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

by Dale Amidei

  Fort Marcy Park was less than five miles from the campus. Between the raven and reinforced Escalade she was driving and her USIC identification, Boone got past the Park Police as they cordoned off the entrance to the public lot. Most of the spaces within were taken up by an assembly of official vehicles. Boone parked on the periphery and strode purposefully toward the yellow crime-scene tape providing another barrier at the transition of asphalt to grass.

  “USIC ODNI,” she informed more Park cops who might or might not have known what her parent organization was. Her confidence, ID and tone proved convincing enough, however, for them to nod and lift the tape up for her.

  The scene was not hard to pick out. As Boone came closer, she saw a dead man in his fifties sitting on a park bench, staring up at the morning sky with his gun in hand on his lap and an amazed expression on his face. She watched forensic photographers snapping frame after frame from varying angles, documenting the sight. Not the last likeness I would want to leave behind. Judging from the location of his wound, at least Del Givens had died instantly. Nearby she spied Eddie having an animated conversation with a younger, larger and far slimmer Park Police supervisor.

  “Lieutenant, you damned well will accommodate the Bureau on this one, if you don’t want to call down a shitstorm that’s gonna last from now until Martin Luther King Day.”

  “I don’t appreciate your language, Agent Catania. As I said before, my Captain is addressing the jurisdictional question right now. I insist your people will not proceed without his authorization.”

  “Eddie. Take a break,” Boone called, for the sake of her friend and Special Agent’s blood pressure as much as her appetite for his assessment.

  Catania glanced her way and then to the resolute Park Police official, shaking his head. After a moment he stomped the few yards to her position, just out of the way of the photographers. “Hey, Boone. Fancy seeing you here.”

  The small woman in black did her best to look unconcerned. “So what can you tell me, Eddie?”

  Motioning with both hands, he answered, “What you see is what I know. Nine-millimeter derringer, a hundred fifty bucks in any pawnshop. We checked with his family, apparently he never mentioned owning the thing … but the trace said he bought it in Virginia two weeks ago. No note, here or at home. They say he seemed distracted over the last couple days.”

  “I imagine a Senior Advisor to the President would seldom be anything but,” Boone commented. She sighed. “Oh, Eddie … why am I not buying into this?”

  “Probably because you’re big on current events—all happening in McLean. It’s been a heavy local news cycle lately, ya gotta admit.”

  Eddie’s being discreet. He still plays well with others. “Does the Bureau always pile your cases on this hot, heavy, and high, paisan?”

  Catania looked into her eyes. “Not if it turns out to all be goin’ in the same folder, ya know what I mean?”

  “Good point,” Boone clipped. On Friday the Administration loses a minor staffer burglarizing a defense contractor. On Saturday one of the President’s insiders caps himself after visiting what’s becoming the D.C. equivalent of a Japanese suicide forest. Connecting these dots is a game even stupid kids can win. Speaking of … “So when does the connection go out to the press?” Boone asked in a nonchalant if conspiratorial tone.

  “Pretty much as we speak. Word came down to CID this morning we’ll treat it as we would any other case.” Eddie looked back at the remains of Delmar Givens, Senior Advisor to the President of the United States. “This bit,” he said, gesturing toward the crime scene, “is gonna make it a story.”

  “Or an explanation,” Boone observed, cool as the weather. FBI still has most of the stand-up guys left in government. Kudos on nutsack content, fellas.

  The FBI Special Agent nodded his agreement. “One way or the other, kid,” Catania pointed again to the corpse on the bench. “whoever started all this got a ball is responsible for a man bein’ dead. That’s the person who I wanna find.”

  “Me too, Eddie. Me too.” And the info ever going public might depend on which one of us gets there first.

  Chapter 8 - Control Issues

  The White House West Wing

  Washington, D.C.

  “What a bloody mess this is. What a stupid, tragic, utterly senseless day,” Valka Gerard said, having been alerted by the same Level Orange advisory which had so many key players in the government reporting this Saturday. She sat at her desk on her side of the jointly occupied Office of the Senior Advisor to the President. The woman bit her knuckle and watched the breaking story of not only her colleague’s death, but also his apparent involvement in criminal activity on the property of one of the U.S. military’s largest defense contractors.

  With her in the office was Bobbi Wetzel, who served both as the Director of Strategic Initiatives and a Deputy Assistant to the President. This is History … and we’re seeing it happen right before our eyes. Wetzel experienced the thought often, working as she did in such close proximity to some of the most powerful people on the planet. She glanced to the obviously distraught Valka Gerard. The short woman with the bobbed, white hair was universally regarded as one of those … as one of the true powers here. Wetzel had watched Senators walk out of the woman’s office in a daze, stunned after a dressing-down. She had so many responsibilities before Del’s death … and with this even more is riding on her shoulders. Roberta Wetzel drew a heavy breath. “Val, it’s a shock to all of us. We have to think about the President. We have to do our jobs.”

  Gerard’s hands dropped, balling into fists on her lap as the ForwardNews live feed droned on in the background. The Senior Advisor nodded, her face regaining her usual, resolute demeanor. “You’re right, of course, Bobbi. I’m so glad you’re here today.”

  As one of Gerard’s subordinate units, Wetzel’s group—Strategic Initiatives—dealt with any issue affecting the political standing of their President. “Have you talked to the Man?” the younger woman inquired.

  Shaking her head, Gerard answered, “Not officially. Off the record, we’ve agreed there needs to be a firewall … for a distance to be kept … for a while anyway, until we see how this situation will shake out.”

  Wetzel found herself wrapping her arms around her own thin frame. “What is going to happen, Val?”

  Gerard’s pale-blue eyes took on a positively icy glint. “I’ll tell you,” she almost growled, staring at the distant flat-panel television. “Right now, some low-level weekend warrior at FN is taking the opportunity to advance his or her career, while the prime-time anchors and their usual daytime counterparts are still on their way into the city.”

  Her words were always worth the time it took to listen. They chilled Roberta Wetzel even more today.

  The Senior Advisor went on. “In a few minutes, one of them will dredge up the sound bite from Seoul.” The cold glare of the President’s longtime political ally turned to focus on her junior colleague. “We will have speculation of Del’s involvement in this business with DARIUS and the President’s offhand remark being somehow related. We'll see a rehash complete with the video. The damage done, and the bones made, their little shit will retire to the background, smirking about the points garnered while our President takes the hit. By then, the senior journalists will be on-camera, and we can start to breathe a little easier until the time comes to follow up. It will not be until then—once we have our position on the matter distributed—that we can put the entire matter to bed and start the next news cycle.”

  As if on queue, the blonde anchoring FN’s Saturday special broadcast turned to another of the network’s reporters. This one the junior woman in Gerard’s office could not remember at all, despite swimming in a sea of current events for a living. Gerard raised the remote and then the volume of the television.

  “Jack, I understand you have a report on growing speculation saying this morning’s tragic death of Delmar Givens is about to be tied to a very recent break-in at a Washington-area we
apons-development firm?”

  “Marla, that’s exactly what we are hearing. As you know, this spring in Seoul, the President had an open-mic incident—”

  In a flash Gerard angrily snapped off the power to the set. “Little shit. What did I just tell you?”

  “Val, we have to get on top of this, fast,” Wetzel implored.

  “It’s your job, Bobbi. Suggestions?”

  The Director of Strategic Initiatives thought the matter through. “We have to insulate the President, obviously. We’ll do this by providing the clearest picture we can of the proper narrative.” She looked at the expectant Gerard. “Del was a former chair of the PIAB.” That’s it … the definite explanation the press will want.

  His most recent appointment prior to Special Advisor status, on the President’s Intelligence Advisory Board Givens had acted as a buffer between USIC oversight and the Office of the President. Working closely with so many dark elements of not only the government’s intelligence organs, but also those of foreign powers, Wetzel figured, had undoubtedly led to an unfortunate arrangement with one or another of them. Del had become aware of the potentially lucrative nature of DARIUS missile defense technology, and obviously went rogue.

  “He could have retained any number of entanglements which returned to haunt him later.” Wetzel continued to grow her narrative. Suddenly aware of her gaze into the distance, she refocused on Valka Gerard. “The temptation to cash in on an intel windfall got the better of him. Being leveraged into involvement in a data breach at DARIUS could easily have been the result of one of those past associations. We can leak enough of Del’s past ties to intelligence types to make the meme fly.”

  “And it gives the next little shit a story to run down—one which will take long enough to develop it will get lost in the current of more clearly enunciated items.” Gerard nodded her head in a slow and contemplative fashion. Afterward, a hint of a smile reappeared. “This will do, Bobbi. Run with it.” The decision, as typical for the Senior Advisor, had come quickly.

  “I’m on it, Val.” Wetzel pivoted to reclaim her coat and bag from the chair near Gerard’s door. The Deputy Assistant’s brainstorm meant she had just drawn a long weekend of work in the Eisenhower building … but how often will I get the chance to save a Presidency? Agility was everything in Washington politics. The key to survival was to ready acceptable answers to questions which had not yet been asked. It was time to assemble a buffet line of responses long enough to feed a hungry press pool.

  Valka Gerard spent the remainder of the morning digging into the security briefing summary of the overnight incident at DARIUS, since the press seemed determined to link the break-in to Del’s suicide. Something is different here.

  She referenced an earlier edition sitting farther down the stack in her overloaded e-mail Inbox. Scanning the summary item again, the discrepancy jumped out at her. There was no initial identification of the bodies due to a lack of documents at the scene. Switching back to the current revision, she found the explanation. Ah, so Del’s employee just happened to have his wallet slip out of his pocket and hide itself under a server cabinet. Of course it did, the cynical thought came. That sort of thing happens all the time.

  One aspect of the current briefing remained unchanged: it mentioned no leads as to the identity of the individual who had shot down two federal employees in cold blood. Someone knew enough to get there in time to kill Dex and Zeke. Del’s tech gurus had been proficient enough to eliminate any evidence of their own actions inside the facility. Little did they know they would also prevent any identification of the person or persons who would end their lives.

  Who? How? Why? Valka Gerard needed to know the answers. This bombshell had hit too close to her President to ignore. As the sole-surviving Senior Advisor could now see, the shooter had obviously removed the identifying items from the scene. Later, the same party had either returned them or passed them along to the FBI. What sort could do such a thing? The answer seemed clear. Invisible, dangerous people … with information. It described perfectly the intelligence types Del used to manage. One of them leaked his intentions, or sold him out to the entity whose asset marginalized his operators. Which? Gerard picked up her telephone handset and hit the appropriate speed dial to Bobbi Wetzel’s office.

  Almost immediately the Deputy Assistant and worker bee picked up. “Strategic Init—oh, hi, Val.”

  Feeling her jaw muscle tense, Gerard’s thoughts never slowed. “Bobbi, how confident can we be in the integrity of our staff?”

  At the other end, the question was obviously unexpected. “Our people? God, Val. Practically every one of them has been here since Chicago.”

  She’s right. “Help me think this through, Bobbi. Del’s intentions aside, how is it—barring any of his people betraying the others—his operators’ actions were so neatly interdicted on Friday night?”

  Contemplative silence followed. “There is no way, Val. But that doesn’t mean it was one of us.”

  “Who then?” She could hear Wetzel sigh, and waited through another pause for reflection before hearing her subordinate answer.

  “Someone on the receiving end. It had to be.”

  Wonderfully original thinking. Gerard, however, found she had arrived at a logical impasse. “It seems incredulous to me a beneficiary would take any action to prevent such a significant strategic gain.”

  “Everybody’s politics is all about who the winners and losers are, Val. Think about it. The other side was probably pretty incredulous Del was willing to give up the DARIUS platform, whatever his reasoning. Profit … diplomatic outreach … whatever. Someone didn’t like what was going on, and they squeaked Del out.”

  Damn. This kid’s good. It was the Senior Advisor’s turn to indulge in thoughtful silence. “Say you’re right. How does such information get from there to here?”

  “The spooks are all connected now, Val. They’re all running through the same network. InterLynk.”

  “Interlinked? How do you mean?”

  “L-y-n-k, Val. It’s a private intelligence outfit out of Geneva. CIA started it a few years ago. They’re doing gangbusters business all around the world selling access to information. It’s becoming the social network of the shaken-not-stirred types. Any level of intel could pass spook-to-spook in a heartbeat.”

  To Gerard it felt as if her blood suddenly ran cold. “We allow this?”

  The other woman vocalized her affirmation before continuing. “From what I heard it kind of got out of control. It’s always like that with private enterprise. What can you do, you know?”

  “I can goddamn well bring it back under control.” As Wetzel went silent even Gerard was shocked she allowed the thought to slip out from between her teeth. The Senior Advisor drew a calming breath. “Sorry, Roberta. My anger was not directed at you, dear.”

  “I understand, Val. It’s been a bad day everywhere.”

  “Thank you so much. I will let you get back on task.”

  “Sure thing.”

  Hanging up the phone, Gerard now saw her unanswered questions resolve themselves, one after another, in the foreground of her mind. It certainly could have happened just such a way. If not, it’s a matter of time before we actually do get blindsided by an out-of-control intelligence network. Intolerable to an extreme.

  Success in politics, as she knew from long experience, depended on contingency planning and risk management coupled with valid strategic thinking. Reigning in the government’s child organizations will address each of those areas of concern. Undirected action yielded unpredictable results, and some of those had just cost her colleague his life. It was time for a more organized mind to take charge. Valka Gerard sat quietly and thought as the web of a new organizational chart began to take shape in her mind.

  Though not officially designated as essential personnel, Samantha Coffin was spending her Saturday afternoon in the East Wing catching up on her never-ending work. As the White House Social Secretary, her office managed every even
t involving the admission of a guest into the White House: from State dinners for hundreds to the reception of a solitary official. Currently, she was mulling over the recommended changes to the invitation graphics and calligraphy for the upcoming Thanksgiving events. The invites absolutely had to go out before the end of the day. Consequently, if anyone other than Valka Gerard had called her desk phone just now, the attempt would have gone unanswered. “Val. So good to hear from you,” Coffin lied. “How can I help you?”

  “Oh, Sam, I’m sorry to call,” the Senior Advisor apologized in a tone which, as usual, promised to brook no insubordination. “I was looking at the State Dining Room for the week after next. It looks like Monday is unscheduled. Is it still the case?”

  “I am almost certain you’re correct,” Samantha replied, flipping to the appropriate tab of her planning software to make doubly certain. If there’s any time I wouldn’t want to be wrong, it’s now. She saw the same empty block of space Valka Gerard had spied.

  “Fantastic. I have a group I’d like to bring in for an evening social.”

  “Numbers?” Coffin asked, creating an entry for the date.

  “Call it seventy. Drinks and heavy hors d'oeuvre.”

  A few clicks of the keyboard and it was finished. “Done. When can we have the guest list?”

  “A bit of research, dear, and I’ll have the names by the end of the day.”

  “Perfect. Is electronic notification acceptable?” Please, God, let her say it is.

  “Quite.” Gerard’s voice held an odd inflection. “These people are all very wired.”

  “Consider it done. Notifications will go out on Monday.”

  “You are a treasure, Sam. Look for my e-mail.”

  The call ended, and Samantha Coffin felt as if she could cry. Her workload said otherwise. Any breakdown, she thought in despair, would have to be scheduled months in advance, and her calendar was full.