by Dale Amidei
“Considering, sir, that I might very well have directed my attention toward McAllen in any case, you indeed have a point,” al-Khobar clipped.
The financier raised a finger. “Ah, not toward McAllen … I referenced InterLynk. The old man himself is still of use. The people for whom I make my efforts want to control him, not destroy him.” Novak seemed to hesitate though only for a moment. “McAllen’s people … his executive team, however … they are nonessential.”
“In either case, controlled or destroyed, the effect on the General will be the same, and entirely acceptable from my perspective,” al-Khobar opined. “I can do this … with the level of support you seem to promise.”
Novak rose. “This is good, Yameen. I am truly glad you have seen things my way.” He motioned to the front of the suite. “Those men who escorted you here are now at your disposal as your staff, along with other assets whom you shall meet later. I look forward to learning of the uses to which you put them. Please let your people know whatever it is you might require of us.”
“My personal needs will be minimal,” al-Khobar assured his patron. “Other than my success, and my freedom, which seem to be intertwined.” His eyes gazed off into the distance. “Material needs we can discuss once I have a plan of action.”
“In any event, merely ask,” the Hungarian reiterated. He paused at the doorway leading back to Ludwiga’s realm at the front of the suite, turning to his guest. “Should we never meet again, Yameen, it has been a pleasure.”
The Saudi merely nodded rather than attempting to formulate an insincere response. He reached out to the man who still held his coat, donning the garment for the first time. “Good day, Mister Novak,” he intoned.
“Good luck, Mister al-Khobar,” was the response.
I shall need all this and more, the once-again covert operator thought. The rest, you old bastard, you will at least be well able to afford.
Movenpick Hotel and Casino
Geneva, Switzerland
She was on time, having had plenty of it to change and refresh herself in the interval between the close of business and the dinner date with Lambert. Her attire remained businesslike if more refined than those items she wore to her father’s offices. The jacket of her pants suit accommodated Little Swiss, hiding the outlines of the little pistol’s shoulder rig. Her Chanel blouse was perhaps a bit more low-cut, and her attention to makeup, jewelry and hair was more appropriate for an evening out than for the workaday world. It was, after all, dinner in Geneva.
Lambert was there already, lounging with a glass of wine in the waiting area of the hotel’s restaurant, Latitude. He smiled and rose, setting down his glass. “Doctor Hildebrandt, good evening,” he greeted her en francais.
“Call me Boone,” she encouraged him in the same language. He moved behind her to help with her coat and scarf while the hotel’s attendant prepared to check her items. The brush of Camille's hands on her shoulders seemed to coordinate with his cologne and engendered a rush. Possibly, she thought, the sensation brought up with it her renewed essence of jasmine. The two seem to compliment each other quite well, don’t they now?
From the look on his face, Lambert might have been thinking the same. He finished his wine and offered his arm to her as the maître d’ arrived to show them to their table.
A man and a woman at dinner … it’s a mistake to ever think it is only about the food. Boone, nevertheless, took his arm, with Lambert grasping as much of an opportunity to exercise chivalry with her chair as he had with her coat.
They ordered with the decisiveness of a couple familiar with the menu, and it was a similarity they both seemed to appreciate. Boone politely declined the sommelier’s suggestion of a wine, leaving Lambert to select of a glass of the local red while she adhered to her choice of Perrier. With the preliminary protocols of dining behind them, the two engaged in a good conversation well before the first course arrived.
“We have such odd ways of making a living,” Boone commented after hearing Lambert’s story of leaving the Direction Centrale. “Sometimes one wonders if those who run us understand our lives at all.”
“Eh … it is doubtful,” Lambert concurred. “By the time they understand, in my experience, it is too late. Someone has died, or a die is cast, and things can never be as they were.” His eyes seemed to take on a more contemplative light than was attributable to his second glass of the house red. “Always, one hopes this time it will be different.”
“But it is different, Camille. You are with InterLynk now. A better opportunity than to work for Peter McAllen you’ll seldom find.”
“Well, such is my hope, of course,” Lambert allowed. He sipped again. “Of his people thus far, I am forced to say, not one has failed to impress me.”
Smiling, Boone accepted the compliment. “Those are the only kind the General wants. From what I’ve seen, you’ll fit in just fine.” Oh, Boone … you are positively Freudian. Watch yourself. This is business.
From the soup, through the filet mignon in a bearnaise sauce, to an airy Italianate dessert, the meal was perfection. It was enhanced by Lambert’s mannered company, with each moment set off by her every cultured encouragement. The evening, Boone realized, fulfilled her usual longing to return to the refined atmosphere of Europe whenever she had been too long away. Just another of my addictions. Will I never run out of them?
Their dialogue, held in the general terms of intelligence professionals, consisted of stories and shared experiences without date or detail and seemed to outlast their dinner. Boone had the impression neither of them wished to give it up, but the meal was over, and the rest of the evening remained unallocated. Here comes the hard part.
He rose with his glass finally emptied and the tab charged to her card as she had promised. The man who would tomorrow be her employee helped with her chair as he had on their arrival. The man steers conversation as an expert in interpersonal relations, Boone’s analytical mind perceived as they returned to the front of the restaurant. They retrieved her coat and scarf, afterward strolling toward the guest rooms as Lambert kept up the flow of their exchange. This undoubtedly was his talent in his former life… getting in close. Isn’t that what he’s doing now?
“Ah, cherie.” Lambert finally said, his voice lowering. “Your company is a pleasure I am loath to part with.” He glanced up a nearby door. “This is my room, I am afraid.”
So conveniently close to the Latitude. Planned? Boone hesitated, caught between her attraction and her caution. Is it possible the man is this good at what he does? There’s only one way to find out.
At his door now, he readied his access card. He turned, a wistful smile playing on his strong features. “Is it to be good night, then, cherie?”
Yes, he’s this good. Steady, Boone. Her urge to exercise him in this place as she once did Thibaut Marseille was already running well ahead of her intention to rein in her instinct. Again, the scent of jasmine seemed to punctuate the moment between their words. Her dead lover’s crucifix shifted, coming to rest against her breast as she cocked her head. Yes, woman. Pass your test for once.
“Morning comes early at InterLynk, Monsieur Lambert,” she breathed, then straightened. “We can’t have you late for General McAllen on your first day.”
His expression alone was nearly enough to break her resolve—again, an engineered moment? She saw him accept her decision regardless as he opened the door, turning to her either as a final courtesy, or one last attempt at seduction. So bad … honey, you are a woman who craves a walk on the edge of disaster.
“Until tomorrow, Boone. Thank you for dinner,” he said simply, lingering inside his door.
Magnetically. Gravitationally. Boone, get the hell out of here! “Bon nuit, Monsieur Lambert. See you in the morning,” she managed to say in as nonchalant a tone as she had ever used. Boone turned and walked for the hotel’s main entrance and the parking lot. She would have rather run.
InterLynk’s personnel officer—at McAllen’s insist
ence—made the necessary adjustments to accommodate Lambert’s partial-week start in his salaried position. Boone knew it to be a sign of her father’s desire to return his firm's status to fully functional. Following what had been a horrid year of loss in Field Operations, any step toward restoring normalcy for Ritter’s section, she knew, would be aggressively pursued. Perhaps too aggressively.
Boone spent her Tuesday handling more routine matters on Ritter’s behalf as he did his best to provide a thorough orientation for the most recent arrival to his staff. Nevertheless, as often as she could, the almost-as-new Assistant Director shadowed the pair and attempted to define in her mind the nagging instinct urging her to keep the Frenchman in sight.
He pursues familiarity with everyone, just as he did with me last night. Boone crossed the lobby, her arm cradling a number of other applications retrieved from the ground-floor mailroom. On her way she saw Camille Lambert interacting with Franz as well as Ritter now as the man received his access card and InterLynk identification badge. Laughter and camaraderie filled the security office. Every individual inside wore a pleasant expression, she noticed. Yes, Ritter’s new man is either a natural at working with people … or a master at manipulating them.
Boone found her cynical side waving its tiny, mental red flag again. She paused before continuing to the back stairwell, taking a moment to observe and evaluate the scene. One could think he’s working them today just as he worked me last night … and quite possibly for approximately the same reason.
Later in the morning, InterLynk’s Assistant Director of Field Operations managed to slip up to the executive floor for a brief question directed to her father as Lambert waited for his introductory meeting with the General. Sure enough … there he is with the same easygoing style, chatting up Caroline and the admin assistants. Boone saw nothing to alleviate her growing sense of unease. He’s worked here for less than half a day, and Caroline already seems happy to have him casually leaning on the edge of her desk.
Passing the scene, Boone headed for the front stairwell as the fastest route down to Field Operations. “Bonjour, Officer Lambert,” she said with a smile just as easy as the one he returned. “Your first day is going well?”
“Oui, Mademoiselle Boone, tres bon,” was the pleasant reply as if nothing whatsoever had passed between them the previous evening.
Because nothing actually did, she realized. She arrived at the stairwell, so glad she had not added the burden of a sexual excursion to her growing concerns with Ritter’s new hire. Lambert’s personable performance was cementing her paradoxical reaction. It was instinct, rather than logic, and Boone realized with a rush her well-honed field sense to be what prevented her from taking Lambert’s apparently effortless assimilation at face value.
Go with the gut, she decided. There’s a reason you don’t trust this guy. Now you need to find out what it is.
Benedek Jancsi Novak had been as responsive to procurement needs as Yameen al-Khobar hoped he would be. Indeed, as the billionaire promised, Yameen needed only to ask, and requests for which he had been prepared to wait a good deal of time appeared instead overnight. It cannot be an accident, the Saudi’s never-resting mind concluded. My requisitioning was anticipated. I am only playing a role in this production. Novak is directing us all.
The former field agent of Saudi Arabia's GIP now casually walked a parking structure accessible to the public. Occasionally, he referenced a slip of paper in the palm of his gloved hand. He was glad for his knit cap and sunglasses, a getup practical for Europe's winter temperatures. The items also made his appearance as indistinguishable as was possible. And there are few places than this in which I would be less eager to be recognized.
A few more paces, and he consulted his reference notes again. There. Another Porsche. This one appeared to match the description he had been provided, from the paint scheme to the custom racing wheels and tires. This is the one. I would have expected to find it in a somewhat more prominent parking assignment. No matter.
Al-Khobar cleared his six o’clock and scanned as well the entirety of the parking level, one from appearances he had to himself. A small device appeared, taken from his coat pocket, with a single exterior switch which was flicked into position as his gloved hand concealed it under the German sports car’s body. The Saudi felt the powerful neodymium magnet grab at the galvanized sheet metal aggressively, but he settled it into place with a gentle touch so as to not disturb the vehicle’s security system.
Hesitating, he readied himself for any piercing alarm and the hasty retreat which would necessarily follow. No such activation, however, came. Very good. It will take some force to get you back out of there. He straightened, looking around once more and satisfied the placement of the device had gone just as well as he hoped.
Yes, it will take considerable force indeed. That will be Phase Two. Pacing on, al-Khobar strode to the end of the level and ducked down the stairwell to the street. There, he had parked the white delivery vehicle holding the remainder of what had been waiting for him upon arrival in Geneva.
After the side door to the van opened and then closed again behind him, the Saudi's next effort at role camouflage began by donning a maintenance worker's coveralls and hard hat bearing the logo of a Swiss environmental-systems firm. So transformed, he moved forward to the driver’s seat and got the big vehicle running. Checking his mirrors, he accelerated into the driving lane.
The trip was a short one. In less than a kilometer he again parked, this time in the vendor lot behind the area’s tallest structure. The Saudi exited the van and walked around to his vehicle’s back doors. A heavy equipment cart rolled out onto the asphalt, where he could stand and tip the case up and into a configuration more easily passed through the service entrance accessing the interior of the building.
Al-Khobar wheeled his gear toward the structure. He knew his appointment to maintain the rooftop air handlers had been established already. He carried little expectation—as expertly as his patrons had been coordinating his mission to this point—there would be any complications arising from that end.
It is now a matter of obtaining access to the roof, and then perhaps a bit of a wait. It was nearly the lunch hour. Al-Khobar had eaten already. There would be no time for lunching after the first bit of this morning’s work. He would need to depart this locality afterward, and he would need to accomplish his withdrawal without delay.
Schuster stood in the outer reception area, talking with Caroline for a brief time before he popped his head around the jamb of his boss’s doorway. Deep in thought at his desk, McAllen stared intently at his monitor.
“General, sir … if you don’t mind, I’ll be taking off for lunch a little early. Baby has an appointment,” the man said with a grin.
Looking up, McAllen cracked a smile. “That car of yours again? Damn, boy. I thought Porsches were supposed to be top quality, and you’re taking it in so soon?”
Schuster seemed unperturbed at the jibe. “Second annual maintenance already, can you believe it? And she’s still running like a top, too.” McAllen’s XO glanced at his wristwatch, just as much a status symbol as his choice of vehicle. “Barring objections, sir, I better go.”
Waving, the General dismissed him. “Go, Bernie, go! Give the damn thing a kiss from me too.”
His second-in-command grinned and was gone. McAllen returned to his correspondence but at the same time now realized he, too, was looking forward to lunch. Damned distractions. Bernie can have his Autobahn racer. Give me a good car with a bottle of bourbon in the back and a driver any day of the damned week.
Schuster stepped smartly through the parking structure InterLynk shared with several nearby businesses. The spaces were all leased, except for the few designated for visitors and deliveries. He made his way up to the second level, encountering a man waiting there already. “Klaus! Dammit, man, I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” InterLynk’s executive officer apologized.
“No problem, no problem,” his mechani
c assured him. “I was dropped off only a moment ago.” He held out his hand, into which Schuster dropped his key and fob. The automotive professional tossed the set into the air and expertly grabbed the component he needed. He looked at the one customer whom his shop never had to notify of a scheduled maintenance appointment. “Any requests, other than the yearly checklist?”
“Maybe the computer tweak we discussed on the phone. What the hell.”
“It might add a few hundred,” the Porsche-certified German replied cautiously.
Schuster shrugged. “Eh. You only live once, right?”
The mechanic grinned and nodded, glancing at Schuster’s car. “And a man’s vehicle should reflect it. It will be done as you wish, Herr Schuster.”
“She’ll still be back by the close of business, right?”
“Ja, ja … no problem.”
Satisfied, Schuster stepped back and watched Klaus settle down into the best car the former diplomat had ever owned. The roar of the motor and the smoothness of the shifter sounded even better on the exterior than they did sitting inside on the leather upholstery. Take care, Baby, Schuster thought. See you soon.
On the roof of the nearby high-rise, located down the broad avenue from InterLynk headquarters and the United Nations’ Geneva complex, Yameen al-Khobar had opened and assembled the launch tube for the prototype antitank weapon carefully packed into the sectioned foam plank inside the equipment case. He had been allowed up to the roof with little trouble. The laptop computer included in his kit was now up and running, sitting on the nearby parapet. The chilling effect from the cold, December winds up here, over a hundred meters above Geneva, made the abrupt alarm of the device's only open user application a welcomed sound. The program's sole function was to listen for the signal of the transponder he had placed only a short time ago. According to the map on the screen’s display, the device was currently active in the parking garage below.