Krystal Scent (Krystal Vibration Series Book 2) Page 18

  Before a third bullet could penetrate any portion of the car, he slipped the BMW Z4 onto the highway and sped off toward center-city Paris, fuming that he had been duped. He had believed the information. But it was a lie. Stensel would be free one more day.

  Lamboise stopped by his Paris apartment that overlooked the Seine to freshen up and change his clothes. He then traveled northeast the eight kilometers just beyond the seventeenth arrondissement to the General Directorate of Homeland Security, DGSI (Direction Générale de la Sécurité Intérieure) in Levallois-Perret, France. It took Lamboise less than half-an-hour to drive to the underground parking lot and be on his way to his boss’s office.

  The Directorate was responsible for the surveillance of ominous phenomena that threaten national security; counterterrorism; combating cybercrime and counterespionage.

  Lamboise was assigned to the counterterrorism division. He had been in the counterespionage department but was transferred out when his life became threatened on a continual basis. His attempt at neutralizing Cyrus Stensel was just another missed opportunity to decrease potential terrorist threats in Paris.

  Lamboise stepped through the elevator doors and walked into the offices of France’s Homeland Security. As usual, his clothes were impeccable. His suit was tailored in Paris by Cifonelli. He only had four made by the 132-year-old, suit-maker company. It cost him $25,000, but he felt the looks he got from females made it worthwhile.

  He sported a $425 shirt made by Charvet, along with a $235 Charvet tie. His black shoes were made of Italian leather.

  Lamboise was forever sharing recipes with the women in the office. They all raved about his cooking and that he should be a chef rather than an agent. Along with being able to discuss meal preparation, Lamboise was an art connoisseur, a wine and cheese aficionado, and a women’s fashion authority. In addition to the both obvious and underlying attributes that seemed to draw women to him like magnets, he always found a way to compliment every female with whom he came in contact.

  He never watched football games or any sports on TV, choosing to use that time to visit a bookstore or a museum. And he never allowed a woman to pay her way when on a date.

  The females couldn’t help but watch him as he made his way to Paul Durran’s office. Even though they all had commiserated about their experiences with Lamboise, they still were enamored by him.

  He walked past Danielle and suddenly stopped. He turned back, looked her straight in the eyes and asked, “Are you wearing Joy Parfum by Jean Patou?”

  Danielle blushed. She had only been with the agency for two months. She was hired to be Paul Durran’s assistant’s assistant. She knew Lamboise was scheduled to come in today, and she was intrigued by all she had heard about him.

  “Yes, Mr. Lamboise, it is.”

  “Call me Jacques. I’d like to smell that more when I come back.”

  Danielle continued to blush as she watched Lamboise walk into Durran’s office.

  “Sit down, Lamboise,” Durran said. “We’ve got a situation that must be handled somewhat delicately. But before I get into it, how did it go with Stensel?”

  “It was a trap.”

  “You look none the worse for wear.”

  “I’ve got a couple new bullet holes in my Z4. It’ll need body work and a new top.”

  “But no holes in you, right?”

  “No, sir. Are you sure you want me?” Lamboise asked, knowing full well his track record was not all that consistent of late.

  “We’ve been monitoring the activities of The Commander Nazir Group and have indications that they’re planning an assault on one of our government offices or landmarks in Paris.”

  “Do we have any targets?”

  “Not yet. But American Intelligence has sent an operative over here to assist us.”

  “Is he here?”

  “He’s a she. And I want you to work with her.”

  Lamboise became aroused, and at the same time, irritated. He had never had a partner, let alone a female. “Where is she?”

  Durran cleared his throat. “We’re not sure. She was supposed to arrive today. Reports from the airline are that she took sick on the flight and had to be carted away in an ambulance.”

  “What hospital?”

  “We’ve checked everywhere. She’s nowhere to be found. The U.S. must have taken her to a secure location. I’ve put in a call to my counterpart in the United States. As soon as he contacts me, we’ll know more. In the meantime,” Durran continued, handing Lamboise a file, “read through this. Her name’s Karen Krystal. She’s a novice, but U.S. National Intelligence has extreme confidence in her.”

  Lamboise opened the file and studied Karen’s photo. “Well, at least she’s not ugly.”

  “I’m glad you approve. Just make sure you keep her close to you. And don’t offend her. When you’ve completed going through her file, leave it at the front desk with Natalie.”

  Lamboise agreed and the meeting was over.

  CHAPTER 26

  Forêt Domaniale de Notre-Dame, south of Paris

  Karen was racing over the countryside, avoiding main roads, and driving along paths. She suddenly began losing power.

  The hole in the tank.

  She came upon a skydiving target used for drop-zone competitions. She stopped the ATV amidst some underbrush, shut off the engine, and walked over to the markings painted on the ground. She could see the quarter-sized target at the center of the landing circle.

  I’ve seen these before. The competitor who lands closest, wins the prize.

  She walked back to stay hidden in the bushes and listened.

  Engines off in the distance. Terrorists are coming.

  She could hear the faint noise of the approaching gas-powered ATV engines of her captors.

  She had tried to use hardened trails so her tires wouldn’t leave much of an impression and appear too fresh. But it was difficult to race toward freedom and not leave any evidence of the direction of escape.

  She unpacked the radio, inserted the batteries, turned it on and scanned though the channels to hear if there was any chatter. Her plan was to ask for help. The only problem was that she would have to give her location and unfortunately, she didn’t know where she was except for the thick underbrush, the trails, and the skydiving target. The last element would be a dead giveaway if her pursuers were familiar with the landmark and were listening.

  She could only give a description of the location. And she couldn’t be coy about it to delay the terrorists if they were listening. She’d have to give her whereabouts and hope to be rescued before she was kidnapped again.

  As she spun through the frequencies, she heard a number of European dialects: German, Italian, Spanish, Greek—she heard some conversation in French and immediately interrupted, “Excusez-moi.”

  “Allez-y,” the person said, giving Karen the go-ahead.

  “J'ai besoin d'aide. Mon nom est Karen Krystal. Je suis sud-est de Paris dans une forêt.” Karen said, giving her name, asking for help, and revealing her location in the middle of a wooded area.

  “Vous êtes en Forêt Domaniale de Notre-Dame,” the man said, telling Karen where she was based on her description.

  “Se il vous plaît, contactez Intelligence Français. Dites-leur que je suis près de la cible de parachutisme,” Karen said, asking the person to contact French Intelligence.

  The terrorists had stopped their vehicles and were listening to Karen’s conversation.

  “I know where she is,” one said. “She’s near the skydiving target in the Domaniale Forest of Notre Dame. She’s asked them to contact French Intelligence. Come on, we’ll get to her before they do.”

  ***

  The phone rang at French Intelligence. The call was directed to Durran’s office. After he hung up, he called for Jacques Lamboise who was in the interior of the building.

  Lamboise walked in and Durran said, “U.S. National Intelligence has denied that their U.S. agent is in a hospital anywhere. B
ut they won’t say where she is. I don’t think they know. But we do. I want you to hear this short-wave radio transmission.”

  Durran played an audio file on his computer.

  “Excusez-moi.”

  “Allez-y.”

  “J'ai besoin d'aide. Mon nom est Karen Krystal. Je suis sud-est de Paris dans une forêt.”

  “Vous êtes en Forêt Domaniale de Notre-Dame.”

  “Se il vous plaît, contactez Intelligence Français. Dites-leur que je suis près de la cible de parachutisme.”

  “Why would she be in the Notre-Dame forest near the parachute target?” Lamboise asked.

  “Indeed. And why is she using a shortwave radio to communicate?”

  “How did this information get to us?”

  “The CB operator having the conversation. He called us.”

  “Is it possible she was kidnapped?” Lamboise asked.

  “That might explain U.S. Intelligence’s lack of information. And if she were taken by the terrorists plotting an assault, they could have heard the same transmission. They could be on their way to the same spot,” Durran said and then looked out the window. “It’s also possible she’s one of them.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Take the helicopter, and get her.”

  Lamboise ran to the elevator and headed for the roof where the helicopter was resting on the pad. He lifted himself in, started the engine, and slipped on his headset.

  “Lamboise, can you hear me?” Durran asked.

  Lamboise affirmed.

  Durran said, “It should take you about seven minutes to reach her location.”

  Lamboise lifted off the pad. He banked southeast and opened the throttle.

  ***

  Karen ran from her location to the other side of the skydiver target. She had no useful weapon. The nail gun was only effective at pointblank range. The terrorists’ ATVs were approaching.

  Karen spotted a helicopter with the French Intelligence insignia on its fuselage. Lamboise had arrived and was ready to set down on the target. Karen came out from hiding and stepped into the open area. She turned at the sound of an ATV motor in the distance fast approaching. She burst into a sprint toward the landing pad.

  Lamboise spotted her and began to descend.

  Karen pointed and yelled, “Terrorists.”

  Lamboise turned and saw the men in the woods charging on their ATVs. He lifted back up.

  Karen skidded to a stop. She couldn’t believe that the helicopter was leaving.

  Lamboise turned to face the terrorists and dove down toward the edge of the open field where the ATVs would soon break through. He twisted the copter sideways. And as the ATVs broke out of the trees, he fired his weapon.

  The lead driver was hit twice and fell off the vehicle. His ATV came to an abrupt halt. The second terrorist swerved and turned back into the cover of the undergrowth.

  Lamboise spun and headed back to Karen’s position. He dropped to the ground, and she ran toward the aircraft again.

  The second ATV reappeared and raced toward them. The driver opened fire. Karen dove into the cockpit and Lamboise shot up, twisted away, dipped the nose, and accelerated. Bullets whizzed past the metal exterior and fell harmlessly back to earth.

  Karen scrambled to her feet and snatched Lamboise’s gun. She placed the barrel against the back of his head and said, “Who are you, and where are you taking me?”

  Lamboise said in a somewhat smug tone, “Unless you know how to fly this thing, I suggest you calm yourself, and take the gun from my head.”

  Karen pressed the steel against his skin and said, “I know how to fly. Now, answer my questions.”

  “Didn’t you see the symbol on the outside? I’m with French Intelligence.”

  “I saw it, but show me your ID. You could be legitimate, or you could be a fraud.”

  Lamboise went to reach into his pocket.

  “Slowly,” Karen said.

  Lamboise held up his wallet.

  Karen took it and flipped it open. The driver’s license had the name Jacques Lamboise and a photo. Lamboise turned to look at her.

  “This says nothing about French Intelligence.”

  “Look inside the back compartment. Open the flap.”

  Karen did and read that Lamboise was a special agent with French Intelligence assigned to the French equivalent of U.S. Homeland Security.

  Lamboise said, “Satisfied?”

  Karen handed back the ID and sat down in the passenger seat, but held onto his gun.

  “What happened to you? We were notified that you were coming to Paris, but we were told that you took sick and had to be taken from the plane on a stretcher and placed in an ambulance.”

  “I was drugged and kidnapped.”

  “By who? To where?”

  “Terrorists. To some sort of compound.”

  “Did you communicate with U.S. Intelligence?”

  “There was no way to do that. Where’re we going?”

  “French Intelligence.”

  “How did they know where to find me and capture me? Unless someone tipped them off,” Karen said, raising the weapon.

  “You think we did it?” Lamboise asked, turning to look at her.

  “Who else knew where I was and how to get to me?”

  “There’s no way. If that were the case, why would we rescue you?” Lamboise said as he continued flying northwest. Then he said, “What about the possibility that you’re one of them and faked your illness on the plane so that you could bring your comrades up-to-date information about what you and our government plan to do to stop a terrorist attack? Or maybe you were tortured and gave in to their demands and told them all you know.”

  Karen thought for a moment, lowered the pistol, and said, “I guess we’re both suspicious and paranoid.” She shivered.

  “There’s a blanket under the seat,” Lamboise said.

  Karen handed the gun back to Lamboise, reached beneath and pulled out a dark green, military-wool blanket and wrapped it around her body.

  Sometimes no body fat has its negatives. I should have eaten some of the food I took from the mechanic’s room.

  ***

  Lamboise gently set the helicopter down on the pad atop the French Intelligence Headquarters building. A female ran to the craft and opened the door for Karen to exit. She escorted her into the building and to a women’s locker room where she could shower.

  Fresh clothes were provided, and then she was taken to a quiet room and offered a repast and something to drink. When she had finished dining, she was escorted to Durran’s office.

  From behind the desk, a tall, somewhat overweight gentleman in his mid fifties came forward when Karen entered the room. He extended his hand, and said, “I’m Paul Durran. I’m the head of French National Intelligence, your boss’s counterpart. I apologize for your first days in France. We had no idea you were a target. Please have a seat.”

  “Obviously, someone knows I’m here and doesn’t want me to be,” Karen said, sitting and scanning the room.

  Durran walked back and sat down behind his desk. “I’ve spoken to Carl Etheridge and informed him that you are safe. You may call him later either from here or your hotel room. He speaks extremely highly of you and your abilities.

  “We have assigned one of our agents to work with you. His name is Jacques Lamboise. He brought you in. I’ll have someone take you to your hotel so you can properly freshen up and rest. Hotel d’Angleterre correct?”

  Karen nodded.

  “Your luggage is here along with your purse. It was left on the plane.”

  Durran reached behind and opened a drawer. He handed Karen her handbag and said, “I hope all is in order.”

  Karen looked inside and opened her wallet. She scanned the compartments. “It all seems to be here except I have no weapons and no cellphone.”

  “Etheridge said he would take care of that. Have you any idea who kidnapped you?”

  “Terrorists.”


  “What did they want with you?”

  “My knowledge about what French and U.S. Intelligence knows about their plot.”

  “Before you leave, would you be so kind as to give one of our agents a description of where they held you and the route you used to escape. They’ve probably cleared out by now, but maybe we might learn of their plans if we can find where they were. Also, when you settle in at your hotel, please call Natalie and let her know the direct line to your room. We don’t want to go through the switchboard. She’ll give you her card before you leave.”

  Karen agreed, and she and the director parted ways. After undergoing her debriefing, and connecting with Natalie, she was driven to her hotel in a black, company car. The driver pulled up to 44 Rue Jacob, took the luggage out of the trunk and wheeled it into the lobby.

  Karen had only visited Paris a few times, but she favored Paris’s Latin Quarter—the Left Bank of the River Seine. The bistros, the shops, the narrow streets, and the people intrigued her.

  Etheridge gave her the choice as to where she wanted to stay, and so she chose Hotel d’Angleterre—the old hotel Jacob on the Rive Gauche.

  It was in close proximity to Café les Deux Magots frequented by Simone de Beauvoir, Jean-paul Sartre and Ernest Hemingway. The oldest church in Paris, Eglise of Saint Germain des Pres, was just around the corner along with another well known literary café, Café de Flore.

  Just blocks away were Shakespeare and Company, Notre Dame Cathedral, and the Louvre, Saint Sulpice, Luxembourg Gardens, La Sorbonne and the Orsay museum. All were within walking distance.

  She stepped into the hotel lobby.

  Karen could hear the voice of Dr. Howard, her history professor: Hemingway stayed there, and the Treaty of Paris to end the American Revolutionary War was signed there by Henry Laurens, John Adams, John Jay, and Benjamin Franklin in the courtyard on September 3, 1783.

  She introduced herself to the concierge at the front desk. The concierge told Karen her room was on the second floor in the back of the hotel.

  Karen asked the concierge if it were possible to move to a room in the front of the building.

  The concierge said, “We only have one upper room available, and it is the Saint Germain des Pres suite on the third floor.”