was now truly a family business.
Boone, as assigned, accompanied Sean Ritter to the Geneva Canton’s morgue after clearing the visit through her professional acquaintance, Isabel Rousseau, the Director of the Swiss Federal Office of Police. Ritter’s French was nonexistent, and only marginally better was the Coroner’s English. Largely, she and the tall, pale man sporting a surgical gown had conversed thus far in French though he was making every effort to speak to their presumed level of comprehension.