by Dale Amidei
This morgue had the same smell of death and chemical disinfectant as every other one she had visited. Decomposition, though refrigerated and sanitized, still dominated the atmosphere here. While respectful of the professionalism she had always encountered from morgue personnel, Boone could not comprehend what made a person aspire to work in the field. But then again, the Coroner would probably not understand why a person would choose to work in a field which regularly arranges for new arrivals to be delivered to facilities just like this one. At least in this instance, she had not been the one to pull the trigger.
“This … Mister al-Khobar. I warn … trauma … significant,” the Coroner cautioned in English as they arrived at the numbered compartment.
“Understood, monsieur,” Boone answered. Ritter, she thought, looked more curious than apprehensive.
The official unlatched the door and slid out the drawer to the cooler, some vapor escaping into the dry winter’s air of Geneva. He pulled back the treated sheet, folding it down to hip level to expose the corpse.
Yeah, he was right. Boone inferred it to be a load of buckshot which had taken the Arab in the face, at a range close enough to open up quite a wound across the front of the cranium. There was no blood, the corpse having been hosed down thoroughly in postmortem. The remains of the face, only marginally recognizable, had been pushed back together at some point to allow the decedent a modicum of presentability. Having earned her doctorate in physiology, Boone found herself awash in old memories. Shotgun … at close range and dead center. And after all that, he still looks better than the cadavers I worked on in my anatomy classes.
Ritter, motioning first to obtain the Coroner’s permission, received a pair of blue nitrile gloves as a response. Her colleague donned the hand protection before lifting the arm of the corpse, then the sheet covering the man’s lower body—only far enough to view the man’s leg, and not his junk, Boone noticed. The Coroner did not seem to object.
“Boone, can you ask the man how the deceased was identified?” Ritter inquired.
She translated the request and likewise the answer. “He says it was the prison officials who provided the identification, through a head count, as well as the identifying numbering on his prison uniform.”
Stripping off the protective gloves, Ritter nodded. “Please thank the man in the most polite terms. I believe we are finished here.”
She did so. The official nodded, covering the corpse once more before sliding the drawer back into place and sealing the refrigerator-like access door. She watched Ritter deposit his gloves in a dedicated biohazard bin and wait for the morgue official to escort them back to the public area. Her supervisor's face betrayed nothing of what he was thinking, and she was not about to ask. Not here, anyway.
They soon were back in Ritter’s Lexus SUV. The man was putting the vehicle into gear, and she was habitually fastening her seat belt, by the time Boone felt secure enough to breach the subject. “Well? Any conclusions?” she asked.
“It wasn’t him,” Ritter stated.
“You’re certain,” Boone observed.
“I’m sure. I watched him get shot in two different places where the corpse on display showed no scarring. Whoever it was, it sure as hell wasn’t Yameen.” Ritter steered them on a bearing back toward her father’s home offices.
He’s right. There should have been a scar from the Earwig atop his left shoulder. We apparently should have capped his ass when we had the chance, her old mind thought. The better angel of her nature, however, defended the choice she—as well as the remainder of the InterLynk executive team—had made that night. One of the most significant of my life. Shame, Boone. There are more men in your history than just Yameen al-Khobar whom you should have allowed to live. “And yet, the man is no longer in prison,” she mused, half to herself.
“Also true,” Ritter agreed, snapping her back to the present. “It really makes a person pay more attention to the rearview mirror, somehow, doesn’t it?” the Director of Field Operations confessed.
As if to confirm his intuition, Boone found herself concurrently listening and using the outside rearview. Yes, doesn’t it, though?
Once back at InterLynk, Boone noticed Ritter took not even the opportunity to shed his topcoat before proceeding to the company’s Presidential office. McAllen was there, working, and looked up in anticipation of his Director’s report.
“Well, Colonel? Did they off the little son of a bitch or didn’t they?” the man asked.
Ritter motioned to Boone, who closed the door behind them. Her tall, fit colleague waited until it was secure to answer. He turned back toward her father. “They killed someone, sir. I can say with one hundred percent certainty, however, it was no one I had ever seen before.”
“Well, that’s good enough for me,” McAllen growled. His finger jabbed at the desk phone by his right hand.
“Yes, sir,” Bernie's voice answered.
“Bern, you want to come over here?”
“Right away, General.”
Schuster took less than thirty seconds to appear, obviously noticing from their outerwear Boone and Ritter had only just returned from their field trip to cold storage. “So?”
“We’re not mourning Yameen yet,” Ritter said matter-of-factly. “No old bullet wounds where they should have been. We can assume he’s been sprung … by whom and for what purpose ought to be our next questions.”
“And we better keep ‘em to ourselves,” McAllen added. “Considering the state-sponsored animus we seem to be facing, there ain’t any utility in tipping off the opposing force as to what we know and what we don’t.”
Boone, as well as the others on his team, waited for the General’s directions. Typically, it was not a long interval.
“Bernie, reinstitute the full-bore monitoring of the bastard’s financial accounts. If it looks as if he’s paying off his own contractors I want to know about it. If his debit card so much as buys a damned cup of coffee in Mongolia, I want to know about that too.”
“Will do, sir,” Bernie responded with confidence.
Clenching his jaw, McAllen’s pen tapped impatiently on his desk blotter. “An effort this successful required a great deal of assistance, boys and girl. Whether it was state sponsored or privately funded, this one’s a heavy hitter. We’d better be about finding out who it is besides Yameen on the other side.”
“Dad, we might not be the only ones interested,” Boone suggested. She tapped her chin in thought. “Maybe … we could use a little state sponsorship of our own.”
“How so, honey?” her father asked.
“Dmitry Lyubov expressed an interest in recovering al-Khobar to the Russian Federation once the wheels of Western justice allowed it.” She felt her eyes narrow. “His capabilities are worldwide and well exceed our own. I would deal him into this game.”
“Not bad thinking for your first day on the job, daughter dear,” her father replied, nodding as he contemplated the possibilities. “Let me mull that one over for a while.” He glanced back to the rest of his executive team. “All right, folks … all y’all be sure to keep your heads up in the meantime. As far as I’m concerned, we got one jump boot on a war footing, and the other on a damned banana peel. ”
Boone lingered when her male colleagues abandoned the General’s top-tier office in order to return to their respective tasks. Sighing, she doffed her long, black coat and scarf, laying her handbag beside them on the sectional in the center of her father’s office. She then took a seat beside them.
“Something on your mind, darlin’?” her dad asked, pecking away for a few characters on his computer keyboard.
“Daddy, what the hell is wrong with the world?” she asked as if her father had all those answers at his fingertips.
“It’s a fouled-up mess. A direct result of being half full of idiots, baby girl. Is the realization just now sinking in?”
“No … not really.” She rested her chin on the back of the sectional, looking over his shoulder at
Lake Geneva and the whiteness of the Alps beyond. “Maybe it’s just now making me really tired.”
“You made a tough call, darlin’. Not many would have taken the stand you did. It makes me proud.”
Boone found herself, no matter the level of accomplishment in her life, not yet propelled beyond the need to hear such things from this man. “That’s just it, Dad. It wasn’t a hard call at all. They—the ones in charge in Washington now, I mean—they can’t hold a candle to men like you, and Sean … even Bernie. How ever did they come to power? I don’t understand.”
Her father sat back from his keyboard and monitors. “Not understanding just means you’re healthy, Becky.” His eyes took on a distant focus. “Mostly, I reckon, they got there by stacking a whole lot of bad karma higher than any rational mind would ever consider.” He smirked. “Lots of weight resides in bad decisions. Moral gravity. You get on the bad side of the slump when it comes, and it will mash your sorry ass right down into the ground.”
“It’s hard to wait sometimes,” Boone admitted.
“Yeah, darlin’ but the show you get to see makes patience worth it.” He appeared to redirect his attention to business. “You gettin’ along with your new Director?”
Boone straightened as well, “Dad, you know he’s a good man. No problems to report at all.”
“Well, it’s a fine start. You better go catch up to him. Word is he’s got another good man we just might want to bring on board.” His tone reflected his grim visage. “Field Operations still needs all the help it can get.”
She stood, gathering her things. “Yes, sir.” Boone proceeded to his door, pausing with her hand on the polished brass latch. She looked back at her father, who was seemingly again absorbed in his work. “Thanks for everything, Daddy,” she said.
“You too, Beck. We’ve been too long apart.”
Nodding, she exited his office. He’s right, she thought as she crossed the reception area. Heading for the stairwell which would take her to the next floor down and Field Operations, her mind mulled over her father’s observation. Life slipped away while we weren’t watching. That seems to be the way it goes.
Chapter 14 - Plus One
Boone deposited her things in the office located directly next to Sean’s. She caught up with him as he was reviewing an applicant’s packet received for one of the still vacant Field Operations Officer positions. His jacket was off, his tie loosened, and his sleeves were rolled up onto his muscular forearms. InterLynk’s losses earlier in the year had been spectacular and well publicized, and as a consequence, the rebuilding effort was ongoing. Hiring was hampered even more by the high standards of her father … not to mention those of the former USAF Lieutenant Colonel now tasked with running the General’s stable of operators.
“He mentioned you might have found one,” she said, hovering in his doorway.
Sean glanced up. “Looks good, actually.” He returned to scanning the contents of the application, handing a portion of the stack to her. “Have a chair, Boone. Look at his jacket and tell me what you think.”
Taking the proffered documentation as well as a seat across from his desk, she looked over the recruit's vitals. “He’s a former officer with the French Central Directorate of Interior Intelligence? Not bad,” Boone read, finding herself to be impressed as well.
“His references are top-drawer,” Ritter added.
Looking up from the hard copy she held, Boone asked, “Are you’re bringing him in for a look?”
“First thing after lunch. Should make for an interesting afternoon. Do you have workout clothes along?”
“Not yet.”
Ritter smiled. “Grab something comfortable. Durable, too, if you run an interview the same way I do.”
“I can imagine. I’ve heard about you Pararescue guys.” Boone slipped the packet back into the stack on his desk. “Sean … can I ask something?”
“You’re here to ask questions for a while, Boone.”
She nodded. “Are you OK with this … situation?”
Other than to flip to the next sheet of paper, he had no reaction. “It’s your father’s decision. I’ve been taking direction from the man for a while, and I haven’t seen him make a bad call yet.”
Unreadable. Is it deliberate? “Yours was a less personal answer than I had hoped for,” Boone admitted, resorting to a womanly tone. She realized what she had really craved during their exchange was eye contact.
Ritter set aside his work. Looking directly into her eyes, he said, “We’ve worked together well in the past. I see no reason why it can’t continue into the future. From everything I’ve seen, you are your father’s daughter. I hope you’ll take that as the compliment it is. Good enough?”
More than good enough. She gave him her best smile. “Thank you, Sean … very much.” Maybe this arrangement will work out after all.
Back in the office by 1330 hours, the two still wore full business attire. They were welcoming a candidate whose tailor’s skills, Boone observed, outstripped even the shop patronized by Schuster and Ritter. The recent arrival was indeed French, constructed and composed in a manner which might stop a weak woman’s heart, she thought. InterLynk’s newest Assistant Director, however, was making every effort to remain objective.
“Camille Lambert, I’m Sean Ritter, the Director of Field Operations. This is Doctor Rebecca Boone Hildebrandt, Assistant Director of the same.”
When Boone extended her hand, the candidate took it gracefully rather than clenching it as he had with Ritter. “A pleasure, mademoiselle,” Lambert intoned with an obvious and masculine approval.
Smooth. You’re doing OK so far, buddy. He must be from the same Latinate extraction as Thibaut. She was struck by the similarity in build and appearance, from the dark hair and brown eyes to the general level of fitness he displayed.
Ritter directed them to a comfortably sized Field Operations conference room, one often used for mission planning and debriefing. They took random seats, allowing the newcomer the place of honor at the head of the table nearest the door. Ritter had the man’s packet with him. “Can you tell us a bit about yourself?” he opened.
The Frenchman smiled. “As much as can any of us, is it not so? I have tried to make my application complete.”
Boone twirled her pen. The man was more than a top-level recruit. He was intriguing. “The Central Directorate, from those I’ve met, seems to be a good organization. Why then have you parted company?”
With an unburdened smile, Camille replied, “On reflection, mademoiselle, I have concluded I do not care to work for socialists.”
What a coincidence. Boone nodded in understanding.
Ritter made a show of looking through Lambert’s packet. “I see you hold a pilot’s license … what platforms?”
“All commercial platforms below cargo level. Small aircraft are one of my passions,” Lambert confirmed.
You are even a pilot …you could be Thibaut’s brother. Boone felt herself missing her departed friend more with each of the recruit’s passing words.
“Jets? General McAllen maintains a late-model Gulfstream,” Ritter inquired.
“One of my favorites,” Lambert answered, beaming. “In my opinion, any of the line is a fine choice, in the layout of the instrumentation especially.”
Ritter glanced at Boone. “Doctor? Any questions?”
Straightening, she addressed the candidate. “Monsieur, this is a field operations position. Direct action, possibly in a covert capacity, might be required. This could include action against opposing forces. Are you comfortable with this?”
“I am, miss.”
“To the point of taking a life?”
His eyes hardened in just the way she expected. He’s a man who has already experienced the feeling, Boone thought. The sensation of walking away after a fight from which one’s opponent did not and never would.
“Oui, Docteur.”
His closemouthed answer served only to supplement the one she had alread
y perceived. “No more questions,” she enounced in a tone meant to carry forward the weight of her satisfaction. She watched as Ritter pushed the man’s application packet aside.
“Your evaluation today, Mister Lambert, is a multipart affair, a portion of which is physical. Have you brought along suitable clothing as we discussed?” the retired Lieutenant Colonel asked their potential hire.
“I have, if there is a place to change.”
Ritter smiled and rose. “Then let me show you to the locker room, monsieur.” He glanced her way. “I assume you’ll be tagging along, Doctor?”
Smiling, Boone nodded, rising also. “To the door of the men’s side, at least. I wouldn’t miss this, Mister Ritter.”
They ran the five kilometers to the gym at Ritter’s pace, one he obviously could have maintained for a much longer distance. Neither Boone nor Lambert displayed any difficulty in keeping up.
And it’s another good sign, she thought as they arrived at their destination.
It was a mixed martial arts gym, configured well for the purpose. Expanses of mats and weight-lifting stations surrounded a centrally positioned, suspended ring used in both training and tournaments for the increasingly popular sport. Ritter signed his party in at the desk, having made the reservations in advance.
“Gloves and pads, if you wish them, sir,” Ritter invited his recruit as they all shed some outer layers.
Boone looked on with admiration. Lambert’s upper-body development was obvious through his exercise wear. Ritter makes for some pretty good eye candy as well.
“Gloves, perhaps. What is pain, otherwise?” was the Frenchman’s confident pronouncement.
The gauntlet is thrown. Boone took her position ringside as the two men—having so equipped after donning footgear appropriate for the canvas platform—climbed inside the ropes. There was a minimum of flexing and stretching as they sized each other up. Afterward the pair appeared ready.