by Dale Amidei
Three hours later
Lambert, now seeming to be thoroughly cowed, marched dutifully between his former Director and Assistant Director. Between his fingers he pinched a ticket for the evening’s last departing flight to London Heathrow, his manner suggesting he did not want to lose the document. Unsurprisingly, the man had been carrying his French passport with him. Boone thought she had made herself clear enough before they left InterLynk in her opinion of there being no better time for him to use it.
The conversation—more of a prompted soliloquy than a dialogue, really—had gone quite well. Boone and Ritter now knew what the Frenchman could tell them of Benedek Jancsi Novak’s campaign of direct action against InterLynk, including the extraction of the Saudi Yameen Amjad al-Khobar from Champ-Dollon in an operation only four days ago.
True to her word, the Frenchman was not under arrest. Nor could she and Ritter now involve the authorities, considering the harsh interrogation they had just perpetrated. No, this game will play itself out removed from the public eye. Novak will not let it end here, and neither will Daddy.
Her most aggressive questioning, complete with feigned outrage and the return of his collection bag to the floor, had failed to provoke Lambert to produce any link back to Virginia or Washington and Valka Gerard. She’s there in the background of all this. It doesn’t take a Mensa member to see the connection. Novak, for the time being, was the end of the line, at least as far as the direct evidence carried.
Boone, anticipating an accordance of opinion in her father, had decided on this action as the most prudent option—short of executing the InterLynk new hire/traitor. She allowed Ritter a few moments alone with the man before they all left the building, and she saw the Frenchman had come out physically only a little worse for wear afterward. Psychologically, she believed both her and Ritter’s victory to be complete.
The trio finally reached the security checkpoint. Boone turned, reaching out to straighten the dimple in Lambert’s restored tie. “Dear Camille … this is good-bye,” she murmured in a confidential tone. “Hopefully, we will not be seeing one another again. In the field, I will kill you. Should we hear from your attorney in a civil suit—which would be an easily extended legal proceeding, by the way—you probably know already necessary legal processes would make your location eminently discoverable.” She looked into his attentive eyes, not seeing any rage there. “My advice is to play out your part as assigned, Camille. Do please deliver our message to Mister Novak … which is what?”
“That InterLynk is now playing by his rules,” Lambert parroted perfectly.
“Exactly right!” Boone praised his recall. “Once you are finished, simply retire. I suggest Monaco, or Greece … somewhere lovely. Some place where I will never, ever encounter you again. Do we understand each other?”
“Absolutely, miss,” the Frenchman confirmed.
She gazed up at Ritter, who seemed determined to stare holes right through his former employee’s skull. “Colonel? Any last advice?”
“Remember everything I said, Mister Lambert,” Ritter encouraged him.
Boone looked back to their companion and smiled, patting Lambert on the chest. “Bon voyage, Camille, darling. Enjoy your flight.”
The dejected operative sighed, grimaced and then walked toward the flight screeners without another word. Boone and Ritter watched until they saw him through the process, continuing their surveillance until he disappeared into the terminal on the other side.
Boone and Ritter turned back toward the exits and the parking beyond. After only a few steps, Ritter seemed unwilling to call it a night. “What now?” the retired USAF officer asked.
“Well, Colonel, I don’t know about you, but I am simply dying for some dinner and a bath. Permission to clock out, sir.”
“Salaried privilege, Boone. Drop me back at my truck and enjoy your evening.”
“You got it.” And in the morning, we can decide how much of this we will tell Dad.
Is this not interesting company? Yameen al-Khobar had first picked up the little redhead from across the terminal and quickly indentified her companions as Ritter and Camille Lambert. The Saudi then watched as the Frenchman passed through security and turned toward the British Airways gates. The former GIP agent’s own ticket to Heathrow was secured already though his flight—the first for which he had been able to obtain a seat—was not scheduled to board for another twenty minutes. His watchfulness of the last few hours had been spent here with a carafe of wine. The seating of the concourse bar, serving apprehensive Swiss fliers inside the secured area of the terminal, provided just the vantage point for which he had hoped.
So he is alive, though doubtless a little worse for wear. Unless I am blind, the man was not at all happy with himself. Al-Khobar considered and then rejected the idea of exchanging his ticket for one on the Frenchman’s flight. No, better I get to London first. It will at least give me a chance to hear Lambert’s side of the story in private before we report back to Benedek Novak.
The reunion, al-Khobar was sure, would not be a meeting for which a sane man could muster any enthusiasm. The Saudi wondered if Lambert operated under the same restrictions as himself. Run, and others will find you. Do your master’s will, and the odds you will live increase—if you are strong and smart and skilled enough.
Al-Khobar sipped his wine and made a mental note of the gate number where he saw Lambert choose a seat to wait for his call to boarding. Willing or not, we are all slaves of the Hungarian while he lives. The Saudi's mind, oriented toward the formulation of action plans, was determined to preserve the thought. To act upon the inspiration, however, he would need Camille’s help. It would not be secured until they had both landed in London.
Liberty Crossing
McLean, Virginia
Tuesday afternoon
The DNI’s day ended in much the same way as it began, with a call from abroad. Again, he picked up though on this occasion with more caution. “ODNI, Bradley.”
“Terrence,” a familiar voice answered him, sounding similarly wary in its tone.
“Doctor Hildebrandt. How is Geneva?”
A pause at the other end allowed his wayward Senior Case Officer time to evaluate her apparent trail of bread crumbs. “Well, I guess my behavior was entirely predictable.”
“We gravitate toward comfort in crises, Boone,” he observed. “From what I’ve been hearing from General McAllen, there’s been no shortage of those today.”
“Terry, are you trying to kill us all?” she asked.
He gave her points for straightforwardness ... and for expecting an honest answer. “Boone, as I told the General, neither I nor anyone under me has any involvement in what is happening right now.”
“We know you have an AMN directive in effect from the Executive branch.”
“Not anymore,” Bradley corrected her. “I was relieved of the responsibility by a member of the Senior Staff shortly after its issue.”
Her voice softened. “Oh, Terry ... I didn’t know.” To an insider like her, the little he had said apparently carried with it a full picture of the challenges inherent to his position.
“Yes. Well, it was and still is far from public knowledge.” Though a prominent footnote in my file, I’m sure.
Her voice hardened. “There have been some developments I thought I should share. Being your InterLynk access is … um, down … let me send you a video conference link. You will want to see this.”
The missive from her InterLynk e-mail address hit his Inbox a moment later, with the hyperlink promised. Because it employed the same web-serving client as was often used by government agencies, Terry had only to double-click the highlighted text to access the conference connection in question. The video featured an unfamiliar though undeniably concerned face, one he guessed was well motivated to participate in the conversation which began to play back.
“Please tell us who you are and why you are here.” Bradley recognized Boone’s businesslike enunciation eman
ating from off camera.
“My name is Camille Verney Lambert. I was apprehended this afternoon following my complicity in an attack on InterLynk personnel.”
“And were you also complicit in the missile attack against the vehicle of our Vice President resulting in the death of an uninvolved civilian?”
“That operation was entirely undertaken by another, and likewise completely compartmentalized.”
“Camille,” Bradley heard Boone’s edgy voice clip. “Do not lie to me.”
“I do not lie! I do not! I had no idea of any operation except the one against Mister Ritter!”
“Then who, pray tell, took charge of the operation against Mister Schuster?”
“I do not know.”
“You are allowed to guess.”
An obviously terrified moment of reflection followed on the video. He by this time was scared shitless, Bradley realized. Boone, you can be a very bad girl.
“I assume it to be the work of Yameen al-Khobar.”
“Recently freed from prison here in Switzerland?”
“Yes.”
“Did you have involvement in that operation as well?”
“I was made aware of his procurement after the fact.”
“By whom?”
“Mister Benedek Jancsi Novak.”
“Who is working at the behest of whom?”
Lambert, on camera, looked crestfallen. “I do not know.”
The sound of a metal chair sliding across concrete came next. Boone’s infuriated voice shifted locations off camera as Lambert’s widening eyes appeared to follow her. “Camille, I warned you not to lie. Did I not warn you well enough?”
This is a man who knows his life is on the line. He is not lying, Bradley concluded.
The expression of hopelessness in the Frenchman’s eyes told the story every bit as well as did his words. “I am not lying! I was hired to come here, and given my assignments once in place. I am an asset—nothing more!” Pleas from the man in French followed before Bradley heard Boone’s menacing voice return.
“Camille, do not ever speak to me in French again.”
The video faded to black. Boone’s webcam feed, showing her with earphone in place and apparently using her MacBook, replaced the recorded footage on the video conference. This must be her office in Geneva. Nice.
Bradley leaned back, glad to see her again, even over a long-distance streaming connection. I should tell her so. “The man seemed sincere. Did he live?”
Boone’s mouth crooked. “He’s on a plane to London, delivering a message on behalf of InterLynk.”
With a snort, Bradley said, “To Benedek Novak.” The DNI watched those green eyes harden in response to match the tone of her voice on the telephone.
“Terrence, the Administration’s fingerprints are all over this one, regardless of my inability to produce a connection through Camille Lambert. Novak is more than a contributor. He’s an investor.”
Nodding, Bradley sighed. “Social initiatives, political campaigns, and leftist causes and regimes internationally.” I might as well let her in on the rest. “The man is also a silent partner in DARIUS, as well as equivalent firms in Europe and the Russian Federation.”
The red-haired woman on the other end of the connection assimilated the information quickly and drew the same conclusion as had he. “Son of a bitch. I knew it! And he envisions kicking off an arms race in missile defense for fun and profit. It’s what this has been about from the start.”
“Dead center, Doctor Hildebrandt,” the DNI concurred. At least to him, Boone's countenance seemed to turn somewhat apologetic on the video feed.
“Well, Terrence, I hope Lambert’s confirmations will help advance your Level Zero item.”
“Our Level Zero item,” he corrected her again. He watched her cock her head there in Geneva. “Yes, Boone, I’m restoring your status.”
“Terrence, I resigned.”
“Your resignation was not accepted, Doctor.” This obviously came as a surprise. It’s nice to know I can still catch her off guard once in a while. “No one has ever walked from Level Zero, and I don’t intend for you to be the first. We can talk after we see this current situation through. Until then, let me know what you need.” She again adapted to the unexpected, he saw, and the possibilities seemed to register with the impact for which he had hoped.
“Direction, sir?”
The DNI sat up in his chair. He confirmed the encryption level of their video connection with a glance to the icon's appropriate display by his browser. I trust her telephony. I’m not as sure about mine. Bradley checked the volume indicators of his workstation’s speaker and microphone. “Boone, switch to conference audio, please.”
He watched his agent pluck out her earpiece. He then hung up his handset. A moment later, they were conversing through the scrambled web-serving connection instead.
“We have an international player,” he continued, “seeking to disrupt balances of power, as well as threatening what the Executive Branch has defined as a Vital National Resource. You will proceed as appropriate for a national security issue and formulate a solution outside the scope of oversight per Level Zero protocol.”
“Execute by Any Means Necessary,” she correctly interpreted his orders.
“Ironic, isn’t it?”
His Senior Case Officer wasted no time. “Terry, I need permission to contract with InterLynk for manpower. Besides, they hold concurrent interests.”
“Granted, Doctor. Good luck.” He cleared his throat. “And please update the General on our arrangement.”
“I shall. Thank you, Terrence, for everything.” Her eyes warmed, and she gave him the smile he had been craving for the last week. She proceeded to close the Web session and the video connection.
With the video conference ended, her image was replaced by the InterLynk logo. He wanted her back. Whether or not it happened, he realized, depended on more factors than lay within the control of even the Director of National Intelligence. Terry Bradley closed his browser and went on to do the same with his other running applications. For once, he was letting go and leaving the office at the close of business. It was as much of a celebration as he could muster until her return.
Chapter 18 - The Morning Agenda
London Heathrow Airport
London, England
Tuesday night
Lambert walked down the British Airways aerobridge exiting his flight from Geneva and spotted his waiting colleague standing in a deliberately visible position. The French operative looked the area over carefully. Nowhere were the four Germans lent by their mutual employer to the Saudi as his manpower pool. If I am to be eliminated, al-Khobar is apparently willing to accomplish it without assistance.
Yameen fell in step beside Lambert without a word, the two not even engaging in French until they were well away from the throng of travelers at the gate. The Saudi was the first to speak once the idea seemed more prudent. “So … how was your flight from Geneva, my friend?”
“It was a bit of a rush,” Lambert admitted. “Fortunately, I had no luggage.” From his sideward glance, the Frenchman could see a trace of a smile forming underneath the week’s growth of beard sported by his companion.
“A fitting end to your less-than-successful trip.”
The Saudi’s observation cut deep. “A waste of time all around,” Lambert corrected him. “Even the shot at the Porsche was a useless expenditure, unless you know someone in Geneva who is seeking work as a high-end auto mechanic.”
The Frenchman's revelation was apparently news to Novak’s newly freed contractor, who showed only for a moment the beginnings of an angry reaction. “So what did you tell them?” he asked after a moment.
“As little as I could and survive.” Lambert shook off the nearest sensation to a flashback he had yet encountered after a field operation. “Believe me, my friend; you do not ever want to be interrogated by the little redheaded woman.”
“Better her interrogation th
an her blade or her bullet, believe me,” al-Khobar countered. “So now what will we do?”
As the Saudi’s head turned toward him, Lambert could almost see the sympathy in his colleague's eyes before they looked away again. The Frenchman answered, “I have as little choice as you. We must tell the man. To run is useless.” Lambert found himself wallowing in resignation, his only solace being al-Khobar’s apparent accord.
“Yes,” his Middle Eastern companion agreed. “We would only die tired.”
InterLynk Home Offices
Geneva, Switzerland
Wednesday morning
The morning meeting, not surprisingly, included the entirety of the executive team. Boone was the last to appear, wishing to keep any preliminary chatter to a minimum. She closed the door to her father’s office without his prompting.
“Morning, Beck,” her father said with his cup of coffee poised for a sip, the only one so served. He looked at Ritter, who appeared as impassive as ever, and at Bernie, who seemed like a man who might never need coffee again. “So, how did everyone sleep?”
Schuster grimaced. “Sleep?”
Boone took her seat at her father's left. Quietly she opened her iPad.
The General nodded, acknowledging Bernie’s insomnia. “Yeah, that was an annoying day. Now we got another one.” InterLynk’s president scrutinized his Field Operations team. “You two want to bring us up to date on your late night down in the basement?”
“Dad! How did you—” Boone began.
He raised his hand. “Access cards tell all, honey … from your coming in the back door to your drawing med supplies from storage. On the security cam it didn’t look like Mister Lambert enjoyed much of it at all.”
Ritter shrugged in as much a display of emotion as she expected. Boone’s nose wrinkled in her own mea culpa. “I never could pull anything over on you, Daddy.”
McAllen finished his sip. “So the cork-sniffing son of a bitch was a plant, huh?”
“One hundred percent,” Ritter confirmed, looking disgusted by the renewed vacancy on his roster. He glanced Boone’s way. “We did get a complete interview on tape, not that it will ever see the light of day.”