One Last Scent of Jasmine (Boone's File Book 3)

by Dale Amidei

  Her father’s glare turned toward her. “Admissibility problems, I assume?”

  “Well, frankly … yes,” she admitted. “The exercise was for our own information, being our opposition, who we now know as Benedek Novak, has set the rules.”

  “My ass, if you’ll pardon my French, darlin’. The rules were set in Washington at her damned reception.” He paused only a moment before his next question. “Where is Mister Lambert now?” her father demanded.

  “London, sir,” Ritter volunteered. “After what transpired, we thought his best use was as a courier of understanding to the man who set the current situation in motion.”

  “Well, it beat putting a bullet in his damned head, I guess. It’s not a war zone, and we’re not operating on government sanction,” her father allowed.

  Here we go. Boone cleared her throat, straightening slightly and drawing the attention of the three men at the table. “Not true as of last night.” She looked around and then back to her iPad. She drew a breath before she returned her father’s gaze. “Daddy, guys, I don’t know how else to say it … ODNI has elected to not accept my resignation. I’m going back in.”

  Schuster registered surprise. Her father went back to his coffee. Ritter might as well have been a statue.

  Boone leaned forward. “I do, however, have Terry Bradley’s authorization to seek a Field Operations contract to pursue our concurrent interests.”

  Her father looked pleased at least by the revenue, knowing the depths of ODNI’s pockets. “Well, honey, ain’t you Daddy’s little rainmaker,” he said with a grin.

  “I’m sorry, Dad,” Boone said, frowning. “I didn’t plan on any of this.”

  “Well,” he responded, “I guess none of us did.” He looked at his tablet, swiping and tapping a few times on the surface of the screen. His eyes flicked to Bernie. “Mister Schuster, I’ve restored access to our friends in Virginia on the previous terms. Follow up when you get the chance, will you?”

  “You got it, sir,” InterLynk's second-in-command said with a nod.

  “Well, Doctor, since you represent a client now, what does your organization need from us?” the General inquired.

  “I’ve been authorized to act on my own initiative. Now that we’ve interrupted the other side’s momentum, I’m inclined to do the same to their command and control.” She glanced at Ritter and then back to her father’s steely stare. “I might have to borrow Sean for a few days.”

  “It’s all right with you, Colonel?” the old man asked.

  “I am inclined to agree with the Doctor, sir,” the Director of Field Operations concurred. Boone thought the man appeared just as eager to proceed as she.

  McAllen made another few adjustments on his tablet. “All right, then. Get going, both of you. Ritter, you’re back in the field pool for the time being.” Her father’s eyes returned to her. “Becky, I’m altering your status to Assistant Director at liberty. I don’t want to have to redo your employment paperwork if you and Bradley have another fight.”

  “Daddy!”

  “Daddy nothing. I said get going, both of you.”

  Boone and Ritter rose simultaneously. “We’ll be in London,” she said, resigned to her father’s stubbornness.

  “As long as you’re busy, and on the grid,” McAllen acknowledged. He turned to his XO. “Are you up to running Field Operations during the interim, Bern?”

  “So long as it doesn’t involve any more new recruits,” Schuster qualified.

  Bernie's grimness only seemed accentuated by the expressions on Ritter’s face and, she had no doubt, her own. Boone rolled her eyes, taking one step and reaching for the latch on the door. Her father was right. It indeed was time to go to work.

  British Airways Airbus A320

  Above France

  Midday Wednesday

  Her neighbor, from his appearance a student, was absorbed in his musical selection and had not seemed interested in conversation even before departure. Neither was Ritter available as company, being seated further to the rear in Business Class. With an upgraded aisle seat, Boone rode the air lanes alone with her thoughts. Inbound like her fellow passengers to London Heathrow for an early afternoon arrival, she used the time to run her preoperational analyses. The solution to the immediate problem Boone thought obvious. As always, finding her route to the solution was proving to be problematic as ever.

  The question is how to engage a target as well financed and secured as Benedek Jancsi Novak without the level of state support Dad and I enjoyed in Russia. She knew some British spooks, and while they were not the superheroes of the James Bond movies, the various agencies they served were hardly slouches of international intelligence. She and Ritter intended to target a man in whom the United Kingdom’s Security Service—MI5—would undoubtedly hold an interest. Possibly also MI6, she thought, adding the agency to her growing list of concerns. The foreign intelligence specialists in the SIS would not be out-of-bounds involving themselves, considering Novak’s international engagement.

  Neither was interference from British law-enforcement assets beyond consideration. Understandably and honorably, they would be more concerned with the rule of law than addressing the weight of the Hungarian financier’s tainted karma. And those were only Boone’s operational concerns.

  Five years ago—hell, one year ago—the proposed assassination of a designated subject, given the level of her nation’s security interest, would not have been problematic. Not with a shot or two of absinthe available before and afterward. Boone sighed. Can I carry out such an op today?

  Her life was not getting any easier, and at times like this she found herself amazed she had so far resisted the urge—diminishing, but not altogether absent—to resume her drinking. So what’s kept me from going back?

  She pondered the question. Awareness, she decided. Once the full realization of the lie manifested in my drinking bubbled up to the front of my mind, I couldn’t delude myself any longer. My addiction became a real problem instead of a false comfort, and ever since, the thought of going back has never survived as more than a moment of weakness.

  The clarity itself had become an addiction. I lost my absinthe in Russia and my cynicism backstage with Pastor Lin. Reality has been free to kick my ass ever since. Exposure to truth, she realized, could never be undone, only accommodated … and assimilated, if one chooses to remain healthy.

  Her mission parameters, contradictory in scope to her conscience, seemed determined to give her a choice between her duty and her budding faith. It remained an unresolved dilemma, and as such, she found it damnably annoying.

  Healer or Huntress … Beacon or Shadow. The thoughts drifted, and fragments of her subconscious—inexpressible except in her poetry—emerged again. They were born, she knew, out of her deepest conflicts. Blessing or Cancer … Bounty or Fallow. Boone felt her journal calling more strongly than before. For just a short time, once the ink began to flow from the tip of her fountain pen, she would be able to forget the emotions which drove the process.

  Writing might drive me insane, but it will never trash my liver. And afterward, I could even have something to show for the effort … besides a dry mouth and a headache.

  St. Ermin’s Hotel

  London, England

  Three hours earlier

  While Camille Lambert had settled for having his suit of clothes cleaned and pressed through their hotel’s concierge, al-Khobar had insisted on taking the first part of the day to obtain something presentable—if off the rack—at a proper clothier. He was now attired as handsomely as his colleague if not as well fitted. It remained to be seen if his efforts to appear at his most professional would soothe the burn sure to result from the imminent delivery of their report.

  The Saudi followed the Frenchman into Novak’s suite, guarded as ever by the indomitable Ludwiga. She swiveled in her chair to meet them, rising easily, though without a greeting or smile.

  “Ludwiga, guten Morgen,” the Frenchman attempted.

&
nbsp; “Herr Lambert. You are back early from Geneva,” she observed with a frosty tone.

  “Indeed. A matter we should discuss with the man inside,” al-Khobar interjected, displaying a dose of his own attitude. “Would you let him know we have arrived?” You Nazi bitch, he added in his mind.

  “One moment. Wait here, please.” She pressed a buzzer, and before she had disappeared into the rear of the suite, the door from the corridor opened. In walked one half of the team whom al-Khobar had dispatched from Geneva, nodding to him and Lambert in turn.

  No longer are they my men. I, instead, am their charge once more ... and Lambert with me. Al-Khobar had only a few moments to ponder the whims of fortune before Ludwiga’s officious return.

  “Herr Novak will see you now,” she announced.

  They left Novak’s front-office Aryan behind as two more of Novak’s seemingly ever-ready supply of Germans marched them inside. The master of the suite, his countenance holding little more welcome than had his administrative assistant, at least deigned to greet them. “Monsieur Lambert, and Mister al-Khobar! You surprise me. The news from Geneva did not seem to herald your arrival as of yet,” Novak exclaimed. “I admit to being underwhelmed, considering the promise of your respective references.”

  “The vagaries of field operations, monsieur,” Lambert attempted. “Variables stack unpredictably at times. Unfortunately, we encountered just such a circumstance.”

  “You were to be paid well enough to anticipate variables, monsieur. At these levels of compensation, I am understandably used to results, not anomaly.”

  “One needs to maintain perspective,” al-Khobar growled. “Fieldwork moves faster than the boardroom … or the financial table.”

  Novak snapped, “I do not need a lecture from you, hireling. Neither do I need to spend a factory manager’s salary on a weapon expended against a damned mechanic.”

  To the Saudi it appeared as if the financier was ready for his first drink of the day, and it was not nearly time for lunch. This man has never had his life on the line. Only his money. A lack of support from yet another unsympathetic handler. Al-Khobar found it viscerally unsettling.

  “You two,” the older man said, wagging an angry finger, “instead of succeeding in your task, have only made it impossible for any of us to continue.”

  Disturbed, Lambert attempted reconciliation. “Monsieur, we need only to—”

  “Enough of your schemes!” Novak declared. “I have observed enough examples of failures in action to be able to discern a viable planner. Unfortunately, I see no such attribute in either of you.”

  Benedek Novak gathered a few items for his slim briefcase and clipped the lid shut after placing the documents inside. He turned to his visitors, indicating their German escort. “Unfortunately, gentlemen, I am late for this morning’s Conference in the financial district. I will be forced to deal with you both on my return. These men will see to it you do not wander off in the meantime.” The man turned to the pair of Germans. “Have them here when I get back. Use what means you must.”

  Without another word, Novak took his leave. Al-Khobar’s eyes flicked to his French colleague, now apparently as little valued as himself. Lambert sighed and took the opportunity to move to the suite’s comfortable seating to wait. Having no better plan of action, al-Khobar took his place at the opposite end of the same couch. The pair of guards, both men standing with their hands clasped in front of them, merely turned to observe, making no motion to follow.

  Guard dogs … Dobermans, the Saudi thought. We will be thrown to them once he returns. The thought did not sit well, given the effort he had expended in Geneva toward holding up his end of the arrangement with the Hungarian. He promised support, and he delivers betrayal. I should have expected as much. Consequently, al-Khobar considered the contract between them irretrievably broken. He has forfeited any consideration. The man is now a target, not a patron.

  “Monsieur,” al-Khobar said casually en francais, “have you ever observed these two to speak in French?”

  “Never,” the man admitted in the same language.

  The Saudi perceived the Frenchman was also watching their pair of guards for any reaction. They seem largely disinterested—due no doubt to thinking themselves more physically capable and far enough away. “I do not think they do,” al-Khobar agreed. “Rather than mastering languages, by their looks, they undoubtedly spend their off-hours in mutual oral satisfaction.”

  “Yes,” Lambert concurred, “or in an anally linked conga line.” No reaction came from either guard.

  “Possibly. They definitely look, however, to have had their balls on each other’s chin many times.”

  Lambert smiled. “No, they do not understand. You would be dead now, my friend, if they did.”

  Settling back, al-Khobar feigned a lag in the conversation. After a few minutes, he spoke again, making an effort to sound more bored than conspiratorial. “The rich man has already formulated his retribution in regard to us, of course.”

  “Of course,” Lambert agreed.

  “I think it better we not remain until he returns. He will, however find us wherever we go,” Yameen predicted.

  “Eh … there are still places we might go.”

  “On this planet? Where could he not reach?”

  The Frenchman seemed to relax just as al-Khobar had. “He takes his orders from above—though he thinks them his beneficiaries as well. Those powers retained me prior to his doing so. It can be a lucrative existence, believe me.”

  Higher in the chain of life? He can only mean a politician. The Saudi nodded. “One needs a state sponsor in times like these, it seems.”

  “Agreed,” Lambert glanced at his wristwatch. “Relax for three-quarters of an hour, then we will take them, each man to his own side. I will clear my throat.”

  “Understood. I look forward to it very much,” al-Khobar replied, smiling.

  “You two,” one the guards finally ordered in German. “That is enough talking.”

  Camille Lambert and Yameen al-Khobar simply responded with annoyed expressions and settled further into the comfortable cushions of the sofa. Al-Khobar tipped his head back and closed his eyes, waiting for the agreed-upon time.

  The former GIP agent passed the interval by counting the two thousand and seven hundred seconds in his colleague’s time frame, detecting subtle shifts in the Frenchman’s posture as the tally progressed. Presently, another check of the time came on the man’s watch, and al-Khobar readied himself. Cracking his eyelids just enough to ascertain the location of the man on his side of the room, he gauged the distance. I will have to move quickly, but it is certainly possible.

  Finally, Lambert stretched. Then he cleared his throat.

  Go. Al-Khobar sprang from his cross-legged slump, one step halving the distance between himself and his man before the German’s startle reaction even gave way to a tactical response. The larger man dropped back into a fighting stance, his dominant hand going to his hip under his suit jacket. As I thought, he is a fighter.

  With the Saudi’s second step, he thrust the leading edge on the heel of his dress shoe through the side of the man’s forward knee joint, the one bearing the majority of his weight. In slow motion al-Khobar seemed to feel the cartilage give first, and afterward the dislocation of the joint immediately preceding the stick-like fractures of bones in the targeted lower leg.

  Balance lost, the man dipped forward, right into the rising ridge-hand strike which arrived dead center on the cartilage of his larynx. Instead of moving forward, he toppled backward then, unable to breathe. Al-Khobar easily stripped the Walther pistol from the hapless man’s gun hand as he continued down to the floor.

  Glancing left, Yameen saw Lambert was only a moment behind him, levering his own opponent into a gun-hand wrist-and-arm lock before slamming the palm of his hand through the elbow joint. The blow elicited a scream of pain before the Frenchman disarmed his man as well, drawing the weapon back and preparing to club him to uncon
sciousness.

  The bitch. We must deal with her as well. Al-Khobar moved quickly toward the front of the suite, just as Ludwiga was removing the handset on her desk phone. He saw her panic at the sight of the Walther’s muzzle. “Stille,” he hissed, causing her to freeze, terrified. “Put the phone down. Come with me,” he advised in her native language.

  Having no choice, she complied, walking ahead of him as they returned to Novak’s sitting room and work area. She hesitated at the sight of the two guards on the floor.

  One is merely unconscious, perhaps. My man is dead. Dead seems better.

  The Saudi grabbed Ludwiga by the arm, jerking her toward him while raising her elbow. The muzzle of the P99 thrust into her armpit, and its shot was muffled by the cloth and flesh shrouding the muzzle. There was only a pop and a gasp, accompanied by the impact of the mushroomed and nearly spent bullet bouncing off the paneling of the wall beyond before she collapsed. Al-Khobar regarded the three Germans on the floor. He motioned to the man at Lambert’s feet. “You should kill that one as well.”

  Uttering a disgusted sound, the French operative dispatched his opponent in the same manner as Yameen had terminated Ludwiga, and with as little noise. Camille checked the front of the pistol’s slide for any blowback of gore, but the man’s clothing seemed to have prevented it. Straightening, Lambert tucked the weapon in his waistband at the small of his back. “We should leave now,” he suggested in French.

  “Lead the way, monsieur,” al-Khobar invited him, securing his own pistol. Free once more … though I predict we have not reached the end of the wet work ahead of us this day.

  N Street

  Northwest Washington, D.C.

  Twenty minutes later

  Valka Gerard’s cell chimed a few minutes before the alarm she had set, and with the same generic tone. The woman picked up the unit, expecting to thumb the button to calm her insistent device. Instead, to her confusion and surprise, a call was emanating from a most unexpected source. She answered groggily, “Monsieur, do you know what time it is here?”