by Dale Amidei
Al-Khobar glanced up once more, seeing Lambert’s obvious relief at not interrupting a critical operation. “So? What are your thoughts, my friend?”
“As to the car, it will be child’s play,” the Frenchman opined, shedding his coat. “The vehicle is nearby and sitting there unattended.”
“I will want an interior placement. There is enough material, but I do not want the blast deflected by the chassis,” the Saudi cautioned.
Lambert shrugged. “Very little extra trouble. The car, I fear, will prove to be the least of our concerns.”
Setting his tools down, al-Khobar relaxed for the first time in too long. “What makes you say this?” he asked, noting his companion’s expression.
Camille Lambert motioned to the window. “They are here as well: the Hildebrandt woman and Daniel Sean Ritter. They are apparently seeking an opportunity to interface with the Hungarian, just as we are.”
His own visage, al-Khobar thought, must have betrayed his disgust. “Perhaps we can finish more business today than we hoped.”
Nodding in agreement, the Frenchman replied, “We must book our flights before leaving, then. The timing will need to be tight.”
“The timing will be what it should be,” al-Khobar predicted. “Neither of us are amateurs at this.”
“This is good, mon ami, because it might be mere amateurs would not survive the sort of afternoon I anticipate.”
No reason existed for the Saudi to doubt Lambert’s foresight. It would be a dangerous time because they were dangerous men, ones set to an equally perilous assignment. Death is like that. It is unforgiving.
The Brits are doing it right. There are no opportunities here, Boone determined. Walking beside her on what she had decided to make the final round of the perimeter, Ritter was the epitome of patience. Even he, she thought, was stymied as to a survivable approach to the target. Knowing such, at least, subdued her frustration.
“I hate to say it,” the retired Lieutenant Colonel finally admitted, “but this might be the wrong venue for the type of show we want to put on.”
“Sean, I’m forced to agree,” she conceded. Glancing at the leaden sky, she gauged the remaining daylight hours. “Suggestions for our day?”
“We could play the same game as the Russians in New York,” he suggested. “Scope his hotel … and take him in place or on entrance or exit.”
“Hmm … not a bad second choice,” she concurred.
Suddenly footsteps, like those of a financier or banker late to an end-of-day meeting, sounded behind them. The pace gained on the pair, stifling for a moment their conversation. Instead of passing them by, though, a well-dressed and classically distinguished white-haired British gentleman of perhaps sixty-five years fell into step at Boone’s right hand, opposite Ritter.
“Doctor Hildebrandt. What a surprise to see you here in London,” the man, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his overcoat, greeted her.
Bloody hell. Chauncey Stewart. We’re made. Boone summoned her best smile. “Sir Chauncey! What a delight this is!” She halted their stroll and turned to face one of the most senior members of MI5. She indicated the man to her left. “I don’t know if you have ever met—”
“Daniel Sean Ritter, Leftenant Colonel, United States Air Force, retired?” Stewart eyed the big American carefully, not offering his hand. “Yes, I know the man, though we have never been formally introduced. A pleasure, Colonel.”
“Likewise, sir,” came Ritter’s guarded reply.
We spent too much time on the perimeter. Damned amateurish mistake. Boone assessed Stewart’s body language as tense and ready. He’s not offering his hand because something is already in it, and that’s not likely to be leftover fish and chips.
“What, if I may ask, brings one of Terrence Bradley’s people to London sans a courtesy call?” Stewart asked in a dangerously casual tone.
Boone observed people moving in around them: two plainclothes officers dressed every bit as well as their superior, and a yellow-jacketed matron from the Bobbies, possibly a conscript from a nearby corner. Here comes the shakedown. “Simple tourism,” Boone answered, projecting an air of relaxation. “I was just showing Sean the historic delights of the Square Mile.” Her arm intertwined the Lieutenant Colonel’s to the point of planting a solid breast-bump below his triceps. Sorry, Sean, I need to drill in for the sake of appearances, big guy. The subterfuge did not appear to be a sell. Perhaps because of the look on Sean’s face. At least now he knows they’re real.
“Forgive my skepticism, Doctor.” Stewart’s hand—his left one—emerged from his pocket, motioning toward the two of them. Boone’s peripheral vision registered Stewart’s three assistants closing in. “I find it difficult to believe you should be on holiday with any married man, let alone one with a history as black as Mister Ritter’s. Raise your hands in the air, please. We will try to make this as dignified as possible.”
Boone sighed and lifted her arms, as did Ritter, without complaint. His upper limbs were patted down thoroughly from both sides before the pair of Chauncey’s men moved to his trunk and legs, leaving no possible hiding place for a concealed weapon untouched. The silent Bobby did the same, working her alone but just as well, Boone felt. You should at least have bought me dinner first, Boone thought. This is worse than a frisking by the TSA.
Finally, all three stepped back. One of Stewart’s men spoke for all of them. “They are unarmed, sir.”
Boone adjusted her clothing discreetly to relieve folds which had tucked in where they did not belong. She smiled again at the MI5 stalwart. “Satisfied, Sir Chauncey? As I said, we are simply visiting.” Now, that is, since we are completely and utterly screwed for conducting operations against Novak in the U.K.
“It would be my advice, Doctor Hildebrandt. Do be sure to let me know if you will be planning another trip. Perhaps we could arrange a more formal visit.”
“That would be lovely,” Boone was able to say without a hint of sarcasm. Her eyes, focusing over Stewart’s shoulder, could see Novak exiting the conference center, consulting in a few last moments with others of a similar stature and strata in the world of finance. There he is. We’re not even going to get a chance to follow the man to his hotel.
Detecting her gaze, Stewart's eyes followed hers toward Benedek Jancsi Novak. Sir Chauncey then turned back to her with the light of suspicion rekindled in his own.
Oh, she reflected, what a three-ring goat molestation this trip is turning out to be.
Chapter 20 - Chewing Judas
The day, over in regard to his reportable activities at least, had been as frustrating in its entirety as it was at the beginning. Finally freed from his last-minute and extracurricular dealings, Benedek Jancsi Novak could now return to St. Ermin’s, where even less pleasant business awaited.
No one seems to be interested in taking my call this day, his mind observed, tired from nonstop thought. The run of his luck had begun in transit to his financial conferences, with a cryptic text message attempted to the Washington woman who set this mess in motion. Oddly, the communication was not returned, nor were two more during the course of the day. Likewise, two attempts at direct and indirect voice connections had failed, with Valka Gerard’s cell going unanswered and even her staff being less than helpful in forwarding him to the Senior Advisor’s location.
I have never had this much trouble reaching her. Something unusual is afoot. Now, even Ludwiga seemed to be taking a break from her desk at the front of his suite. I might as well not have a cellular, if no one out there remains interested in talking to me. In God’s name, for what reason am I paying all of these people?
His driver, at least, seemed to remain competent. Novak watched his car on approach to the front of the conference facility. It is well I called him. I am almost ready to forgo text messaging altogether. Damned useless technology. He tried once again to reach Valka Gerard’s personal cell, his phone held to his head as he approached the curb where the chauffeur would pull in.
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Novak heard nothing but the eventual rollover as the call again went unanswered. It is a slow news cycle. If anything on the international stage was the reason for Gerard’s lack of availability, he felt certain such would have come to his attention. His suspicions, always seeking a reason to reactivate, were now operating at fever pitch. Something of significance has changed in Washington.
His long, black, gold-accented Mercedes arrived, and his driver emerged to handle the passenger door while Novak stood fiddling with his less-useful-than-anticipated wireless phone. The rear compartment was opened for him, and the billionaire’s eyes darted around in one last assessment of his surroundings. As he eased into place, he noticed at the far end of the block the pair of men who seemed to be having difficulties of their own with a cell phone. His driver moved to close the car’s heavy, armored door as Novak's mind caught up with his eyes. The Frenchman and the Arab. At nearly the same instant, he perceived his familiar seat here in the rear of the Mercedes to be out of position. There is something under the cushion. Get out!
Novak’s foot caught and repelled the door as it came around to shut. Kicking it back toward the startled chauffeur, Novak surprised the driver with his ability to not only move low and fast, but also to drag the larger man with him.
They were tumbling to the concrete behind the rear tire when the explosion sounded inside the limousine, sending a blast of glass and debris over their heads and around them. Protected by the car's armored panels and the tire, the pair of men who an instant before would have taken the full impact of the blast instead were spared most of the force. Their ears, however, absorbed enough buffeting regardless to render them nearly senseless.
Am I dead? Novak thought, lying on his back on the sidewalk. Next to him, the driver groaned in agony, clutching the sides of his head. No, it cannot be. They have missed. They have failed. Another, darker thought followed immediately. And so has she … the Estonian whore to whom I foolishly lent the Frenchman.
The six of them had all startled at the thump of the explosion in Novak’s passenger compartment. It was the first in the line of cars waiting to transport their various VIPs to whatever evening destinations awaited them. The right rear of the passenger space literally disintegrated, she could see. Their next reflex had been to turn away from the shower of falling glass and debris peppering the area with stinging fragments. It left barely enough time for Boone and Ritter to react when Stewart’s bodyguards went down next as the angry, whirring noises of arriving bullets barely preceded the sound of gunfire from a distant pair of shooters.
Ritter shoved the MI5 senior agent down next to the sheet-metal body of another limo as Boone did the same to the terrified female officer next to her. The USIC agent, like Ritter, gravitated to the single most valuable resource available—the sidearms of Chauncey’s officers. All the while, more arriving lead either ricocheted off or lodged in the cars and objects around the pair of InterLynk assets.
Boone made it back to cover with a full-size Beretta 92 plucked from her man’s shoulder holster. Ritter, she saw, held a Glock of similar capability. The retired USAF officer, regarding her weapon, seemed disappointed.
“What?” she demanded.
“I hate Glocks,” he admitted, almost sheepishly. “Trade?”
“Oh, for God’s sake—here!” She tossed the Italian shooter at him, which he caught one-handed. His Austrian pistol flew back toward her, and a moment later she was armed with a weapon she could shoot every bit as well as her own. Men. “Go!” she snapped.
The two of them rose and fired in the same moment, only the tactical training of Lambert and al-Khobar allowing them to evade the repeated shots. The pair of rogue operatives, though able to return more fire of their own, nonetheless found their advance was halted and shortly afterward quickly reversed.
Boone ripped off another couple of controlled shots at her moving targets, frustrated to see the rounds fail to take effect as she had hoped. This is a seventy-five-meter gunfight. Tough country for handguns.
The Saudi and the Frenchman seemed to think as much, making it, she observed, to a vehicle parked at the far corner. There they go, Boone thought with regret. Wherever it is I might see you again, Camille … expect no mercy.
Everyone whom she could see on the street—including the unarmed Bobbies—was either behind cover or running like hell. French and Americans and Saudis causing trouble. If the world were only England, Boone’s mind snarked.
Though he held a Walther PPK in his hand, Stewart had seemed to abstain from firing, perhaps recognizing his weapon’s limitations, Boone guessed. She straightened, feigning an accusatory look at the distinguished intelligence professional. “Friends of yours, Sir Chauncey?”
“Hardly,” the Brit said with an appropriately stiff upper lip. “Nor Mister Novak’s, from appearances.” The older man turned toward the Americans. “You two shall put those weapons down immediately.”
Boone and Ritter complied, making it quite clear they wished to do so slowly and carefully. Stewart pocketed his own pistol, his eyes going to his wounded men.
“Let me help you with them, sir,” Ritter, the ex-Pararescue medic, suggested.
“Most kind, Colonel,” Stewart acknowledged, hearing as did they all the approach of sirens indicating medical attention as en route. The pair helped the downed men press wads of clothing against their injuries, making as much of a compress as the situation allowed.
She turned toward Novak’s shredded limousine, amazed to see the man rise up from behind the quarter panel to lean against the vehicle. His driver, apparently a bit worse for wear, remained on the concrete walkway.
Striding over with confidence, Boone snugged her thin, leather gloves back onto her hands, clapping them together once she drew near enough. He has to still be reeling from the blast. Lucky bastard. The Hungarian was alert enough, she realized, to notice her approach.
“How do you like life in Field Operations, Benedek?” she questioned, with a playful punch to his shoulder. “Laugh a fuckin’ minute, isn’t it?”
“Who … who in God’s name are you?” the confused financier managed.
“I’m not here on His behalf, buddy. Only General and President Peter McAllen’s.”
“InterLynk,” Novak perceived with a grimace. “Ah, it never rains but it pours.”
“Yes,” Boone agreed, “and sometimes it’s precipitating shit. That’s a usual day in the arena. Not as much fun as you envisioned, is it?”
Novak looked extremely tired and quite disgusted. “I have no idea what you are talking about, Miss—”
“Doctor Rebecca Boone Hildebrandt,” she introduced herself in full frost.
“Doctor … my apologies, as much as I am able.” Her target of such a short time ago looked in the direction to which his assailants' vehicle had retreated. “I owe you a debt, madam.” His weariness seemed to give way to his fury. “And unlike others in this world, I do not forget the graces of a benefactor.”
Damned near a confession. Confession and redemption perhaps? Boone sensed genuine regret in the man, a sentiment she found calming to the welling anger inside her. What will he tell me if I ask?
The financier did not wait for her prompting, straightening his suit jacket instead and drawing himself up with as much dignity as yet remained. “Have you in your education read Dante, Doctor?” he inquired.
“It has been some time,” she admitted, crossing her arms.
The billionaire’s eyes locked on her own. “Do you recall the sight those travelers finally encountered in the ninth circle of the Inferno?”
Her skin chilled in a way unrelated to the weather. “Betrayers,” she recalled.
“Correct,” Novak intoned, “specifically, Brutus, Cassius, and worst of all, Judas.” His eyes returned to the direction of his departed assailants. “Betrayers and assassins.”
“Such as your hires … Camille Lambert and the Saudi, Yameen al-Khobar?”
His eyes registered the caution of a
man who had not accumulated one of the world’s most significant portfolios by accident. He shook his head with a sad smile. “I do not know those names.”
It was a lie, of course. He knew it, and she did as well. Legalities are what they are. There will be no open-and-shut case made here, Boone noted.
Novak, however, was not finished. “I refer to a betrayal deeper than that of any hire: a betrayal by a beneficiary. Dante knew what awaited them. I should have remembered before today,” the man grumbled in a self-reproving tone.
“To whom do you refer, then, sir?” she asked.
“The faithless. The backstabbers,” he replied. “Individuals in your own government, madam, and in mine. Those in an administration whose place in the world I have dedicated time and treasure toward securing.” He motioned at his ruined luxury vehicle. “This is my reward.”
“The wages of sin are death, sir, and ever shall be,” she reminded him.
“Indeed,” Novak concurred. “And I, Doctor, besides my many contributions, have paid my share of wages as well.” The man looked almost humble. “I should add reward to my repertoire.” He surprised her with a smile. “I owe you my life. What can I do?”
“A mere pointing in an inerrant direction will do, sir,” she told him. “Give me a name and let me go about my work.”
“You know it already. Your largest problem at the moment, as she is for us all, is a power broker, mad with influence, drunk with malice … and unassailable by any conventional means.”
Good enough for me. Boone grimaced. “How did you come to know her?”
Smirking, Novak replied, “Originally? Through my Russian business contacts, if you can believe it. The woman has her own goals, though her interests are political rather than financial, and reside on more continents than the Americas.”
“This woman sounds like a survivor,” Boone observed, “with her alliances shifting as necessary.”