One Last Scent of Jasmine (Boone's File Book 3) (21 page)

“
Herr
Novak, it is your electronic caller once more. Shall I send them through?”

“
Bitte
, my dear.”
This interest seems determined to become my most high-maintenance as well as being my most expensive to maintain.
In a few moments the electronically altered voice was back on his line.

“Benedek, thank you for allowing me to take up your time again, and so soon,” the caller rasped through the output of the filtering device.

“And what can I do …
today?
” he wondered aloud.

“A favor … though one which will benefit us both. One you are better suited to address through your … how shall I say it? Your more
practical
business contacts.”

And those always seem to be the less legitimate ones, as well.
“The reserve, my friend, is a wellspring best left in reserve for the worst of droughts,” Novak replied.

“Benedek, how often have I called when it has been anything less than necessary?”

“Admittedly never,” he conceded. “What favor do you wish, then?”

“Are you familiar with a company named
InterLynk
—out of Geneva? One of the first to deal with commercialized intelligence on an international scale?”

Benedek nodded to himself. The financier was both well connected and current enough to be cognizant of any enterprise capable of generating as substantial a bottom line as had Peter McAllen’s. “Of course. I have an account there myself.”

“How so? We were under the impression it is quite an exclusive privilege!”

Smiling, Novak answered, “Yes … it is, unfortunately, a limited-access account only of the type they offered for a brief time earlier this year. The objective, I believe, was the apprehension of the then-international-fugitive named Yameen al-Khobar.”

A sound of comprehension, made more sinister by the electronic filter, came across the connection. “Of course, we saw that here. He was a Saudi who single-handedly waged war against McAllen, did he not? It followed other such operations on behalf of a Russian magnate—”

“Mikhail Ivanovich Smolin … may his soul rest.”

The sentiment did not appear to register with his caller. “The Saudi would be a natural choice for just the favor we have in mind.”

Is there anything this one does not think I can and will do?
“It would be a challenge, being InterLynk’s effort was entirely successful. The man is in the cantonal prison in Switzerland, for God’s sake!”

“Beyond even
your
reach, Mister Novak?”

Novak drew a heavy breath. “Few things are. It is a question of whether the risk is balanced by the level and likelihood of reward … for a
sane
man, at least. Some of my people have paid the ultimate price already this week for such dangerous games.”

“An administrative role in managing the revenue-generating end of InterLynk’s business … and unlimited rather than restricted access to his data. What would
that
be worth to a man with your interests, Benedek?”

An incalculable sum, of course. This one knows my weaknesses.
He was forced to pause before his tone took on a note of resignation. “Your particular answer is not easily quantified, I am afraid.”

“Though large enough to repay your trouble in taking action resulting in the firm operating under our control rather than McAllen’s?”

“Perhaps,” he admitted. “I have seen cases where even minor changes in executive makeup can alter a firm’s resistance to acquisition.”

“Then you seem to be the right man for this job, Benedek, as much as is the Saudi. We wish to contract for you both. Do you agree?”

I must be extremely careful, no matter what my decision. Far better to be an ally than the next target.
“Agreed,” he decided aloud.

The voice on the phone made an approving sound. “Then we will watch for developments, Benedek. I look forward to toasting your accomplishments.”

“As do I, my friend.”

His beneficiary ended the connection, and Novak stared at the handset, wondering at the unexpected advent of the dangerous bargain he had just made. “
Very
careful, Benedek,” he muttered. “You must be very careful indeed.”

Champ-Dollon Prison

Thonex, Switzerland

Friday

“
Prisoners!
Stand for the door!” The order, as did they all, came in German.

Regardless, it was one of his languages, and he understood it perfectly. Had he not, the guards—using riot batons—would have translated their wishes well enough to achieve any detainee’s understanding, even the most stupid or recalcitrant.

Yameen al-Khobar was neither. He obediently took his place against the corridor wall and heard the noises emanate from inside as the men already occupying the cell assumed their own positions. He wore the same blue prison garb as did everyone except the black-uniformed guards. His head was cold. Shaved when he arrived, it had been maintained in the same condition as a precaution against infestation.
Neither do I need any hair available for an opponent in this place to grab.

Once the door to the dormitory-like enclosure opened, al-Khobar strode inside as the swinging motion of nearly a meter of black-lacquered hardwood baton in the guard’s hand indicated he should.
Another cell. Another test.

Operating well in excess of its planned capacity, the Champ-Dollon facility housed the five men—now six—in a space originally meant for three. Consequently, three sets of metal-framed bunk beds were lined up perpendicular to a wall featuring the small, reinforced window allowing a paucity of natural light into the cell. Each rack's occupants stood in formation in front of them. The men varied in size, ethnic makeup, tattoo coverage, and general level of hygiene.
The smell is the same at least. It never seems to vary here.

The Saudi remained in pretrial detention as he had for the previous seven and a half months. In such time the shuffling of bodies between cells, the most the Canton could do to address the overutilization of existing space, had occurred twice before. When the door closed behind him, al-Khobar knew he was on his own. The moment came without preamble, and the slam and clatter of the heavy, metal panel and thick locking mechanism sounded ominously behind him.

Grinning at him almost as soon as the cell had been secured, the largest inmate said, “Ah! The new man! What is your name, little one?” His French was passable though delivered with the accent of an Albanian.

“You may call me Yameen,” he answered, planting his feet and cracking his knuckles.

The Albanian seemed unimpressed. “I do not like your name. I will call you
kurve
instead. You know this name?” The man took a step toward him, flexing his shoulders.

Regarding him with caution, Yameen calculated,
He has me by at least fifty kilos.
Al-Khobar remained cool. “I know the name. You may keep it for yourself.”

For the first time, the master of the cell seemed taken aback. “I am too big to be the bitch here, newcomer. It will not be long before it is dark, and then you might find I am too big in other ways.”

“Darkness can come unexpectedly … especially in prison,” al-Khobar observed.

Turning to grin at his cellmates—or subjects, the smaller man thought—the man from the Balkans then swung around to face him again. “You seem to have little sense,
kurve
. I might not wait for the evening after all.”

“No. Let us get this done,” the Saudi agreed.

The Albanian took another step forward, wiping his nose as a ruse and then swinging hard at al-Khobar’s head in a well-telegraphed haymaker punch. The smaller man ducked it easily, responding with a triple combination of punches to the body as the other men in front of the bunks, alarmed but silent, cleared the way for the contest.

Before the Albanian could catch his breath, al-Khobar latched onto his extended wrist and pulled his opponent off balance and into a stumble. The resulting momentum set the man up to be caught by his smaller opponent’s rising shoulder. His victim was airborne a moment later, crashing down heavily onto the unforgiving concrete floor.

Al-Khobar retained control of his opponent’s wrist, twisting it into a merciless pain-compliance hold. “Give me your other hand,
bitch,
” the Saudi commanded, wrenching the joint for emphasis. The move garnered a gasp of pain nearly loud enough to be a scream. It also produced the presentation of the man’s other hand. In seconds his other wrist was also locked in the crook of al-Khobar’s arm, and the Albanian grimaced, moaning as he was hauled to his feet.

“
This way.
” Al-Khobar marched him backward toward the sanitary facilities in the far corner of the cell, twisting and levering the Albanian’s arms until his head came to rest in the space between the concrete blocks of the wall and the stainless-steel bowl of the toilet. The cell’s newcomer then leapt into the air, his full weight bearing up on the big man’s immobilized wrists as he rode the painful collapse down into the restricted space. Al-Khobar rose, and, with a stomping motion of the heel of his prison shoe, forced the Albanian’s head the rest of the way into the not-quite-large-enough opening, slightly dislodging the toilet bowl.

The Saudi stood back and evaluated his work. The larger man, bleeding from his ears, was unconscious, wedged into the space where Yameen had planted him. Satisfied, al-Khobar unzipped his fly and took a welcome opportunity to empty his bladder into the bowl, afterward kicking at the button to flush once he had shaken and zipped. A small trickle of water seeped from the base of the fixture, soaking into the front of the unconscious Albanian’s shirt.

Al-Khobar turned back toward his obviously impressed cellmates, who stepped away nervously. “Which bunk was his, before his
accident?
” he demanded in French, then again in unaccented German.

“The top one, nearest the window,” a voice answered.

“Then it will be mine, if there are no objections.” None came. He walked to his new bunk and climbed onto his mattress. He preferred, truth be told, the ones nearer the floor. In this place, however, Yameen al-Khobar had learned he was even more partial to dominance.

There were no weekends in prison. Morning, midday and evening schedules were kept every day of the week. Fortunately for their departed Albanian cellmate, the same was true of the prison infirmary. The man was initially taken there after fracturing his skull in his unfortunate stumble, as unanimously confirmed by the four other uninjured occupants of al-Khobar’s cell. A maintenance crew had even detached and resealed the base of the toilet, efficiently restoring the cell's sanitary conditions before yet another inmate was moved into the open space left by the much larger man.

Yesterday had been Friday. Saturday began even earlier than usual, with the piercing screech of the prison’s fire alarm. Al-Khobar awoke instantly and knew from the smell and the seepage of smoke under the single metal door to this place it was no drill.

The Saudi jumped out of bed, grabbing his towel and running to the sink—also in the far corner—to wet it. He was at the door, kneeling to seal the bottom of the panel with the wet roll of terrycloth, before some of them were even out of their bunks. “Quickly! Get dressed! They will be coming to take us out!” he directed in German, and repeated in French and Italian. To a man, they complied, pulling on their denim shirts and trousers, then donning the thin deck shoes everyone but the guards wore here.

Al-Khobar stood as he heard the guard staff responding outside. He knew the smell of burning cotton mixed with sweat.
Some idiots have set fire to a mattress with a cigarette lighter as a protest again. One of these days they will asphyxiate us all.
Standing back from the door, he scanned the entire seam of the entryway, seeing it was tight enough to keep most of the smoke outside. He turned to his own bunk and dressed. Afterward waiting, he realized,
This is the nearest cell to the fire stairs.
Even in this place, there is still the occasional glimmer of good fortune.
The bitter thought was one of many tinged with enough hope to keep him going.

Sirens sounded in the distance.
It must be a sizable disturbance. They are calling in fire crews.
Al-Khobar was ready. At almost the same time, the rattle of the lock sounded in the heavy door, and it swung outward, gray and black smoke billowing inside.

“Out! Down the stairs to the yard!” the guard ordered as loudly as possible through his gas mask, pointing the way with his riot baton.

They complied, al-Khobar utilizing his undershirt as best he could to keep from choking on the acrid fumes. More guards were stationed in the stairwell and ground-floor corridor to prevent divergence onto any route other than the one specified. The Saudi shuffled with the rest until the guards herded them out into the chilly morning air. It was Switzerland, and it was now December. The growing crowd of prisoners huddled in the near-freezing temperature, grumbling at the unscheduled exercise time.

Guards were everywhere, dressed in identical black field uniforms. Smoke poured from an upper level, and fire crews were arriving to assist the facility staff in dousing whatever hazard had been ignited inside. Always observant, al-Khobar watched carefully.
There is too much smoke, and too close to the ground. What is happening here?
The white cloud drifted over them, obscuring the yard.
This is not from the fire. This is chemical smoke, meant to mix into that from the disturbance.

Running now, the guards herded the men in the yard into manageable groups, cursing and threatening the prisoners. An amplified voice carried a warning: “Everyone! Stay where you are! Follow orders! We are prepared to shoot!”

Al-Khobar felt the authoritative tap of a riot baton on his shoulder. He turned. Another of the guards, in black and wearing a gas mask like the rest, led three more behind him. All were glaring directly at their target. “You, Saudi. You are being moved. Come with us at once.”