One Last Scent of Jasmine (Boone's File Book 3) (23 page)

“Bernie, reinstitute the full-bore monitoring of the bastard’s financial accounts. If it looks as if he’s paying off his own contractors I want to know about it. If his debit card so much as buys a damned cup of coffee in Mongolia, I want to know about that too.”

“Will do, sir,” Bernie responded with confidence.

Clenching his jaw, McAllen’s pen tapped impatiently on his desk blotter. “An effort this successful required a great deal of assistance, boys and girl. Whether it was state sponsored or privately funded, this one’s a heavy hitter. We’d better be about finding out who it is besides Yameen on the other side.”

“Dad, we might not be the only ones interested,” Boone suggested. She tapped her chin in thought. “Maybe … we could use a little state sponsorship of our own.”

“How so, honey?” her father asked.

“Dmitry Lyubov expressed an interest in recovering al-Khobar to the Russian Federation once the wheels of Western justice allowed it.” She felt her eyes narrow. “His capabilities are worldwide and well exceed our own. I would deal him into this game.”

“Not bad thinking for your first day on the job, daughter dear,” her father replied, nodding as he contemplated the possibilities. “Let me mull that one over for a while.” He glanced back to the rest of his executive team. “All right, folks … all y’all be sure to keep your heads up in the meantime. As far as I’m concerned, we got one jump boot on a war footing, and the other on a damned banana peel. ”

Boone lingered when her male colleagues abandoned the General’s top-tier office in order to return to their respective tasks. Sighing, she doffed her long, black coat and scarf, laying her handbag beside them on the sectional in the center of her father’s office. She then took a seat beside them.

“Something on your mind, darlin’?” her dad asked, pecking away for a few characters on his computer keyboard.

“Daddy, what the hell is
wrong
with the world?” she asked as if her father had all those answers at his fingertips.

“It’s a fouled-up mess. A direct result of being half full of idiots, baby girl. Is the realization just now sinking in?”

“No … not really.” She rested her chin on the back of the sectional, looking over his shoulder at Lake Geneva and the whiteness of the Alps beyond. “Maybe it’s just now making me really tired.”

“You made a tough call, darlin’. Not many would have taken the stand you did. It makes me proud.”

Boone found herself, no matter the level of accomplishment in her life, not yet propelled beyond the need to hear such things from this man. “That’s just it, Dad. It wasn’t a hard call at all. They—the ones in charge in Washington now, I mean—they can’t hold a candle to men like you, and Sean … even Bernie. How ever did they come to power? I don’t understand.”

Her father sat back from his keyboard and monitors. “Not understanding just means you’re healthy, Becky.” His eyes took on a distant focus. “Mostly, I reckon, they got there by stacking a whole lot of bad karma higher than any rational mind would ever consider.” He smirked. “Lots of weight resides in bad decisions. Moral gravity. You get on the bad side of the slump when it comes, and it
will
mash your sorry ass right down into the ground.”

“It’s hard to wait sometimes,” Boone admitted.

“Yeah, darlin’ but the show you get to see makes patience worth it.” He appeared to redirect his attention to business. “You gettin’ along with your new Director?”

Boone straightened as well, “Dad, you
know
he’s a good man. No problems to report at all.”

“Well, it’s a fine start. You better go catch up to him. Word is he’s got another good man we just might want to bring on board.” His tone reflected his grim visage. “Field Operations still needs all the help it can get.”

She stood, gathering her things. “Yes, sir.” Boone proceeded to his door, pausing with her hand on the polished brass latch. She looked back at her father, who was seemingly again absorbed in his work. “Thanks for everything, Daddy,” she said.

“You too, Beck. We’ve been too long apart.”

Nodding, she exited his office.
He’s right,
she thought as she crossed the reception area. Heading for the stairwell which would take her to the next floor down and Field Operations, her mind mulled over her father’s observation.
Life slipped away while we weren’t watching. That seems to be the way it goes.

Chapter 14 - Plus One

Boone deposited her things in the office located directly next to Sean’s. She caught up with him as he was reviewing an applicant’s packet received for one of the still vacant Field Operations Officer positions. His jacket was off, his tie loosened, and his sleeves were rolled up onto his muscular forearms. InterLynk’s losses earlier in the year had been spectacular and well publicized, and as a consequence, the rebuilding effort was ongoing. Hiring was hampered even more by the high standards of her father … not to mention those of the former USAF Lieutenant Colonel now tasked with running the General’s stable of operators.

“He mentioned you might have found one,” she said, hovering in his doorway.

Sean glanced up. “Looks good, actually.” He returned to scanning the contents of the application, handing a portion of the stack to her. “Have a chair, Boone. Look at his jacket and tell me what you think.”

Taking the proffered documentation as well as a seat across from his desk, she looked over the recruit's vitals. “He’s a former officer with the French Central Directorate of Interior Intelligence? Not
bad,
” Boone read, finding herself to be impressed as well.

“His references are top-drawer,” Ritter added.

Looking up from the hard copy she held, Boone asked, “Are you’re bringing him in for a look?”

“First thing after lunch. Should make for an interesting afternoon. Do you have workout clothes along?”

“Not yet.”

Ritter smiled. “Grab something comfortable. Durable, too, if you run an interview the same way I do.”

“I can imagine. I’ve heard about you Pararescue guys.” Boone slipped the packet back into the stack on his desk. “Sean … can I ask something?”

“You’re here to ask questions for a while, Boone.”

She nodded. “Are you OK with this … situation?”

Other than to flip to the next sheet of paper, he had no reaction. “It’s your father’s decision. I’ve been taking direction from the man for a while, and I haven’t seen him make a bad call yet.”

Unreadable. Is it deliberate?
“Yours was a less personal answer than I had hoped for,” Boone admitted, resorting to a womanly tone. She realized what she had really craved during their exchange was eye contact.

Ritter set aside his work. Looking directly into her eyes, he said, “We’ve worked together well in the past. I see no reason why it can’t continue into the future. From everything I’ve seen, you are your father’s daughter. I hope you’ll take that as the compliment it is. Good enough?”

More than good enough.
She gave him her best smile. “Thank you, Sean … very much.”
Maybe this arrangement will work out after all.

Back in the office by 1330 hours, the two still wore full business attire. They were welcoming a candidate whose tailor’s skills, Boone observed, outstripped even the shop patronized by Schuster and Ritter. The recent arrival was indeed French, constructed and composed in a manner which might stop a weak woman’s heart, she thought. InterLynk’s newest Assistant Director, however, was making every effort to remain objective.

“Camille Lambert, I’m Sean Ritter, the Director of Field Operations. This is Doctor Rebecca Boone Hildebrandt, Assistant Director of the same.”

When Boone extended her hand, the candidate took it gracefully rather than clenching it as he had with Ritter. “A pleasure,
mademoiselle,
” Lambert intoned with an obvious and masculine approval.

Smooth. You’re doing OK so far, buddy. He must be from the same Latinate extraction as Thibaut.
She was struck by the similarity in build and appearance, from the dark hair and brown eyes to the general level of fitness he displayed.

Ritter directed them to a comfortably sized Field Operations conference room, one often used for mission planning and debriefing. They took random seats, allowing the newcomer the place of honor at the head of the table nearest the door. Ritter had the man’s packet with him. “Can you tell us a bit about yourself?” he opened.

The Frenchman smiled. “As much as can any of us, is it not so? I have tried to make my application complete.”

Boone twirled her pen. The man was more than a top-level recruit. He was
intriguing
. “The Central Directorate, from those I’ve met, seems to be a good organization. Why then have you parted company?”

With an unburdened smile, Camille replied, “On reflection,
mademoiselle,
I have concluded I do not care to work for socialists.”

What a coincidence.
Boone nodded in understanding.

Ritter made a show of looking through Lambert’s packet. “I see you hold a pilot’s license … what platforms?”

“All commercial platforms below cargo level. Small aircraft are one of my passions,” Lambert confirmed.

You are even a pilot …you could be Thibaut’s brother.
Boone felt herself missing her departed friend more with each of the recruit’s passing words.

“Jets? General McAllen maintains a late-model Gulfstream,” Ritter inquired.

“One of my favorites,” Lambert answered, beaming. “In my opinion, any of the line is a fine choice, in the layout of the instrumentation especially.”

Ritter glanced at Boone. “Doctor? Any questions?”

Straightening, she addressed the candidate. “
Monsieur,
this is a field operations position. Direct action, possibly in a covert capacity, might be required. This could include action against opposing forces. Are you comfortable with this?”

“I am, miss
.
”

“To the point of taking a life?”

His eyes hardened in just the way she expected.
He’s a man who has already experienced the feeling,
Boone thought.
The sensation of walking away after a fight from which one’s opponent did not and never would.

“
Oui, Docteur.
”

His closemouthed answer served only to supplement the one she had already perceived. “No more questions,” she enounced in a tone meant to carry forward the weight of her satisfaction. She watched as Ritter pushed the man’s application packet aside.

“Your evaluation today, Mister Lambert, is a multipart affair, a portion of which is physical. Have you brought along suitable clothing as we discussed?” the retired Lieutenant Colonel asked their potential hire.

“I have, if there is a place to change.”

Ritter smiled and rose. “Then let me show you to the locker room,
monsieur
.” He glanced her way. “I assume you’ll be tagging along, Doctor?”

Smiling, Boone nodded, rising also. “To the door of the men’s side, at least. I wouldn’t miss this, Mister Ritter.”

They ran the five kilometers to the gym at Ritter’s pace, one he obviously could have maintained for a much longer distance. Neither Boone nor Lambert displayed any difficulty in keeping up.

And it’s another good sign,
she thought as they arrived at their destination.

It was a mixed martial arts gym, configured well for the purpose. Expanses of mats and weight-lifting stations surrounded a centrally positioned, suspended ring used in both training and tournaments for the increasingly popular sport. Ritter signed his party in at the desk, having made the reservations in advance.

“Gloves and pads, if you wish them, sir,” Ritter invited his recruit as they all shed some outer layers.

Boone looked on with admiration. Lambert’s upper-body development was obvious through his exercise wear.
Ritter makes for some pretty good eye candy as well.

“Gloves, perhaps. What is pain, otherwise?” was the Frenchman’s confident pronouncement.

The gauntlet is thrown
. Boone took her position ringside as the two men—having so equipped after donning footgear appropriate for the canvas platform—climbed inside the ropes. There was a minimum of flexing and stretching as they sized each other up. Afterward the pair appeared ready.

“Gentlemen?” Boone asked in her most distinguished tone, receiving two nods in response. She gently rang the bell near her right hand.
Let’s get it on,
she thought, feeling more excitement than she had expected.

The two men circled each other cautiously, both assuming a guarded boxer’s stance. Lambert was possibly a bit more aggressive, Boone thought, though in his circumstances aggression would be expected. Ritter countered easily, launching a flurry of combination blows whenever he determined there was an opportunity.

Propelled back against the ropes, Lambert responded with his first lower-body attack, a thrusting front kick nearly scoring but for Ritter’s expert step out of the way. A trap and sweep of the recruit's support leg followed. The move put Lambert down for all of one second before a flex of his powerful back muscles flipped the Frenchman to his feet.

Ritter paid a price of sorts for the minor victory, pummeled until he counterattacked and sideslipped his way back to the center of the ring. It was then the American’s turn to deploy his repertoire of kicks, each withdrawn in time to prevent Lambert from returning the favor Ritter had delivered.

At the allotted time Boone rang the bell. The two men seemed to look upon each other with a newly gained respect.

A glance to their redheaded referee and Ritter asked, “Points, Doctor?”

Grinning, Boone held up her hands and shrugged. “I wasn’t paying attention. Need to do it all again, I guess.”

“Nice try,” Ritter groused, wiping his brow. He looked at the waiting candidate. “Satisfactory performance, Mister Lambert … to say the least.”

“
Merci,
my friend … and likewise.”