One Last Scent of Jasmine (Boone's File Book 3) (24 page)

Ritter looked back to his Assistant Director. “Doctor? Do you have any questions?”

Boone thought they looked surprised as she reached for and climbed up through the ropes. She dusted off her ungloved hands. “I’ve perhaps a few. Can you give us some room, Colonel Ritter?”

Looking possibly only a bit less perplexed than Lambert, Sean accommodated her request. He managed to unlace his gloves on the way to the bell.

She locked her eyes on the recruit and smiled. “Do please track the time, if you will.”

“Is everyone ready?” Sean asked. In response Lambert shrugged and then nodded.

The bell, now at Ritter’s side, rang once more. She was all over the recruit, moving lower and faster than Ritter could have accomplished. Her
Vo Binh Dinh
was a completely different kind of fighting than the less esoteric style of the larger men. Boone jabbed and moved, and her every strike targeted a nerve plexus or tendon with the expertise of one who held a doctorate in physiology. Each blow, though, landed with only enough force to make her point, not to immobilize or permanently disable as she might have done in the field.

Lambert adjusted quickly to his new opponent, learning to pivot as best he could to try and keep her in front of him. He paid her the compliment of a few attempted counterstrikes, delivered with enough force to have gotten her attention had they landed. She, however, was much more agile, twice as flexible and moving faster than a man his own size could.

Boone put a little more force into a strike to his thigh. As expected, it forced him to shift his weight in the direction she wished. Her arm then intertwined his in a locking motion, snaking up to grab his hair, and in a flash levered him off his balance, down, over and then onto his back. She followed as if magnetically attached. Her powerful legs immobilized his arms as her own upper limbs grabbed onto the material covering his shoulders and locked across themselves and his larynx. She stopped, squeezing but not crushing as she might have.

“
Time,
Mister Ritter!” Boone called, staring into her opponent’s lovely brown eyes.

“One minute fifteen,” was the answer.

Knowing it was over, Lambert looked bemused. She became aware of her own scent of jasmine, accentuated by her perspiration. The moment turned into one they both seemed to appreciate beyond the bounds of the setting.

Ritter cleared his throat. Boone gave Lambert a wink and dismounted. He followed her up, testing his not-quite-numbed left leg.

“My compliments,
mademoiselle,
” he allowed. “What is your style?”

“
Vo Binh Dinh,
” she replied in a satisfied tone.

“Ah, I should have guessed,” the Frenchman grumbled.

Having returned the gym’s gear to its bin and changed footwear once again, Ritter pulled his outer clothing back over his head. “Another run, Mister Lambert, a shower, and then the last part of your evaluation,” he said, so indicating another hard-won passing score.

Boone followed suit, finding the lingering sensation of Lambert’s hardened body between her legs to be invigorating.
If this is what Sean’s days are like, I do believe I will enjoy this job,
she decided.

Ninety minutes later, they were back at InterLynk and inside the basement shooting range, wearing both eye protection and electronic shooting muffs which allowed normal conversation on the firing line. Franz, the head of security, had equipped each of the six shooting stations with a different weapon, from a Glock pistol through the complement of shotguns and semiautomatic weapons on hand. All, as he demonstrated, were unloaded, each positioned with a single magazine or load of shells in the case of the shotguns. Downrange in each lane waited a silhouette target positioned at the farthest distance and in front of the backstop.

Ritter tested the snugness of his ear protection as Lambert stood waiting. The Lieutenant Colonel looked at the candidate and gave the man a grin. “The range is yours, sir.” Wearing a serious expression, Lambert nodded and moved to the first station, expertly loading and extending the Glock in a two-handed hold. Seventeen fast rounds later, the pistol locked back open and empty, and the Frenchman stepped over to the next booth and firearm. More empty brass tinkled onto the floor of the range, and more holes appeared just where they should in each lane’s target.

Lambert finished with Franz’s Benelli shotgun. Expertly he loaded and discharged the last and largest weapon just as he had all the others.

This is not a man who misses his mark
, Boone thought, clapping her hands as the recruit concluded his performance. The range's massive, capable air handlers swept the smoke and fumes away from them, clearing even the downrange area within seconds of cessation in the gunfire.

Boone watched Ritter as he moved from station to station, retrieving the targets via their overhead transport cables. Had the humanoid targets been initially viable, none would have survived. Ritter looked satisfied, she thought.

“Nice shooting, Mister Lambert.” The American took off his hearing protection as did they all. The Director of Field Operations motioned toward the exit door. “There is a restroom in main lobby, if you would wash your hands. Franz will take you to the waiting area. Doctor Hildebrandt and I will be along after a word.”

Looking satisfied, Lambert nodded. “
Monsieur
… and
mademoiselle,
” he said, moving toward the door.

Boone waited until the heavy panel closed behind the Frenchman. She looked at Ritter, who nodded his silent approval. “Ooh la
la,
” she uttered with a happy wiggle.

“Yeah … pretty much,” Ritter agreed. “I think we’ve found ourselves one.”

“So … now what?” Boone asked her Director.

Shrugging, Ritter moved toward the door. “I have hiring authority—actually, so do you. The starting salary and benefits package is on a schedule. Either it will do or it won’t, but either way the man already knows the numbers. It’s just a matter of whether he decides to try holding out for a better offer.” Ritter opened the door to the basement’s main corridor, and Boone walked through.

The overhead speakers came to life with a gentle though attention-getting tone from the intercom system, one integrated into the company’s VoIP telephones. “Director Ritter, to the executive floor for a consultation with the President, please … Director Ritter, to the executive floor.” The same tone followed as did Ritter’s slight expression of annoyance at the timing of the page.

“Hey, go,” Boone encouraged him. “I can handle this.”

Ritter nodded, pivoting toward the elevators. “Have him call me with any questions. Thanks, Boone.”

“My pleasure,” she replied.
And truer words might never have been spoken
. The Assistant Director of Field Operations turned to take the stairs up one level to the ground floor, where Lambert waited under the watchful eyes of Franz and his security crew.

She saw him there, conveniently parked in the comfortable chairs near the security station. Boone also observed the ground-floor conference area to be unoccupied.
Perfect.
“
Monsieur
Lambert,” she called, motioning toward the private space. “A bit more of your time, please?”

“Certainly,
Docteur
.”

The door closed behind them a moment later. Boone switched to French, purely for the pleasure of using the language. “Have a seat, Camille.”

They both chose chairs at the nearest corner of the table. Boone settled back, crossing her legs.

“
Monsieur
Ritter, as you’ve heard, was called upstairs. He asked me to take the pleasurable task of extending you an offer for the position of Field Operations Officer.”

Lambert nodded graciously. “And it is an honor I will be happy to accept,
mademoiselle.
When shall we start?”

“Whenever you are ready. Your paperwork is in order.”

Nodding once more, Lambert looked pleased. “In the morning, then. I am established in Geneva already.” He looked at her with similarly intoxicating brown eyes remembered from elsewhere. “Besides, I am not a patient man.”

“Very well, Officer-to-be Lambert. I will inform Colonel Ritter. Welcome aboard. Is there anything we can do for you in the interim?”

Lambert smiled. “Join me for dinner, miss … as a celebration. I would otherwise dine alone, and the occasion calls for company.”

Ooh boy.
Boone hesitated.
I wonder what the InterLynk personnel manual has to say about a situation such as this one.

Lambert seemed to sense her oscillation. “Ah, please forgive me if the request seems excessively forward.”

“Excessively
French,
Camille, if there can be such a thing,” she replied.
Oh, what the hell.
“Only on the condition I pick up the check,
Monsieur
Lambert, as your welcome to the firm.” She stood, extending a hand which, after rising, Lambert took with the same considerate grace as before.

“Excellent,
Docteur
.” The man to Boone seemed genuinely pleased. “Shall we say nineteen-hundred hours? I am at the Movenpick, and the chef in the Latitude seems to be a culinary maestro.”

Where else? To be haunted by memories of Thibaut the entire time. Ah, Boone, you did this to yourself just now
. “Lovely choice,” she recovered, opening the door to the conference room once again. “I will meet you there.”

“
Tres bien.
Until then …
adieu, mademoiselle.
” He moved past her easily, close enough for Boone to catch a bare hint of his cologne.

Down, girl.
She watched him pass just as comfortably through the security station, nodding to Franz.
The man is a natural with people. It could make him quite dangerous if he so chose
. The thought seemed to linger long enough for Boone to take it as a warning.
It’s a business dinner, Boone honey. You should go armed.

Chapter 15 - Best Efforts

St. Ermin’s Hotel

London, England

Yameen Amjad al-Khobar had been under armed guard through the preceding two days, just as he was now. He and the four men holding him had made their way out of Switzerland and across France via a number of conveyances:  SUV, truck and finally a heavy Mercedes sedan. It was the vehicle which brought him through the Channel Tunnel and under the sea to Kent, ferried on the massive Eurotunnel Le Shuttle. No fewer than two men had attended him the entire time whether he was using the toilet or even sleeping, he was sure.
I have merely been transferred from one cage to another, it seems.

Less than an hour and thirty minutes from the time the railway shuttle had allowed their sedan to disembark—and it afterward emerged from the traffic leaving Kent—they arrived in front of St. Ermin’s in central London. Yameen al-Khobar’s hands were manacled in front and draped over with his topcoat. In a U.K. December, however, he would have preferred to wear the garment
over
the European-cut ensemble he had been provided before the first border crossing.
They managed to approximate my measurements and style at least. How is it these men know so well my needs?

Fortunately, he did not spend any more time outdoors than was necessary to walk from the car into the St. Ermin’s late-Victorian lobby.
With one of them on either side of me, and a third trailing at a tactical distance, they are inescapable.
Al-Khobar admired at least the professionalism of the men who had managed his extraction from Champ-Dollon, and who now seemed to be delivering him to his intended destination.

They entered a suite on the uppermost floor. Once inside, an austere, almost archetypical Teutonic receptionist rose to greet them.

“
Herr
al-Khobar, for
Herr
Novak. He is expected,” one of his guards announced. The conversation took place in German, understood by the Saudi as well as any of his other languages.

“One moment, if you will,” she answered, regarding him rather than his guards.

They must know I understand. They seem to know everything else about me.

“
Danke, Fraulein,
” al-Khobar replied as easily as if the appointment had been his idea.

The woman, her remarkably tight knot of blonde hair gathered behind her head, disappeared into the interior of the suite. Al-Khobar had barely enough time to admire the restored plasterwork of the room before she returned.

“
Herr
Novak will see you at once,” she told Yameen, motioning to the other men who also stood waiting. “Gentlemen, take his coat and free his hands
immediately
.
Herr
al-Khobar is a
guest.
”

Nodding to her in thanks, al-Khobar turned to one of his captors to be unshackled. The man, to his credit, did so without projecting any attitude, merely taking away the overcoat and letting the cover hang over his arm while he dealt with the plunger and lock which released the Saudi from his confining steel bracelets.

So unencumbered, Yameen gave his wrists a brief, perfunctory massage, stepping forward at the German woman’s implied invitation. They proceeded to the inner office, where a gray-haired, heavyset man rose to greet them. He smiled though it seemed to al-Khobar to be for appearances only.

“Thank you,” the man turned to his receptionist. “That will be all, Ludwiga. Please have the attendants standing by until my guest and I have concluded our discussion,” the English-speaking financier—whom al-Khobar would have recognized in any setting—ordered.

As Novak’s front-office matron nodded and departed, the financier turned his attention to his guest. “It is late enough in the day, my friend. Can I offer you anything in the way of refreshment?”

“You may offer information only, if you please. I am otherwise fine, thank you.”