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

by Dale Amidei

  Liberty Crossing

  McLean, Virginia

  Monday morning

  Boone had arrived and settled in, as usual, before her boss or coworkers. This morning, however, some of the others followed close enough behind to be in the door before she had fully shed her coat. Likewise, Bradley arrived in a punctual fashion shortly afterward. Boone wondered if her habitual timeliness was beginning to diffuse to the rest of ODNI.

  Her morning coffee had barely started its drizzling promise of rejuvenation when Bradley rang her line. She picked up the handset. Using a speakerphone to take a call from the Director of National Intelligence should be a firing offense. “Yes, sir,” she answered, just in case he had her on speakerphone. A moment later, she could hear he did.

  “Boone, could you come in here? You’re not going to believe this.”

  She hung up as did he. Fifteen seconds later, ODNI’s Senior Case Officer stood in the Director's open doorway. With his finger Bradley indicated she should flip up the doorstop he must have set only a few minutes previously.

  “What do we have now?” she wondered aloud.

  “An invitation. Look,” the DNI insisted.

  Crossing behind his desk for a peek, she peered down at his monitor. The invite, though electronic, was every bit as well executed as an engraved missive could have been. It featured at the top the iconic blue-and-white representation of their Chief Executive’s mansion. “Nice,” Boone commented with a snicker. “Are you going to go?”

  Bradley snorted. “This is a summons, not an invitation. Look at the fellow recipient addresses,” he said, extending a finger toward the top of the e-mail.

  Her eyes flicked, scanning the list of addressees. “Lovely. They want the directors heading all of your sundry constituent organizations to attend. I’d say someone is planning an evening intelligence confab,” Boone observed, backing off to the appropriate side of his desk.

  “Analysis?”

  A grimace on her face, Boon replied, “The timing, Terrence, cannot be an accident coming so soon after an Executive Branch fumble of last week’s magnitude. But why?”

  Reading between the invitation's lines, Bradley paused in thought before answering. “Damage control follows damage assessment. Someone in the West Wing isn’t content with pinning DARIUS on Givens. They are obviously playing Little Dutch Boy.”

  It follows, Boone thought. “Of course. Power politics is the reaction to a perceived loss of control. They’ve intuited it was an element of the Intelligence Community who interdicted the DARIUS appropriation, and they want to reassert dominance over the administration’s gaggle of wayward children in order to prevent recurrence.”

  “As well as attempt to determine culpability, possibly.” Bradley agreed.

  It was Boone’s turn to apply her intelligence professional’s mind to what was becoming a tactical planning session. “Terry, if we’re right, whoever is pushing this was responsible for killing a Senior Advisor to the President. A level of sociopath who would not hesitate to marginalize someone lower on the org chart.”

  “Exactly,” Bradley agreed. Inexplicably, the thought seemed to bring a smile to his face. “Do you have anything to wear?” he asked.

  Thank you for flying WTF Airlines. Boone cocked her head, her hand going to her hip. “You cannot be serious.”

  “I need a companion. Consider it an excuse to go shopping on company time.”

  “You are not playing fair,” she objected.

  Regaining most of his professional demeanor, Bradley countered her complaint. “Boone, it’s a chance to address a Level Zero case file. One doesn’t just waltz into the White House and start grilling random staffers. They’ve opened the door. Let’s walk in and see if the players on the opposing force are as good at these games as they imagine themselves to be.”

  Boone discerned danger on every level of the DNI’s proposal. She also knew he was absolutely right. The perpetrators were likely to be politically insulated to the point of being unapproachable in any other fashion. After a gender-appropriate interval for consideration, she acceded. “Possibly something by Dior. I will try to be considerate of the office operating budget.”

  “Excellent, Agent Hildebrandt. We’ve got a week.”

  Lovely. In the meantime, I can spend my time thinking of anatomical targets vulnerable to the thrust of an hors d’oeuvre skewer, just in case.

  Chapter 9 - Swords

  The White House

  Washington, D.C.

  One week later

  The State Dining Room had been designated as such since the time of Andrew Jackson’s administration. It had, of course, seen many renovations since then. More than one such project involved the fireplace, in use now with a cheery and expertly constructed blaze flickering. Boone was draped in a Dior rose evening dress with a bustier insert. Thanks to the expert alterations by the designer’s seamstress, the piece accentuated the effort the Senior Case Officer applied toward maintaining her physique. It was, however, an after-dark November soiree in D.C., and as a result, Boone was cold. The evening dress, no matter how stunning the redhead who wore it, was anything but winter-weather wear. A touch of gold and jade jewelry at her throat and wrist—as much as she ever cared to display—accentuated her ensemble perfectly.

  The DNI sported a conservative cut by Armani. Men. They invented the black-tie affair to make their wardrobe choices effortless. Boone discreetly admired Bradley’s physique in the reflection of the mirrored frame of a nearby wall hanging. Whatever else Janice did to him, at least she encouraged his investment in a proper tuxedo.

  After enduring the prescribed ceremony of greeting by the President and First Lady—both of whom will be retiring from the gathering early if Terry’s suspicions bear out—the two ODNI representatives could position themselves to observe the remainder of the evening’s guests arrive. Boone stood beside her supervisor, her arm nestling in the crook of his elbow. They were near the fire … where her goose bumps had steered them.

  Bradley sipped champagne. Boone held a similar flute filled with mineral water. Neither the bar nor the trays of hors d'oeuvre seemed subject to overindulgence by any of the invitees so far though some secondary guests had obviously come to feed. All of Terry’s people seemed to be taking as cautious a tack as their boss. Everyone is waiting, Boone observed. For what?

  Predictably, various familiar faces appeared: the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency with his wife, and following closely the Deputy Director of Operations with a new significant other. Boone sipped her mineral water. Interesting. Does this signify a rift between the head honcho and DD/Intel, I wonder?

  Next in line came a gray-haired man of medium height and maintaining a still-athletic build though one showing the inevitable, if resisted, effects of age. With him was a woman whom Rebecca Boone Hildebrandt had known all of her life. And the only one I’ve ever been afraid of.

  Bradley recognized her father as well. “Well, there’s a surprise,” he commented.

  “Hmm?” Boone murmured, feigning distraction.

  Pointing toward the door, Bradley indicated the latest arrivals. “It’s General McAllen, and apparently his missus, whom I’ve not met previously.”

  “Ah, the General,” she responded. “He’s looking well.” Her mind shifted into overdrive. Removing Boone’s family ties out of her private records had been her father’s decision, one which had taken place in high school. By listing only her mother as a parent, and under Karla McAllen’s maiden name of Hildebrandt, her father—then living deep in the dark of military intelligence operations—felt his daughter’s security had been enhanced. The discretionary effort held to the present day. Great. Just great. Dear God, what a disaster this could be.

  The General’s aide, as each agency head had been allowed, appeared to be Daniel Sean Ritter. Tall and perennially fit, the also-retired USAF Lieutenant Colonel was accompanied by his stunning Iraqi spouse, Farrah. Behind the InterLynk delegation was Bradley’s own second, the gru
ff and likewise retired Admiral Allan Fletcher. ODNI’s Principal Deputy Director of National Intelligence escorted his wife of many years.

  The couples passed through the receiving line, with Farrah and the First Lady having an especially warm moment. The President’s wife appeared to be taken by the foreign woman’s ankle-length, silk dinner dress. Dear Lord, Missus Ritter is absolutely beautiful tonight. No wonder Sean is so dangerous in the field. He has this lovely creature awaiting his return.

  Boone watched her father and Fletcher have their own personal moment, as the two men shared a history spanning decades back to their multiple tours in Vietnam. After her father slapped the Admiral on the shoulder, wearing his Gotcha Grin, she watched her dad turn toward the fireplace, pointing and whispering an aside to her mother. Here they come. Mom is guaranteed to be double-damned tickled by having to play the stranger with her own daughter.

  “General McAllen, this is a surprise. I hadn’t seen your name on the initial invitations,” Bradley greeted the older man, extending his hand for a firm shake. The DNI turned to Boone. “You remember Doctor Hildebrandt, of course.”

  “I can never forget her,” her dad said with a glint in his eye. He motioned to the woman on his right. “May I introduce my wife Karla? Karla, honey, this is Terry Bradley, the Director of National Intelligence, accompanied by Doctor Rebecca Hildebrandt. You’ve heard me mention her before.”

  “Call me Boone,” she encouraged. God, Mom is pissed.

  “Karla, then,” her mother’s accented voice clipped in the woman’s typically Teutonic fashion. Her eyes returned to Boone’s Director. “I’m so glad to make your acquaintance, Mister Bradley.”

  “Likewise, madam,” the DNI replied easily, oblivious.

  “You’re looking well, General,” Boone noted. “And I hear your enterprise is as successfully prevalent as ever.”

  Her father patted his stomach. “We do what we can … all around, Doctor.”

  “Don’t we, though,” she agreed. Oh, Daddy, enjoy the evening. Mom is so going to kick your ass for making her go through this.

  Ever observant, Bradley again pointed out a new arrival to his companions. “And there we have the financier Benedek Jancsi Novak.”

  Glancing up, Boone saw Novak moving toward the receiving line. The USIC Senior Case Officer engaged her photographic memory of individuals and immediately recognized his pair of security escorts. And there go two familiar faces. Why, if it isn’t Mutt and Jeff from the parking lot at DARIUS. Isn’t that damned interesting, now. The men, both seemingly recovered from their respective knocks on the noggin, turned away from the entrance to the State Dining Room. Content to wait outside, as your employer has directed. Hope you didn’t get a rash from tearing off my layers of duct tape, boys.

  “This is apparently not exclusively an intelligence mixer,” the DNI observed.

  McAllen sipped his champagne, plucked from the tray of a passing waiter. “I don’t know I can agree, son.” He motioned with his glass of bubbly toward the Hungarian-American. “Foreknowledge is his forte. I dare say the man could match any one of us in the scope of his data set … at least in matters of the financial realm.”

  Once more her father imbibed his sparkling beverage. Boone could see the steely eyes she knew so well were deep in thought. “Though,” McAllen continued, “his interest in politics is also … significant, to put it lightly.”

  “Excellent points, General,” Bradley allowed.

  “Has he any investments in the defense industry, I wonder?” Boone asked in a casual manner. She knew her boss would take the question as all business.

  “Doctor, by now the man’s money is almost everywhere,” Bradley posited.

  Boone watched her father’s brow rise as he nodded his silent agreement. Well, well. Then maybe ODNI is going to get its money’s worth out of this Dior after all. Boone sipped her water, watching the financier move through the line of officials. None of them seemed to need an introduction. We will need an introduction of our own one of these days, though not before I have my reunion with your security staff.

  Turning, Boone then saw Sean Ritter and Farrah detach from Admiral Fletcher and drift their way toward the coziness of the fire as well. The SCO refrained from making any introductions while her father spun up his own social graces.

  “Mister Bradley, may I present my Director of Field Operations, Colonel Sean Ritter,” her dad said in introduction.

  “Retired,” Ritter added as the men shook hands. “And my wife Farrah,” the InterLynk man said. With a sidestep, he moved out of the way, allowing Bradley to take her hand also.

  “Charmed,” Bradley said, getting the woman’s dazzling smile in response. He motioned to Boone as she twirled her mineral water. “My Senior Case Officer, Doctor Rebecca Boone Hildebrandt.”

  Rejoining the conversation, Boone commented, “Ah yes. Farrah and I met earlier this year in New York. The occasion started with a bang.” Actually, a full magazine burst. It certainly doesn’t look as if she’s any more thrilled to be near me now.

  “Doctor,” Farrah said, with both her voice and her smile cooling. “I remember your hair … as well as everything else.”

  Yes, it’s me. I see nearly getting your husband killed afterward weighs more than does initially saving his life. Boone resorted to another sip from her glass after managing a polite smile. Oh, my. Don’t mess with this one, Boone honey.

  The moment was salvaged by a brief announcement from the Chief Executive, signaling both the guest list and his allotted time to attend them were fulfilled. A few attendees raised glasses in response, and the Secret Service detail cleared a path to the door, enabling the President and First Lady to return to the residential levels on the floors above.

  Those Administration staffers choosing to remain, now freed from the protocol of the greeting line, were then loosed to mingle with the various invitees with whom they were familiar. Boone saw the door of the State Dining Room, closed immediately after the President’s exit, partially open again. A solid woman—she once might have had a build similar to mine—with a short, white hairstyle entered, accompanied by several men. Attired in a tea-length blue dress and pearls, it was apparent she attended as much for business as any socializing. Not a surprise, as she’s the sole surviving Senior Advisor to the President.

  Boone could not help but notice Valka Gerard having her own Secret Service escort, and the agents were as attentive as anyone on the Presidential Detail. Five men, around the clock—that’s how much the Prez values her advisory capacity. The senior staffer was widely known as the woman who formulated the words programmed into the Presidential TelePrompTer. Power seemed to travel with her through the room. You’re also the only unaccompanied woman here. Nicely played, Madam Gerard.

  From across the room, Boone caught a glance, one seeming to target Bradley’s coterie as they hovered near the warming fire. She alerted her boss. “Valka Gerard, Terrence. She’s just homed in on you.”

  “I see her.” Bradley was playing it cold, sipping his champagne, seemingly oblivious.

  The Ritters stood a short distance away, with Farrah engrossed in what Sean could tell her of the history of the room. Boone's father, ever vigilant, was as alert to the Senior Advisor as any of them. He, too, made a pretense of nursing his flute of champagne.

  “Well, here she comes,” Boone predicted. Using her peripheral vision, she based her guess on the woman’s bearing and body language.

  A moment later, Gerard arrived at the fireplace. Boone knew the woman would be able to address Bradley as a familiar due to his many visits here in fulfilling his own support capacity to the National Security Advisor.

  “Director Bradley … I’m glad you could make the gathering,” Gerard greeted the senior ranking official of the group. “And you, General McAllen … welcome to the People’s House.”

  Charmingly collective phraseology, Boone thought. Her first impression of the Presidential Advisor, fortified by Gerard’s reputation, was one o
f a political animal—and a predator. Your attention moves from Terry to Dad, ignoring the women present. But you’re like that, aren’t you, my old dear? Uterine hostile.

  “And this is my wife, Karla,” her father interjected gracefully, forcing Gerard to turn to a woman whom Boone knew to be every bit as strong.

  “Missus McAllen. Such a lovely dress. Surely from Geneva, though a Germanic label,” Gerard guessed.

  Mom is as impressed by flattery as ever, Boone could tell by her mother's guarded expression.

  “Indeed,” was the only response the compliment generated from its intended recipient.

  Taking his lead from McAllen, Bradley also introduced his companion for the evening. “Valka Gerard … Doctor Rebecca Boone Hildebrandt.”

  No hand was offered or taken. No, we do not like each other, the SCO thought.

  “Doctor,” Gerard nodded. She managed a modicum of attention for the sake of propriety. “Lovely scent, dear. It’s the undiluted essence of jasmine, if I’m not mistaken. Such a unique choice.”

  “Why, thank you. It reminds me of my time in Southeast Asia,” Boone explained.

  Her father nearly snorted. “You apparently enjoyed your experience there more than I, Doctor.” His gaze strayed off into the distance.

  Gerard took the opening, having yielded to others directing the conversation long enough. “Not that you could forget, General, but I take it from your comment should you be able, no reminder would be sought?”

  “To the contrary, madam. I would do anything necessary to preserve the lessons learned from those years,” Boone's dad corrected the Executive Branch’s most powerful woman, “in the hope they could keep a less attentive generation from repeating policy mistakes of the past.”

  Zing. While peeking over the top of her covering glass of sparkling water, Boone interpreted the woman's expression. She does not encounter a contrarian often enough. What’s about to happen should be delicious to watch.

  So goaded, Gerard responded with a cold smile. She turned the subject expertly. “Judging from your success as an entrepreneur, General, you are a man far more oriented toward policy successes than failures.”