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

by Dale Amidei

  It was a joke, but the humor masked pain, Boone perceived. Like any person in his profession, Bradley despised personal weakness … though perhaps not on the level of his Senior Case Officer. His main concern was not his physical strength or his field skills as it was in her case. The man thinks he failed his duty in marriage once again.

  Bradley's first wife had walked out when he was but a midlevel administrator in CIA’s Directorate of Intelligence. Boone heard the story in the time she and Terry were together. While the first Mrs. Bradley did not have the level of self-absorption Janine displayed, the first breakup was likewise not his idea. Somewhere in the ten years between the first and second go-around, Terrence Bain Bradley convinced himself his life was one able to nurture a relationship with a normal human being. Boone held her doubts in reserve at the nuptials, and nothing had happened since to change her mind.

  Conversely, Bradley’s vision of their working well together seemed to be holding up just fine. She was his Senior Case Officer, handling special assignments in addition to mentoring and advising the Level Ones in the field, some of whom needed more reinforcement than others. Boone realized she had been a relative lone wolf in her previous position. Operating on autopilot for the majority of her assignment in Paris must have looked good when compared to the judgment calls frequently requested by most of the other “Ones.” And it is another reason he bumped me up, her rational side insisted.

  At the same time, the new SCO’s feminine intuition seemed to be telling her something else entirely. A week after taking the job, it was apparent Terry enjoyed her company as much, if not more, than before. Worse, she felt herself gravitating into the same circumstances which had preceded their on-again, off-again physical relationship. Their sexual adventure spanned nearly half the time of his postdivorce bachelorhood. The presidential appointment to his present position followed, and his new status had unfortunately been rewarded by meeting Janine. At the time, she fulfilled perfectly the role of a Washington trophy wife. All due to our onset of mutual sensibilities. Please don’t tell me I’m going to screw up his career as well as I did his second marriage.

  Sitting in her office, Boone ostensibly stared at the wording of her current report while reproaching herself for taking the guilt trip. Janine made her decisions. She is the one who will have to live with them. I saw a fire starting, and I stepped on it. It’s what responsible people do.

  Boone quickly realized the voices in her head were now having an argument. Responsible people don’t unnecessarily expose themselves to jail time in the process, kiddo, her better half declared.

  Well, honey, in my experience, if no one knows, no one cares either. And if there’s one thing Janine doesn’t want going public, it’s what was in her hand in the date-stamped snapshot I took of her kneeling in front of Alec Harper.

  The rejoinder shut her little angel up. The two contenders seemed once again compelled to stop talking to one another, and Boone felt her mind returning to her work. Stay on task, Boone honey. You haven’t a chance here otherwise.

  The SCO knew she was a big girl now, and, as such, it was her duty to balance every aspect of being human: feelings, faith and logic … to hopefully follow a course plotted through life by her adult mind rather than her heart. Maybe this time, after all my years of trying, it for once will actually work out that way.

  “Oh, goddammit … Boone!”

  She heard her boss's exclamation fifteen minutes after her own internal exchange had ended. Oh shit. It’s his don’t-have-time-to-jack-with-a-speakerphone voice. The USIC SCO charged down the hall and into Bradley's office, where he, to her surprise, was already on the phone.

  Clapping his hand over the mouthpiece, he explained, “Cairo. Street protest. Moving toward the Embassy.”

  “Great. I’m getting my desk set.” Boone returned to her office, noting the consternation of the admin assistants. They really should have been used to the sight and sound of emergencies by now, she felt, but instead, they somehow always seemed to resemble a herd of agitated alpacas whenever shit hit the fan. Hourly federal employees, and largely nonessential. I should have gone to tech school instead of Saarbrucken. She unplugged her Voice-over-IP phone from its wall jack and trotted back to Bradley’s office, snapping the unit’s cable into a spare network receptacle on the floor under his desk.

  “Get on the horn to Fletcher. He’ll want in on coordinating the response to this one,” Bradley ordered.

  “Come on, you pile.” Boone stomped her foot impatiently, waiting for the network-enabled Power-over-Ethernet phone to spin itself back up. As soon as she was able, she would call the tough-as-nails Principal Deputy Director of National Intelligence and retired admiral, Allan Fletcher, whose domain was now the military’s member agencies of the USIC. It promised to be a long day. Boone harbored no illusion of being able to follow the alpacas out through the frosted-glass doors once the campus clock struck five o'clock.

  The day's incident was typical of upset endemic to the region after the Arab Spring outbreak had been encouraged by the American administration’s naive foreign policies. The protests in the capital city of Cairo grew and intensified through Egypt’s evening hours and the Virginia midday.

  Bradley and Boone, along with Fletcher, worked equally as hard to pre-position local assets and military response teams, anticipating a possible breach of the American Embassy grounds and any resulting order from the Commander in Chief. The three monitored communications with the Marines on-site, hearing their calls for authorization to fire as the crowds began to rattle the perimeter fencing. Finally, and in the nick of time, exhaustion and cultural obligation combined effects to begin the restoration of order in Egypt. Their military seemed to regain the upper hand, breaking up the frustrated throng in the time leading up to the first, predawn call to prayer.

  For twelve hours, the pair lived on coffee and delivery pizza brought in by ODNI security staffers. At the blessed end of an overly long day, the Director of National Intelligence, the Principal Deputy Director and the Senior Case Officer could finally draw their first unconcerned breath since the morning.

  The crisis had come and gone and so had the day workers and swing shift cleaning crew. After a few, last encouraging words to the PDDNI, Bradley collapsed into his chair. Boone, who managed to unplug her phone from the floor, could not seem to immediately muster the energy to stand up again but leaned against the door to the cabinets behind his desk instead.

  “I need a drink,” he managed.

  “I’ve needed one for six months. You will get used to it,” she replied.

  “Ah, yes. The downside of abstinence. Doing without.”

  Boone did not even have the time to ponder the brilliance of his double entendre before the man rose, obviously weary, and extended a hand to her as she sat at his feet. She latched on, and, between his help up and her stumbling on the caster of his chair, they were once again much closer than was probably a good idea. His hands grasped her shoulders, resting where they had stopped her fall. Her hands were against his chest. No words came ... only the old look from those deadly gray eyes.

  Oh no. “Terry—” she began.

  “Boone,” he answered.

  “Terrence. You should let go.” My, wasn’t that me at my most halfhearted.

  “Boone, kiss me. It’s been long enough, hasn’t it?”

  Longer! She wrapped her arms around his neck, raising herself on her toes with his help, her mouth seeking his in a hunger which had lain unsated for far too long. Damn. Damn, damn, damn.

  His hands were on her now, and neither were hers staying still. She was swiveled around to the top of his desk before she realized it, his arms leaning her back.

  “Terry,” she gasped. “No, not here.” She could tell the brakes were barely working. “Not here,” she said again.

  His eyes seemed to register his understanding, but she could tell their fire had been relit. She acknowledged the inevitable with her next words. “Not with my king bed ten minut
es away.” She could see he hovered at the edge of decision. “Terry, please. For the sake of whatever professionalism we have left.”

  He relented, and she rose, straightening her clothing … thankful nothing had been torn. “Get your coat,” she encouraged, brushing her hair back from her face. “I still have the Escalade.”

  “I’ll be driving,” the DNI insisted.

  “For hours,” she agreed, walking toward his door and her own office with as much dignity as she could muster. “Don’t forget to leave a note for dear Edna if you plan on making it a late morning.”

  Three hours later, Boone found her lover asleep beside her while she luxuriated in a dreamy postlude, the kind precipitated only by breaking an extended sexual drought. Therefore, her internal lecturing could begin again.

  Rebecca Boone Hildebrandt … your moral fiber has all the tensile strength of a wet paper bag. Your professionalism is a profane joke, and your personal resolve is nonexistent.

  Sighing quietly, Boone shook her head in disbelief at the poor decision making she had again allowed to complicate her life. Well, I have to do something with my doctorate in physiology, after all, was her glib answer to the accusing voice in her head.

  Perhaps you missed your true vocation. You would have made a great high-end call girl, the voice's upbraiding comeback countered.

  Terry’s lovemaking had not suffered in the time they were apart. The man served her to climax even in foreplay. Immediately after, he still managed to hold out against her assault until her wall of passion was breached again. You earned what you got next, Mister Bradley. After a short lull, his gently aided recovery followed her incremental buildup of loving touches. Together, they drifted into renewed passion telling him without words, No, you are not finished yet.

  She gave it all to him: laying him down and taking the dominant position, finishing with a tilt back and rodeo rhythm. She concluded his evening with an assault of pleasure equal to what he had just given her—three times.

  So I’m a great lay. I’m also an utter failure as a rational adult mind. Morning will be here eventually. What the hell will I do about him then? Boone looked toward the darkened suite’s work desk, barely able to see the Tiffany lamp and the chain and pendant she had hung there to avoid breakage. Was it the chain I was worried about, or the inhibition? Was I avoiding the next guilt trip I knew was coming until after my deeds—and my man—were done?

  Boone’s head turned back to stare at the hotel ceiling again. Terry, out like a light, breathed slowly and deeply, on his stomach beside her. What can you do, Boone? He needed you, and you needed him just as much, and you’ve always known you love him.

  Life had indeed tested her. She possessed the discipline to earn a doctorate in Europe. After, she proved herself a harbor of strength and endurance sufficient to be awarded a black belt in Vo Binh Dinh from an old Vietnamese man, one who never conceived of teaching a Western female until he had learned her father’s name.

  CIA. Embassy security. Case Officer Level Two. Level One. Level freakin’ Zero. And after all that, I just did the Director of National Intelligence to unconsciousness. Good career move, Boone. You’re brilliant. Wouldn’t Pastor Lin be proud of you now?

  She continued to gaze up at the ceiling, drowsing, knowing her sleep was coming in its turn. What am I? Am I the truth or a lie? Alive or dead inside? Hero? Villain? Agent? Mistress? Dr. Rebecca Boone Hildebrandt knew all of her questions equally demanded answers, and nothing but rest and the effort of another day would give them to her. Take it from here, Boone honey. Try not to screw it all up again tomorrow.

  The Kremlin

  Moscow, Russian Federation

  Dmitry Gennadyevich Lyubov headed the Federal'naya sluzhba bezopasnosti Rossiyskoy Federatsii (FSB), in English the Federal Security Service of the Russian Federation. It was in such a capacity he now walked the halls of the Presidential Residence inside the Kremlin. His armed escorts, forbidden within these walls, remained behind to guard the executive limousine which had brought him across Moscow at the President’s bidding.

  They will better serve me there in any case. Once in this building, my head is on the block. If it is required then it will be taken. I could have a squad of men with me; it would make no difference when the time arrived.

  Lyubov knew his was a balancing act exceeding the danger faced by any Moscow Circus performer. He worked without a net and knew, should his fall come, no colleague present would rush to his aid. Likely instead, his peer’s only contribution would be the pistol bullet ending his brief wait for the judgment rendered by the highest echelon of Federation executive leadership.

  Is this not exactly what happened to Grigory Sergeyevich? He possessed a rare talent for a suicide: the flexibility to shoot himself in the back of his own head. Grigory Sergeyevich Skripochka, former head of Russian Military Intelligence, had met his end earlier in the year. The man gambled his stake at the table of international intrigue and had lost by involving himself with the criminal Mikhail Ivanovich Smolin. Had his conniving not initiated the death of Russian military personnel, he might have survived. As it was, the man embarrassed those who do not brook abashment.

  The resultant power vacuum had elevated the influence of the FSB—and hence Lyubov—while the command of the Federation’s largest foreign intelligence service—the military’s GRU—remained in decapitated flux. Skripochka, who was himself a successor of the more capable Smolin, had likewise kept his successors weak in order to further his own longevity. Lyubov knew the men currently in place were no challenge to him. Not while I manage to survive. Thanks to my friends in Geneva, I now hold the advantage.

  His discreet alliance with the same Western interests Grigory Sergeyevich had tried to double-cross was rewarded with limited access to Web-based intelligence at least equal to any his organization could gather on its own. Furthermore, the InterLynk system presented its bounty in a far more organized and accessible fashion. Only now were his technical people beginning to emulate the Swiss firm's methodology.

  It is clear the President and the Prime Minister need me and my organization more than ever. If I am to survive, it shall be because I extend their dependency into infinity. I will do this by serving the Federation rather than the men who have commandeered her.

  The Russian Federation, so briefly freed after the rise of Boris Yeltsin, now drifted back toward totalitarianism, constrained only by the veneer of representative democracy. The consecutive-term-limited offices of the President and Prime Minister merely exchanged occupants now, after which the status would revert again in another meaningless transfer of titles. Lyubov consciously avoided speculation as often as possible. He focused on reality and on the present. The President will be the power in this place for the foreseeable future. What tomorrow brings I will address in its own time. I am an intelligence professional … not one of the GRU’s damned psychics.

  What he confronted today was having been summoned to an unscheduled meeting with them both: the President and the Prime Minister, who could as well have been a marionette. Nothing on the regional horizon beckoned. It must be the unexpected reelection of the American President. They seek counsel and strategy for the time to come. Lyubov’s mind found enough solace in the thought to ease the tension always accompanying his visits to this place. Evil was resident here, a reality amplified by powerful men who disregarded the validity of the concept.

  Recognized in the President’s outer office, Lyubov was waved into the inner sanctum without a word or announcement. Only a nod and a gesture came from the secretary, who also took his overcoat. The doors to the President's domain were not yet closed. It would be Lyubov’s task as always; his meetings with these men had never yet been conducted within earshot of others. Russia has not changed so much as to make this appointment different in that regard.

  “Ah, Dmitry. You arrive just on time as usual.” The man stood up from the seat behind his massive desk, and the already-present Prime Minister rose with him. Lifting his hand,
the President pointed his finger toward the open side of the massive double panels. “Get the door, if you would, please? We are all here now.”

  “Of course, Mister President.” Well, Dmitry, perhaps you are a psychic after all. Lyubov secured the door and thereby the privacy of the office, with its electronic countermeasures which would make the room difficult for even his own people to surveil. The three men might as well now be speaking on another planet.

  The head of state strode forward when his Director in charge of internal security turned and approached the desk. A hearty handshake and a reassuring pat on the shoulder followed. The head of FSB was even granted a smile affecting some warmth from the Prime Minister. They are in an unusually gregarious mood this day, Lyubov noticed. His guard, however, did not drop; the anomaly merely aroused his curiosity. What development has so elated them?

  “Sit down, Dmitry. We have a lengthy agenda. Some tea?” the man offered his guest.

  “Thank you, I shall,” Lyubov responded, still chilled from his exposure to the winter-like Russian weather.

  The Prime Minister poured as the most powerful man in Russia began, “Thank you for coming on such short notice, Dmitry. We have so much to discuss.”

  “Concerning?” the head of FSB inquired.

  “Very recent developments, my old friend. Opportunities from abroad have arisen, of which we will take full advantage,” the Prime Minister explained. He glanced at his master, once more behind the huge desk. “Much as we thought they would. Significant enough we shall have challenges in accommodating the windfall.” The first in the line of Russian succession handed the newly arrived Director his tea in a tall glass supported by an ornate, silver holder.