One Last Scent of Jasmine (Boone's File Book 3) (32 page)

Eliminate the middleman. Do away with the point of failure.
You must obviously manage these initiatives yourself.
The tautness of her lips made her words seem pinched. “My original goals remain. If the financier wishes to exit the scenario, then make sure the man poses no danger to us. We will find other means which will enable you to continue with less supervisory interference.”

“We will need to leave as quickly as possible once it is finished,” the French operative informed her, “and we both require a place to land.”

“Understood. You should return here. Your expenses will be paid as before,” she directed him.
And I can keep eyes on you both in the interim.

“We will be there tomorrow, then,” the voice on the phone assured her.

If so, this will be a bad day for Benedek in London. I must monitor ForwardNews.
“Very well,
monsieur,
” she acknowledged. “Message me on departure, and then wait until I contact you again.”

“My pleasure,
mademoiselle
.”

Gerard cut the connection and checked her battery level.
It is too early, and it has been another bloody day already.
Such, however, is the price of power.

A quiet knock came at her bedroom door along with the voice of the senior Secret Service man, one agent from today's rotating team of five assigned to her by the President. “Ma’am? Is everything all right?”

“Fine,” she called, adding in a softer voice, “only a bit of early morning business.”

“Accelerated schedule, ma’am?”

Not likely, considering the way my head feels now
. She threw off the covers. “Nothing of the sort will be necessary. My normal schedule, please.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

On the contrary, Valka. Nothing has been normal since the election returns came in,
she realized.
But then again, this is the second term
. Her feet found the comfortable slippers waiting at her bedside. She stood, stretching, and felt her determination renew.
I should get used to the pace. More changes are coming.

Chapter 19 - London Fog

The Square Mile

London, England

Clad for December in Geneva, Boone was having no problems in London. The day promised to top out at ten degrees Celsius, but its high temperature was still hours in the future. The cab from Heathrow had brought her, accompanied by Lieutenant Colonel Ritter, here to central London’s financial district on the north bank of the misty Thames. They walked now, observing the many impediments to their visit’s ideal outcome.

She knew it would be a tough assignment to take out any target here, much less a mark as significant as Benedek Jancsi Novak. CCTV cameras, of course, were everywhere as was the case throughout London. A two-block buffer zone surrounding the series of buildings hosting the Econ Conference boasted yellow-jacketed “Bobbies” on every street corner. The vast majority of them, as the USIC’s once-again SCO was aware, worked unarmed save for an expandable baton and cylinder of pepper spray.
But then again, it’s London, not D.C.

Inside the perimeter of the site, elite security teams would be better armed and equipped. Even on the periphery, London Metro’s Armed Response Teams of two to three officers were undoubtedly positioned nearby in case of trouble.
Luckily, the Conference has not yet opened in full session, and the protesters are still home preparing their signs and effigies for next week’s main event.

She and Ritter, their roles reversed yet again, were even less tactically prepared for field operations than the picturesque Bobbies. Boone’s Level Zero status would allow them to gear up with discreet, untraceable weapons at the American Embassy should she make the call.
But we are hardly there yet,
she knew.
First, we need to assess the Conference security and determine the practicality of launching an operation here at all. If so, only then do we need a plan.

The big American walking with her seemed to be concentrating as heavily as she on situational assessment. “London is an interesting environment,” he said in an operator’s cryptic manner and without breaking their casual, touristy stride.

“Quite. I was just thinking the very same thing,” Boone admitted.
Exceptional people need exceptional challenges.
Her evaluation so far indicated their mission in London seemed to pose just such a hurdle.

Soho

London, England

“
Bonjour, je m’appelle
Pierre,” Camille Lambert said to the dark-haired man at the building's entrance. Only a viewing portal in the heavy, metal door had opened at his knock. Standing beside Lambert, al-Khobar hazarded to guess
everyone
who knocked at this particular door was named Pierre, at least for the amount of time necessary to gain entry. The doorkeeper looked both of his newly arrived visitors up and down, then could be heard dealing with the lock and bar securing the armored panel.

“
Salut! Comment allez vous?
” the sentry, his gray-streaked hair tied back into a long ponytail, said while swinging open the slab of steel.

Al-Khobar could see, with now more than the man's eyes and hair visible, he had obviously needed to bend down to use the door's view slot. Easily two meters tall and a hundred kilos in weight, the guardian in the leather vest was also covered with tattooing. Only his face and his fingertips were unadorned by an artist’s needle.

“Good, we are good,” Lambert assured his contact in French as he resecured the door. “I have brought some business to your organization.” The Frenchman motioned to al-Khobar, who nodded.

Far better to let the giant think I do not understand,
the Saudi decided.

Twenty feet away, another equally inked and intimidating colleague of the doorkeeper leaned in the shadows against the wall, cradling an old MAT-49 submachine gun. “What does he need?” the gang member asked. “We have powder and rock, or China White … it is straight from Amsterdam, if the man needs a kick.”

“Something harder,” Lambert insisted. “This man does not use drugs.”

At that, the inked beast of a Frenchman regarded them even more cautiously. “Those wares do not usually go to strangers,
mon ami.
”

“You are not selling to a
stranger,
you ape. This is me. He is only paying.”

The man, apparently having dealt with Lambert previously, looked toward al-Khobar with a disgusted expression. “He is not a damned terrorist, I hope. Even men such as we have our standards.”

“I would expect nothing less from an old Legionnaire,” Lambert assured him, “and our interests are purely secular, I swear to you.”

“What do you need then? Everything is available for the right price.”

Lambert smiled. “SEMTEX, ideally. Anything plastic will do. With an electric cap.” When the big man muttered an indecipherable oath, Lambert frowned. “Can you handle it? Or should I take my client’s money and go elsewhere?”

“I have one-half block of the Brit’s PE Four. Do you have any idea how hard the stuff is to come by here?”

“I come by it through knocking on your door, pig, as always, and you overcharge me for my effort. Do you want to compare your troubles with mine today?”

“All right, all right,” the big man conceded. He looked them over once more. “You need weapons, knives?”

Shaking his head, Lambert waved him off. “Just the plastique and the routing number for your people, and we will be on our way.”

The man shrugged, moving to a nearby counter to scrawl a series of numbers and a figure on a piece of notepaper. He then held it up as al-Khobar dug out his smartphone.

No longer could the Saudi maintain his composure. “
This?
For half a damned block of plastic?”

The comment seemed to amuse the big man more than offend him. “Supply and demand,
mon ami.
Feel free to find the next nearest supply. You do not seem dressed for a swim across the Channel.”

Disgusted, al-Khobar paid the man via a wire transfer, the transaction taking only a few minutes to complete and two more for the big one to confirm via his own phone. Satisfied, Lambert’s supplier disappeared into a back room, returning with the partial unit of pale putty and a blasting cap, protected in a sealed, antistatic plastic tube.

“Here you go, my man. Your New Year’s fireworks are going to suck your neighbors' balls into their
throats,
” the large one joked.

“A bag, a sack, anything,” Lambert demanded with a scowl. So prodded, the proprietor managed to find some newspaper to wrap the package, along with a plastic bag in which to carry it. He handed the lethal parcel to Lambert, who seemed finally to be satisfied.

“Then it is
au revoir
for now,” the big man said, taking a step toward the door as his sentry again undid the precautions.

“Always welcome,
monsieur,
” the long-haired one added with a gap-toothed grin. “You two will be sure to stay out of trouble, I hope.”

Lambert and al-Khobar were outside a moment later, with the fortified entrance door rattling closed behind them. “Greedy
pigs,
” the Saudi spat.

“Yes,” Lambert admitted in apology. “But then it is not a time to shop for bargains,
n’est ce pas
?”

Al-Khobar conceded the point, and the pair fell into a casual stroll.
Now with the least likely component secured, I need to find an electronics shop.
The remainder, the former GIP agent knew, would not be as difficult, nor nearly as expensive as the transaction which had just occurred.
Inked swine. Their next tattoos should come with hepatitis.

The best hotels adjacent to the center hosting the Econ Conference were fully booked already, filled with staff and officials anticipating difficulty in navigating the rowdy crowds of counterculture protesters sure to swarm the event. Lambert and al-Khobar, however, required nothing more than a workspace, and for the mere span of a few hours. The two-star, economy lodging they found only two blocks off-site seemed to fit the bill well enough.

There was no table or counter in the room, the Saudi operative saw, but a worn ottoman in front of a sitting chair promised to serve as an improvised bench sufficient to his tasks. Lambert closed and secured the door behind them while his companion carried the bags comprising their only luggage to the sitting area. Al-Khobar shed his coat, throwing the garment onto the unappealing queen bed.

Lambert checked the window, as had the Saudi. The Frenchman grunted in apparent approval of the vista; the mist was lifting as predicted. Down their London street, the front of the conference facility was within view, complete with a designated loading area for the many limousines which would ferry participants to and from the event.

Yes … it is a loading area … or a target zone, depending on one’s perspective,
al-Khobar thought. Spreading his tools and supplies in front of him, he prepared to go to work. An inexpensive, prepaid and activated cell phone was included, with the wiring and implements necessary to transform the collection of components on hand into a small but extremely lethal device allowing remote detonation.
It will be enough to take out one vehicle, with us close enough to watch. I wish I could see his face when it happens.
Al-Khobar glanced up at Camille Lambert. “I am ready to begin. If we can access his car, it will be ideal.”

“I know the man’s limousine well enough,” the former DCRI agent posited. “Unless he has armed guards surrounding it at all times—which I doubt—it should be a matter of scanning the parking garages nearby.” The Frenchman’s visage showed a trace of a sneer. “It cannot be that far.
Monsieur
Novak’s limited reserve of patience would not brook waiting for his transport.”

“Yes,” al-Khobar agreed in a menacing tone, “though I myself am not inclined to wait at times like this.”

“Nor am I,” Lambert agreed, looking over al-Khobar’s materials with approval. He moved toward the door. “I will go for a look, then, to see what the possibilities are. Do you have a time frame?”

“Well in advance of the close of business. I cannot help but think it will be our best opportunity.”

“Very well then. I shall return.”

Nodding, al-Khobar picked up a small screwdriver and the cell phone to begin as Lambert exited. The Saudi carefully separated the case of the wireless device so as not to disturb the electronics inside.
It will have to be perfect. We will not have another chance at him.

Lambert found he was well able to recall the basic layout of the area from security operations he carried out in his previous professional capacity. A quick check with his smartphone produced a list of the parking facilities within a comfortable walk. Then he reviewed a stored memo noting the license tag to the limousine the Hungarian had more than once used to retrieve him from Heathrow. Satisfied, he began his walk in the wet chill of London’s December air.

His task required patience. The garages were full of black limos, the make and variety of which were limited though the subtle gold-plated appointments of Novak’s ride made the job somewhat easier. Three facilities denied him any results, and nearly the fourth until he saw a promising candidate at the far end of the executive level. He double-checked the reference on his phone as he passed by, noting the absence of any attendant or chauffeur.
This is perfect. They are trusting the car’s alarm system. It can be dealt with.

Checking his phone again, Lambert noted the time. It was now past the lunch hour, and the vehicle could be expected to remain here until he and the Saudi would return. The Frenchman left the parked limousine and walked toward the nearby stairs to the street, feeling quite pleased.
It will be better to watch an operation succeed, for a change.