One Last Scent of Jasmine (Boone's File Book 3) (40 page)

This is the work of the redheaded bitch. She has done this to me again.
“You should at least make your introductions, comrades. You behave as if you are uncultured,” al-Khobar chided his captors.

“Comrades?” the voice of the driver responded. “You might once have considered us colleagues at best.”

The Town Car turned, and Yameen felt the sedan's acceleration.
We are returning to the freeway. He must be taking the vehicle back toward Dulles.

“At least,” the driver continued, “before you descended from being a professional to being a mercenary, and from there to the status of a common criminal.” The man paused then responded to some unheard radio transmission, “Understood. Continue to watch the perimeter. Mind your driving.” After addressing his distraction, the driver returned to the conversation with his prisoner. “Your language skills, my friend, are as excellent as reported. This is good. You will need them where you are going. For now, however, you will shut your mouth unless we address you, or there will be
extremely
adverse consequences.”

The exchange over, al-Khobar was forced to play the part of the cargo he had become. He willed himself into stillness, in his mind as much as possible, and in his body absolutely. For whatever opportunity would present itself, he could only wait.

Cruising Altitude

The Atlantic Coast of Nova Scotia

One hour later

According to Lambert, the Learjet was operating near its 51,000-foot service ceiling due to the low-level inclemency currently over the North Atlantic. Her ride was less smooth than Valka Gerard would have liked though it was certainly less turbulent than the promise of the political and legal climate she had successfully left behind in Washington. They had seven to eight hours to Heathrow and another three to five to their final berth under the protection of long-held comrades.
For myself at least. Poor Camille is on the last of his foreign adventures, I am afraid.

Her cell, plugged into the power converter in the arm of her comfortable seat, surprised her by buzzing again. Looking closely at the device, she saw it to be a repeat number.
It is her.
Why is she calling? Are they tracking me already?
Gerard decided it no longer mattered.
This must be the last of the cell towers before we stray too far from Canada. We will be in international airspace and unhindered soon.
She thumbed the screen to answer the video call. As before, it was
her
… Bradley’s wretched little redhead.

“Valka. I’m so glad to have caught you before you were out of range.”

How ironic.
Gerard smiled. “You made a heroic attempt, in any event, dear. I do regret the necessarily abrupt nature of our departure.”

“It speaks well of your mind-set, Madam Gerard. A survivor always thinks ahead.” Boone paused. “Case in point,
dear.
My intuition tells me you chose a right-hand seat, as it is your dominant side, and in the front row so as to be closest to your pilot.”

“Very good,” Gerard confirmed. “Am I to be impressed?”

“Not just yet. Check the map pocket of your seat, please.”

Curious, Gerard’s hand dipped inside, finding the sole contents to be a small, white envelope of embossed linen bearing a coat of arms.
Novak’s stationery.

“Open it,” her red-haired nemesis encouraged.

The envelope was not sealed. Gerard flipped the covering flap open and extracted the card inside. It had indeed been Novak’s heraldry on the envelope, and the lettering on the unsigned insert was engraved:

“Dearest Valka-

We could not let you depart without taking the chance to say good-bye. Do enjoy the remainder of your trip. -BJN”

A scent drifted up from the fine paper, a fragrance Gerard realized she had encountered not terribly long ago ... in the White House State Dining Room.
Essence of jasmine.

Watching via the video connection, the redhead waited until Gerard’s eyes returned to the front-facing lens of her device’s two cameras. “I as well wish you the trip you deserve, Valka Gerard,” the USIC operative intoned with a disturbing air of satisfaction. “Remember the keystone of a successful getaway is to embrace the unexpected.”

The Senior Advisor to the President of the United States observed the little woman’s hand reaching forward toward her own computer screen to end the call, after which the Senior Advisor’s cell displayed the connection’s duration.
Just what did she—

“
Mademoiselle!
You will want to engage your seat belt!” Lambert's urgent voice called through the divider between cabin and cockpit.

“What is happening?” Gerard demanded, clawing to secure her restraints.

“I am not sure. There is a power problem here.” As she looked on, Lambert's right hand frantically flipped switches within his reach. His voice took on a more frantic tone. “I have no controls! I have no radio!”

Gerard’s heart sank into an abyss of desperation, elevated only slightly by the rage which followed.
She knew. How did she know?

Outside, the smaller of the two cylinders affixed to the same GPS transponder finished its burn. The jet of magnesium cut the aluminum skin of the aircraft body and destroyed the electrical coupling located just behind. The loss of power triggered the second tandem device, one being the largest of the three foreign bodies secured to the exterior of the jet.

The same type of intensely hot chemical reaction was initiated through an electrical igniter. After a delay of only half of a second, a small but equally intense, shaped charge propelled the now burning mass into the interior of the airframe. The protective bladder of the main fuel tank did not long withstand the assault. Less than a heartbeat thereafter more than five thousand pounds of aviation-grade kerosene consumed itself. The resulting ball of fire would have been seen from the coastline, had the cloud cover not been as low and thick as it often was on a cold December day. The remains of what, moments before, had been a sleek corporate aircraft tumbled now as a burning mass of debris. The shards of the Learjet 45 shared a common trajectory, arcing toward a watery grave waiting more than nine miles below.

Liberty Crossing

McLean, Virginia

Friday morning

As Bradley turned off the Eagle Network commentary following the network’s live Web feed, Boone's impression was of a White House Press Corps seemingly unsatisfied. The official narrative regarding the international flight by the President’s Senior Advisor had aroused the suspicions of even his most willing allies in the pool of journalists. The notion of Valka Gerard having been dispatched to London on a previously unannounced trip to the concluding meetings of the year’s Econ Conference—rather than officials from the Department of the Treasury—was a hard sell.

The circumstances surrounding the disappearance of the most powerful woman in Washington, while travelling sans her usual protective detail, were too intriguing for even the most partisan hack to ignore. Already, the news had sparked a brush fire of conspiracy doggedly following a number of diverging tangents across the fuel-rich forest of the Internet.

“So closes the case which never was,” Boone commented.

Bradley leaned back in his manager’s chair. “We should have a definitive confirmation once the flight data recorder can be recovered.”

“Terrence … it
won’t
be.”

Clearing his throat, Bradley appeared to her as if he had choked back a question.
Ask, Terry, and I’ll answer.

His expression grave, he moved his hand to his mouse. After a sweep and a single click, he was able to return his grip to the edge of his desk, against which he leaned with a sudden and weary look on his face. “We can anticipate working through the weekend, since the President has declared a heightened state of alert,” he informed her. His eyes went to his wall of glass, where outside the Flag already flew at half-staff as ordered by the Chief Executive. Her gaze followed, watching the Stars and Stripes billow in the stiff winter breeze with the standard of the United States Intelligence Community just below. “Fortunately,” he continued, “we have no action items above Level One.”

Poof. Gone,
Boone thought.
But for the ballast of my soul.

His eyes returned to his many memos. “The site of the crash is largely speculative, and the weather conditions out there, according to the Coast Guard, are abysmal. The Coasties, the Royal Canadian Navy, and our own sailors are all equally pessimistic of finding
anything
… much less
anyone
,” the DNI concluded. “We’re to be left in the dark, apparently, as to what actually happened.”

“Nonsense, Terrence. You’re one of the lucky ones. You get to live in the sunshine.” Boone sighed. “I’ve seldom had the pleasure since I left my parents’ home.” She could see his face radiate as much sympathy as his professionalism allowed in his official capacity. Boone raised herself out of his visitor’s chair. “Though if you ever need a
sifu
in ‘black think,’ Mister Bradley,
sir
… I’ll be happy to give you a lesson.”

“I’ll leave the shadows to you, Boone. It’s a natural talent, I suspect.”

She smiled and turned to leave, pausing at his secured office door before swiveling back. “
Adaptability,
Terry … it’s the first lesson taught to a field operative. One never knows, after all, when the lights will go out.”

He seemed to understand.
Valka Gerard certainly does.

Pinar del Rio, Cuba

My treatment has been dehumanizing,
al-Khobar thought. After his capture he had been loaded, rather than boarded, onto an aircraft which, from the sounds and smells he detected, was transporting goods rather than passengers. Remaining handcuffed and encouraged to refrain from speaking until spoken to, he learned along the way these Russians were not in the habit of talking to cargo. Two—possibly three—men were always nearby, and he did not hear a word in anything other than
Russki
. The smell of food, and of vodka, reached him where he sat though his captors had not offered to share their provisions. It would have been difficult, in any case, through the hood of black silk continuing to obscure his vision.

Finally, his ears told him of the aircraft’s descent. The landing, followed by an intense engine brake on a less-than-perfectly-maintained runway, spoke of an out-of-the-way destination. Before long, the plane stopped moving. Al-Khobar heard the sound of hydraulics to the rear.
This is a transport.

Rough hands grabbed him again. “On your feet, pig! We do not intend to carry you down this ramp!”

He was jerked upright, and his captors at last removed the black hood. His eyes blinked at the sudden reintroduction to sunshine outside of the Ilyushin’s cargo deck. Palm trees stood beyond the tarmac, and the temperature and humidity spoke of an entirely different climate than the one he had left sometime late last night.

A pair of burly Russians in civilian clothing marched down the ramp with him, both maintaining a hold on their prisoner. The weathered signage on the control tower—
this is
the
San Julian Air Base
—confirmed his suspicions.
They have taken me to Cuba.
Worse, he knew, it was the side of the island farthest from America’s Guantanamo Bay and also the location of Raul Castro’s western military headquarters.

Armed soldiers and their officers waited outside the operational area of the loading ramp. Al-Khobar was compelled in their direction and left to stand on his own as one of the Russians addressed a Cuban officer in Spanish. “We have a package … for the Colonel of your Advisory Group, per our orders,
Commandante
.”

“I receive the prisoner,” the Cuban answered. His pitiless gaze came to rest on al-Khobar. “Into the truck with you.”

The Saudi was seized and seated next to the driver while the officer and two of his soldiers climbed into the back of their commander’s Soviet-era command vehicle. The trip across the base was a short one though it took them to almost the edge of the jungle at the northeastern perimeter. With an order from the officer, al-Khobar was again hauled to his feet and marched, this time into a modest shed. Its rustic, wooden flooring supported only a table and two chairs.

“
Sit,
” he was told. Al-Khobar sat. The officer departed … but the soldiers, armed with AK-47s, took their stations outside of the structure’s single door. There were no windows. He had not been
ordered
to wait. That—and longing for an opportunity to use a restroom—came naturally.

It was not long before another vehicle arrived outside, and more voices speaking in Spanish relieved the Cubans guarding him. To his alarm, al-Khobar saw larger, more physically fit and smartly outfitted Russians, dressed in camouflaged uniforms, take the place of the locals. Another of the same kind, tall and blond, entered the shed and removed his maroon beret. He set his briefcase on the crude table before tucking his headgear into the epaulet flap of his uniform blouse.

“Good day, Comrade al-Khobar. Welcome to Cuba,” the man said in his native language, taking the chair across the table from Yameen.

“Forgive me for not offering my hand,” the manacled Saudi apologized.

The prisoner's regrets were waved off. “I understand completely. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Colonel Kirill Sidorov, commanding the detachment of advisors to our friends in Havana and here in this province.”

“Charmed,” al-Khobar replied. “I assume I will be returning to Russia for trial, then, since extradition will no longer be an issue.”

The officer seemed jovial. “Legalities, my friend, will not be necessary.” He opened his briefcase, the contents of which were hidden from the Saudi's view by its lid. “
Sidorov
—do you know the name?”