One Last Scent of Jasmine (Boone's File Book 3) (25 page)

“Ah, yes. I imagine your mind has been filling with questions for … oh, it has been three
days,
now.” Novak moved to a table where a bottle of wine sat open and breathing next to two goblets. He poured himself a proper glass. “Please, sit,” the billionaire encouraged his guest.

Al-Khobar accommodated his host, walking the short distance to the room’s period sofa. Novak joined him a moment later, settling on the overstuffed chair nearby.

“Your time in Champ-Dollon was not too trying, I hope?” Novak asked, sipping his vintage. “Mmm—very good,” he remarked before returning to business. “My reports have you handling yourself remarkably well in such a challenging and hostile environment.”

“As I have in others,” al-Khobar said, consciously walking the border between confidence and arrogance.

“Indeed,” Novak agreed, absentmindedly swirling his wine. “Your capabilities and your experience are wasted in the confines of a prison. It is why you have come to be here.”

“You, sir, go to much trouble to make a man an offer,” the Saudi observed.

Novak smiled, raising his wine glass again. “It is, unfortunately, more in the way of information than an offer. We have indeed gone to a great deal of trouble, sir. As Herculean an effort has been made in anticipation of your recalcitrance as was expended in your acquisition.”

Al-Khobar felt an eyebrow rise. “Is that so?”

The financier regarded his wine. “Absolutely, sir. Should you bear out our suspicions and elude your escort, intending to slip away and continue your nefarious lifestyle, rest assured we
will
track you. Unless you intend to do without your deposits in Bern, or those here in London, or the accounts you have opened in Canada under your many identities, or the bearer bonds you have secreted in Lichtenstein. My people will access you again, and with assuredly less trouble than they did in Thonex. They will afterward return your body to the Swiss, along with the evidence documenting your engineering the escape through the murder of a body double.”

Al-Khobar suddenly found he did not like this man. The Saudi recognized, however, his circumstances were carefully arranged to give him little choice in cooperating. “Then I assume,” he allowed, “I shall be put to a worthwhile purpose, at least.”

Novak smiled. “
You,
Mister al-Khobar, will be encouraged to pick up precisely where you left off in Geneva.”

The Hungarian-American, al-Khobar noticed, reacted to his own expression of incredulity. The man, however, was poised to continue.

“Not in regard to the Chinese evangelist—we have no concern with him,” Novak stated. “Your true passion in Switzerland, if I am not wrong, was prosecuting direct action against a private intelligence firm …
InterLynk.
”

McAllen? Of course. Who other than I have come so close to taking the man down?
Al-Khobar felt the muscles of his jaw tighten. “Your sources of information seem to consistently serve you well, sir.”

“I get what I pay for, Yameen,” the financier admitted. He looked from his wine into the eyes of his guest. “You will be supported and compensated—should you succeed—extremely well. In addition, you will regain your freedom to disappear into the world as you wish with your finances intact. Betrayal or absence, on the other hand, will lead to appropriately severe and timely retaliation.” The financier’s attention returned to his glass of cabernet. “It is not too much a favor to ask, considering what we have done for you already, is it not?”

“Considering, sir, that I might very well have directed my attention toward McAllen in any case, you indeed have a point,” al-Khobar clipped.

The financier raised a finger. “Ah, not toward
McAllen
… I referenced
InterLynk.
The old man himself is still of use. The people for whom I make my efforts want to
control
him, not
destroy
him.” Novak seemed to hesitate though only for a moment. “McAllen’s
people
… his executive team, however …
they
are nonessential.”

“In either case, controlled or destroyed, the effect on the General will be the same, and entirely acceptable from my perspective,” al-Khobar opined. “I can do this … with the level of support you seem to promise.”

Novak rose. “This is good, Yameen. I am truly glad you have seen things my way.” He motioned to the front of the suite. “Those men who escorted you here are now at your disposal as your staff, along with other assets whom you shall meet later. I look forward to learning of the uses to which you put them. Please let your people know whatever it is you might require of us.”

“My personal needs will be minimal,” al-Khobar assured his patron. “Other than my success, and my freedom, which seem to be intertwined.” His eyes gazed off into the distance. “
Material
needs we can discuss once I have a plan of action.”

“In any event, merely ask,” the Hungarian reiterated. He paused at the doorway leading back to Ludwiga’s realm at the front of the suite, turning to his guest. “Should we never meet again, Yameen, it has been a pleasure.”

The Saudi merely nodded rather than attempting to formulate an insincere response. He reached out to the man who still held his coat, donning the garment for the first time. “Good day, Mister Novak,” he intoned.

“Good
luck,
Mister al-Khobar,” was the response.

I shall need all this and more
, the once-again covert operator thought.
The rest, you old bastard, you will at least be well able to afford.

Movenpick Hotel and Casino

Geneva, Switzerland

She was on time, having had plenty of it to change and refresh herself in the interval between the close of business and the dinner date with Lambert. Her attire remained businesslike if more refined than those items she wore to her father’s offices. The jacket of her pants suit accommodated Little Swiss, hiding the outlines of the little pistol’s shoulder rig. Her Chanel blouse was perhaps a bit more low-cut, and her attention to makeup, jewelry and hair was more appropriate for an evening out than for the workaday world. It
was,
after all, dinner in Geneva.

Lambert was there already, lounging with a glass of wine in the waiting area of the hotel’s restaurant, Latitude. He smiled and rose, setting down his glass. “Doctor Hildebrandt, good
evening,
” he greeted her
en francais
.

“Call me
Boone,
” she encouraged him in the same language. He moved behind her to help with her coat and scarf while the hotel’s attendant prepared to check her items. The brush of Camille's hands on her shoulders seemed to coordinate with his cologne and engendered a rush. Possibly, she thought, the sensation brought up with it her renewed essence of jasmine.
The two seem to compliment each other quite well, don’t they now?

From the look on his face, Lambert might have been thinking the same. He finished his wine and offered his arm to her as the
maître d’
arrived to show them to their table.

A man and a woman at dinner … it’s a mistake to ever think it is only about the food.
Boone, nevertheless, took his arm, with Lambert grasping as much of an opportunity to exercise chivalry with her chair as he had with her coat.

They ordered with the decisiveness of a couple familiar with the menu, and it was a similarity they both seemed to appreciate. Boone politely declined the sommelier’s suggestion of a wine, leaving Lambert to select of a glass of the local red while she adhered to her choice of Perrier. With the preliminary protocols of dining behind them, the two engaged in a good conversation well before the first course arrived.

“We have such odd ways of making a living,” Boone commented after hearing Lambert’s story of leaving the
Direction Centrale
. “Sometimes one wonders if those who run us understand our lives at all.”

“
Eh
… it is doubtful,” Lambert concurred. “By the time they understand, in my experience, it is too late. Someone has died, or a die is cast, and things can never be as they were.” His eyes seemed to take on a more contemplative light than was attributable to his second glass of the house red. “Always, one hopes
this time
it will be different.”

“But it
is
different, Camille. You are with InterLynk now. A better opportunity than to work for Peter McAllen you’ll seldom find.”

“Well, such is my hope, of course,” Lambert allowed. He sipped again. “Of his people thus far, I am forced to say, not one has failed to impress me.”

Smiling, Boone accepted the compliment. “Those are the only kind the General wants. From what I’ve seen, you’ll fit in just fine.”
Oh,
Boone … you are positively Freudian. Watch yourself. This is business.

From the soup, through the filet mignon in a bearnaise sauce, to an airy Italianate dessert, the meal was perfection. It was enhanced by Lambert’s mannered company, with each moment set off by her every cultured encouragement. The evening, Boone realized, fulfilled her usual longing to return to the refined atmosphere of Europe whenever she had been too long away.
Just another of my addictions. Will I never run out of them?

Their dialogue, held in the general terms of intelligence professionals, consisted of stories and shared experiences without date or detail and seemed to outlast their dinner. Boone had the impression neither of them wished to give it up, but the meal was over, and the rest of the evening remained unallocated.
Here comes the hard part.

He rose with his glass finally emptied and the tab charged to her card as she had promised. The man who would tomorrow be her employee helped with her chair as he had on their arrival.
The man steers conversation as an expert in interpersonal relations,
Boone’s analytical mind perceived as they returned to the front of the restaurant. They retrieved her coat and scarf, afterward strolling toward the guest rooms as Lambert kept up the flow of their exchange.
This undoubtedly was his talent in his former life… getting in close. Isn’t that what he’s doing now?

“Ah,
cherie.
” Lambert finally said, his voice lowering. “Your company is a pleasure I am loath to part with.” He glanced up a nearby door. “This is my room, I am afraid.”

So conveniently close to the Latitude. Planned?
Boone hesitated, caught between her attraction and her caution.
Is it possible the man is this good at what he does? There’s only one way to find out.

At his door now, he readied his access card. He turned, a wistful smile playing on his strong features. “Is it to be good night, then,
cherie?
”

Yes, he’s this good. Steady, Boone.
Her urge to exercise him in this place as she once did Thibaut Marseille was already running well ahead of her intention to rein in her instinct. Again, the scent of jasmine seemed to punctuate the moment between their words. Her dead lover’s crucifix shifted, coming to rest against her breast as she cocked her head.
Yes, woman. Pass your test for once.

“Morning comes early at InterLynk,
Monsieur
Lambert,” she breathed, then straightened. “We can’t have you late for General McAllen on your first day.”

His expression alone was nearly enough to break her resolve—
again, an engineered moment?
She saw him accept her decision regardless as he opened the door, turning to her either as a final courtesy, or one last attempt at seduction.
So bad … honey, you are a woman who craves a walk on the edge of disaster.

“Until tomorrow, Boone. Thank you for dinner,” he said simply, lingering inside his door.

Magnetically. Gravitationally. Boone, get the hell out of here!
“
Bon nuit, Monsieur
Lambert. See you in the morning,” she managed to say in as nonchalant a tone as she had ever used. Boone turned and walked for the hotel’s main entrance and the parking lot. She would have rather run.

InterLynk’s personnel officer—at McAllen’s insistence—made the necessary adjustments to accommodate Lambert’s partial-week start in his salaried position. Boone knew it to be a sign of her father’s desire to return his firm's status to fully functional. Following what had been a horrid year of loss in Field Operations, any step toward restoring normalcy for Ritter’s section, she knew, would be aggressively pursued.
Perhaps too aggressively.

Boone spent her Tuesday handling more routine matters on Ritter’s behalf as he did his best to provide a thorough orientation for the most recent arrival to his staff. Nevertheless, as often as she could, the almost-as-new Assistant Director shadowed the pair and attempted to define in her mind the nagging instinct urging her to keep the Frenchman in sight.

He pursues familiarity with everyone, just as he did with me last night.
Boone crossed the lobby, her arm cradling a number of other applications retrieved from the ground-floor mailroom. On her way she saw Camille Lambert interacting with Franz as well as Ritter now as the man received his access card and InterLynk identification badge. Laughter and camaraderie filled the security office. Every individual inside wore a pleasant expression, she noticed.
Yes,
Ritter’s new man is either a natural at working with people … or a master at manipulating them.

Boone found her cynical side waving its tiny, mental red flag again. She paused before continuing to the back stairwell, taking a moment to observe and evaluate the scene.
One could think he’s working them today just as he worked me last night … and quite possibly for approximately the same reason
.

Later in the morning, InterLynk’s Assistant Director of Field Operations managed to slip up to the executive floor for a brief question directed to her father as Lambert waited for his introductory meeting with the General.
Sure enough … there he is with the same easygoing style, chatting up Caroline and the admin assistants.
Boone saw nothing to alleviate her growing sense of unease.
He’s worked here for less than half a day, and Caroline already seems happy to have him casually leaning on the edge of her desk.