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

by Dale Amidei

  It was this night, effectively the beginning of the second term, which her every effort of the last two years had gone toward securing. The first four years in office, though they contained their own achievements, were merely the launching pad for the second. Valka saw something other than raw emotions in the sleep-deprived faces of the crowd now listening to him speak. She saw opportunity … and ever-growing power. The President’s Senior Advisor saw a significant barrier lowered now with concerns over re-election to a second term evaporated.

  Demonstrated intent could now replace restraint for the sake of appearance. Candor would overtake inhibition. The subtlety of the first term was coming to an end though none of the smooth words now flowing across the reflective screens on either side of his podium would exhibit transition. She watched his head swivel from the left display to the one on his right, noting the set of his shoulders as he emphasized what they would hear as a significant highlight. She observed his practiced smile and accentuating nod as he delivered the image of a leader for the benefit of the cameras. Network news faithfully propagating the delivery was a given.

  This is his victory. This is his night. But the things to come will be mine. With the rest of them, Valka Gerard applauded when the time came. Her introspection moved into the background of her mind, interrupted by the crowd’s programmed response to his cogent delivery. She did not feel the need for any recognition. No, visibility could sometimes itself prove counterproductive. A Senior Advisor required only respect for the power she had come to wield from the back offices of the West Wing. Respect, as she knew well after so many years in politics, was learned. Those who do not yet know will be need to be educated, and those who stand in the way will need to burn. She could barely wait to begin as she applauded once more, just as everyone in attendance did. Though her role was much different than theirs, she joined them so as not to detract from the moment, the purpose of the gathering. The apparent masked the unapparent this night, always as it did in successful strategy.

  “Valka, dear, let me offer my congratulations.”

  The deep, accented voice emanating from over her left shoulder belonged, she knew, to none other than Benedek Jancsi Novak. Like her, the man was also of foreign birth though his extraction was Carpathian. The Hungarian-American’s finances, however, were the internationally recognized colors of green and gold. From an accumulation of wealth thousands of times greater, he lavished millions exclusively on causes such as the long campaign effort which had only just prevailed this night.

  “Benedek! How good it is that you should join us,” she said, turning to greet him with her most dazzling smile. The embrace and kiss on the cheek were perfunctory. His heavy features radiated as much of a sense of satisfaction, she was sure, as did her own. The financier, she was certain, had leveraged buyouts and brought down currencies using sums making the expenditures of other major campaign contributors seem trivial. This night is partially his as well, and the man knows as much.

  “A hard-fought victory!” he exclaimed, beaming. His voice took on a lower, more subtextual tone. “And to the victor belong the spoils. Was it not one of your own who said it so long ago?”

  “Indeed Benedek … William Learned Marcy, who was a distinguished senator in his time if my recollection of history does not fail me.” Her eyes returned to the supporters who had by now joined her President on stage to culminate the celebration. Supporters … but not insiders. We know our own.

  Commenting with obvious derision, Novak replied, “Ah, senators.” He included an addendum as his smile returned. “Yet, it is possible to transform them into a more useful commodity, is it not so?”

  “Benedek,” she reproved him. Her eyes settled once more on one of her party’s most ardent and well-financed backers. “I must thank you for the use of the jet. The value of the time it saved me during the course of the campaign is incalculable.”

  He gestured expansively. “Operating costs are deductible, my dear. And please, forgive my cynicism. It is an aftereffect of time spent in the real world.” The billionaire motioned toward the stage. “Your show is almost over, Valka. Whatever will occupy your days to come?”

  As if you need to ask, old man. Valka restrained the smirk as her first inclination in response to his question. “All things in their own time, of course.” Look at him. He understands completely without a word needing to be said.

  “Ah, yes, and are those not the sweetest?” His eyes had followed hers to the stage. After a moment, his gaze returned from there to her again. “They are the fruits of patience, and the harvest of timing which acquiesces to the demands of practicality. Agendas … aged in reserve to perfection. It is much the same in politics as business.”

  They will all be the same concern soon. And you know how you will be there with us, don’t you, my old friend? Her eyes engaged his with warmth reserved for only a few. “You wax poetic tonight! You know we are grateful for your support in every area, Benedek. Not only your money, but your advice, and always your business insight.” She thought the Hungarian look pleased. Yes, Benedek Jancsi. You know it is time.

  “Rest assured, dear lady, I will be there. With what shall we start?”

  “The matter we last discussed, I should think. The moment seems to have arrived, does it not?”

  He appeared to agree. “Yes, yes. All is in place, just as we expected.” He smiled faintly. Their conversation concluded, with the late hour seeming to finally register on his flagging exuberance. He gave her one last evaluating glance.

  A businessman’s expression. She had seen it before.

  “The hour is late, my dear, and it seems for now we have done everything necessary. Tomorrow brings its own priorities. Rest assured I will be attending those forthwith.”

  Valka Gerard delivered her last smile aimed at him just as expertly as she had her first. This one required less effort as he took her hand. “Until I hear from you again, Benedek … thank you in advance for your help in what we will do together.”

  “Indeed, my dear. Indeed.” The financier moved away, and his people—experts themselves in remaining in the background—left with him.

  At the same time, her assigned Secret Service agents carefully repositioned themselves in the shadows, even farther out of the glare of the klieg lights trained on the stage. So it begins already, she thought as she watched Novak and his entourage depart. Initiative upon initiative waited to follow, like water flowing over the top of a dam. The administration she served was now poised to transform the country. The other nations of the world waited in queue.

  Chapter 2 - Level Zero

  Fairfax County, Virginia

  Wednesday morning

  Traffic was light on the 495 heading up from Annandale. Rex Schilling knew it was due to the delayed election returns. The morning’s news had fully validated his late-night decision to give up on waiting and hit the rack. Whatever the outcome, he had known his body would still need a minimum amount of sleep to operate with anywhere near the mental efficiency his position regularly demanded.

  The election results—and an account of the swing-state drama preceding them—were prominently featured on his clock radio’s top-of-the-hour headlines upon his waking, and the reporting had not been to his liking. As the Senior Case Officer for USIC Director Terry Bradley, however, Rex oversaw assignments which were at their core disturbing and intolerable nearly every day. At least today, none of them will involve management infighting. Ohio was called at four in the morning. Good God, half the town will probably be sleeping until noon.

  True to form, traffic seemed to sense him coming as he approached the Leesburg Pike. The lure of the more freely moving rightmost lanes sucked him in. As if on cue, a slow-moving vehicle ahead of his Corvette and a tractor-trailer beside him combined to congest what were, seconds ago, the “fast” lanes. In apparent synchronization, they compromised what should have been a painless a.m. commute.

  C’mon, buddy, Rex thought as he sent a telepathic message to the driv
er ahead of him. Unless you want us both to go onto the 7, we need to get out of this lane.

  Finally, the van ahead seemed to understand what the overhead signs had been telling them for the last three-quarters of a mile. It accelerated briskly and then really put the horses under the hood to work as the lane divider changed to dotted white; soon it would become solid, signifying the imagined point of commitment to the exit for Virginia SR 7. The Chevy V-8 powering his Corvette responded as Schilling accelerated in his determination to follow the vehicle ahead. It was a last bid to pass, albeit on the right, the semi pacing them.

  Another vehicle, big and black like the reinforced battlewagon SUVs the Secret Service and his own USIC fielded, came up fast on his six o’clock. It appeared the newcomer also wanted to squeeze through the fast-diminishing window of opportunity to escape the 495’s slowdown.

  You crazy son of a bitch. You’re never going to— He barely saw the brake lights of the van ahead illuminate and didn’t see at all whatever had prompted its driver to suddenly change his mind. Worse, the driver of the SUV behind did not seem to heed the warning lights in the least. Idiot! Are you trying to kill me?

  The van again raced ahead now, and Schilling’s foot moved from the brake to the accelerator in an attempt to prevent the rear-end collision his mind warned him was coming anyway. Nope.

  The crash bar's jarring impact on his vehicle’s rear quarter lifted the back wheels of the sports car from the roadbed. To Schilling’s amazement, it turned his entire vehicle straight toward the concrete traffic barriers lining the shoulder. He heard the roar of the motor behind him and realized the big vehicle to his rear was doing nothing to prevent what was happening. The notion stayed with him as the roll of his car seemed to shift into slow motion. The world tilted crazily, with the top of the barrier heading straight toward the fragile roof of his red convertible. His final thought was the unjust irony of his death being classified in the police report as an accident.

  Those who might have been not only nearby but monitoring the correct FRS band might have caught the terse order passing between the van, the black SUV and the tractor-trailer via short-range communications equipment. The code word uttered, though, would hardly have been understood. Afterward, the pair of passenger vehicles returned to the 495 as did the big rig. Its covering action assured there would be no effective witnesses to the operation just concluded. Upended with its passenger compartment bisected by the top of the traffic barrier, the mangled state of the red convertible left no doubt as to the effort’s success.

  United States Embassy

  Paris, France

  Wednesday afternoon

  Boone was busy assimilating the afternoon additions—morning, really, since they originated in the U.S. Eastern time zone—to the USIC global SITREP. Her MacBook was limited inside the Embassy building to hard-wired connections only. Network security regulations further restricted the personal machines of authorized visitors and employees, such as hers, to the isolated ports available only in this particular room on the other side of the wall from the Com Center.

  Renee—the communications supervisor—appeared, sticking her head through the doorway of the staff research library. “Doctor Hildebrandt? You have a call from Director Bradley in McLean. Would you prefer taking it on the clean phone?” the portly woman asked, wearing a detached headset around her neck.

  Surprised, Boone looked up. “Oh, yes. Thank you. I will be there right away.” As Renee disappeared, Boone hurriedly folded her MacBook. She then detached it from the patch cable tethering her to the interior wall of the study cubicle, stowing the machine in its Apple backpack.

  Her status since the late spring had been one of a semi-permanent guest of the Ambassador. Here on the grounds, she was relegated to basic accommodations pending her upcoming review and possible reassignment to another duty station. She doubted Terry Bradley would be of a mind to force such a transition, but in government service anything was possible. Once her future solidified, it would then be time to find another hotel. Boone hoped she could match the homey elegance of the establishment on the Rue Marbeuf which had satisfied her for so long. It was a satisfactory arrangement until, at least, a grenade attack had blown her cover—as well as the door to her room on the fifth floor—to smithereens.

  Prudently she took the backpack with her. However unlikely the possibility an Embassy staffer would swipe her notebook, Boone never took the risk of losing her primary means of communication with her employing agency. Besides, it also has all my music on it, not to mention a wonderfully pornographic and incriminating digital snapshot of Janine Harrison-Bradley ... one she has to know is waiting to go out onto the Internet should I have any trouble with the little tramp ever again.

  Terry had gotten his uncontested—if not yet finalized—divorce from a spiteful, betraying bitch of a wife. The woman, from what details he shared, simply cited “irreconcilable differences.” Apparently she had taken to heart Boone’s warnings. From the USIC operative's perspective, it was much rather better than having Jan ever relate to him her encounter with a small redhead, dressed in black and sporting a digicam and suppressed 9mm pistol, late one July night in Virginia.

  As Renee settled back in at her desk, Boone returned her thoughts to the present and crossed the communications center. The DNI’s agent reached the glassed-in carrel of the clean phone, situated in the corner across from the door, as the woman heading Embassy Communications returned the plug of her headset to her supervising phone. A glance came from the com manager and then a gesture, and Boone heard the phone inside the enclosure ring. She waved and nodded to Renee before entering, latching the transparent door to assure the privacy of her imminent conversation before picking up the waiting handset. The connection, she could tell, was not on speaker. “Terrence, dear,” she fairly purred. “How lovely it is to hear from you.”

  “Likewise, Doctor. The day here probably can’t be salvaged, unfortunately.”

  Damn. Such an unusually blunt prognosis for Terry. Without conscious effort Boone’s tone changed to one of a concerned friend. “I’m so sorry. What can I do?” She heard him clicking away at his keyboard, there at his desk in ODNI.

  His voice took on an air of concentration. “It looks like you still have time to catch an overnight out of de Gaulle. How does a morning appointment sound?”

  “Horrid, but I’ll be there, of course,” Boone answered honestly. She leaned back in the booth’s uncomfortable, bargain-basement folding chair. “But please tell me at least you’re not winging me back across the Atlantic purely for the sake of my company.”

  “I wouldn’t ordinarily be able to rule it out, but unfortunately this trip is guaranteed to be all business.”

  “Then I’ll wear slacks,” she promised.

  “You’re a treasure, Agent Hildebrandt. I’ll see you here at zero-eight-hundred Eastern, then. You’ll have Friday free to make up for it. Details, I’m afraid, are restricted until then,” he informed his Case Officer.

  “Certainly, Mister Bradley, sir.”

  His voice took on a soft enough tone to convince her she was not in trouble. It assuaged the thought of returning to face arrest in Virginia. “Safe travel, Boone. I’ll see you tomorrow, bright and early, please.”

  “Until the morrow, mon ami,” came the easy reply. The connection severed, and Boone replaced the handset. She stared at the device for a moment, despite the fact she should have already been in her room, packing her bags. Bloody hell. What just happened that Terry won’t discuss over a secured and encrypted phone line?

  Liberty Crossing

  McLean, Virginia

  Thursday morning

  Feeling dualistic after her travel ordeal, Boone had dressed in the white Chanel blouse and slacks she had picked up in Seoul earlier in the year. The great looks of her strappy pumps, however, would not begin to compete with their complete impracticality on a November day in D.C. Instead, she was shod with a more tactical choice of low, sturdy wedges. They were, o
f course, coordinated well over insulating silk hose. The footgear deserved nothing less while bearing the maker’s mark of an exclusive shop in Paris. Her long, black coat and white scarf, as well as her usual impenetrably dark, round-lensed shades, completed the ensemble. She knew she looked professional, and successful, and her best. Current, Confident, Competent, and Capable. Ready for anything you care to bring, unpredictable world.

  The three security stations had her name in the system for an early arrival, and so she was able to pass directly into the inner sanctum of the Office of the Director of National Intelligence. There, the suite—beyond the frosted glass etched with the seals of the USIC and the ODNI—remained early-day darkened and still secured. She tried her access card and found it worked just as well for the outer office as it always had for Terry’s. Boone smiled, wishing his rotund and usually disapproving administrative supervisor, Edna Reese, was here to be a witness. I mustn’t surprise her should she come in, Boone resolved. The poor woman could easily have a coronary. Better I should wait in Terry’s space.

  As she entered, Boone smelled before she saw the outer office had experienced an influx of floral arrangements … a conclusion she could confirm as the motion-activated lighting brought up the overhead fluorescents. Every desk held the handiwork of a florist, and a folding table set up near the glass exterior wall held the overflow.

  She took in the sight, wondering how many trips through the triple-layer security Terry’s people had been forced to make during the previous day in order to transport the vases of flowers and potted plants displayed here. Wedding? Anniversaries? Someone’s new baby? Boone’s analytical side kicked in a moment later. No. Sympathy!