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

by Dale Amidei

  Little does she know she has just engaged a man immune to the charm of politicos. Boone noticed Bradley, judging by the tension of his shoulders, to be also fully aware of the fencing match which had just ensued. She returned her eyes to her father.

  The retired Army Intelligence three-star shrugged off the compliment. “At InterLynk we were fortunate to comprise the cutting edge of what has proven to be a very valid concept,” McAllen allowed.

  Crossing her arms, Gerard smiled again. “Then as a man used to the cutting edge, sir, you’ll be as interested as Director Bradley to hear of our upcoming policy enhancements relating to the management of intelligence functions.”

  Sipping as she spoke, the General seemed unimpressed. Lowering his glass, he smiled in return. “And what might those entail, madam?”

  “Wonderful opportunities, General. We intend to consolidate all affiliate organizations related to the gathering of intelligence under the oversight and authority of the USIC. This will make you a managing director equal in status to those in CIA, NSA, or any of Director Bradley’s collection of subordinate agencies.”

  Boone was glad she did not have a mouthful of mineral water when the infonugget arrived. Gerard appeared ready for more of a reaction than she would receive.

  Her father merely smiled. “Sorry to disappoint you, honey … but you won’t see that happen if you live to be a hundred.”

  Oh my God! Daddy!

  “I would not be so certain, General McAllen,” Gerard reasserted, aspiring to be unflappable. “Things are changing in this country, just as we promised. I heard similar predictions on our chances to prevail prior to the President’s reelection, and yet here we remain for another term. Absolute conviction is, at this point, simply a legacy concept.”

  “It is philosophies like those of your administration, Madam Gerard, which inspired me to base InterLynk overseas in the first place,” McAllen gritted.

  Boone read definite signs of anger in Gerard, from the flare of her nostrils to the subtle narrowing of the woman’s lips. Dad is as cool as ever. She might have more power, but he is the stronger one. Bradley’s companion knew her father would win this encounter. She was also one hundred percent certain it would not end well.

  “An interesting point, General. Indeed, in the Administration’s viewpoint, there are only two types of intelligence asset: domestic and foreign. Which would you care for InterLynk to be considered?”

  “I reject your premise, madam. There are three classifications, if one is aware enough to add private.” The retired general officer took an opportunity immediately afterward to twist the blade he had just planted. “But, should I be forced to narrow the categories to two, I would choose entirely different labels: legacy and current. Or, in terms to which you specifically will be able to relate: old and broken, or the new hotness.”

  Oh … my. Boone felt certain Bradley was not even breathing at this point. She hoped her boss would not pinch the stem of his half-full toasting flute in two.

  Gerard was infuriated beyond words. With her silence, she effectively yielded the ground which McAllen, true to the form of a general, promptly occupied.

  “And since you’ve brought up the subject of the next four years, Madam Advisor … let me have you rest assured of one thing: I, as well as InterLynk, will be as prominent in the private sector when you and your merry band of amateurs leave office as we were before you first practiced Executive Branch overreach.” He paused for a bare moment of eye contact with his rival before issuing a call in a reserved but commanding voice. “Colonel Ritter—”

  Twenty feet away, Sean alerted immediately. “Yes, sir.”

  “—it’s time to go, son,” McAllen stated in an even voice. Gerard stepped out of the General’s way as the man offered his wife an arm. Boone’s mother took it and accompanied her husband toward the exit with every bit of the dignity she had displayed on the couple’s arrival.

  “Professionalism is measured through results, General McAllen,” the Senior Advisor’s icy voice said to his back. “I promise an effective demonstration of the pursuit of policy goals in the very near future.”

  Boone noted her father, though forced to listen, did not dignify the statement with a reaction, much less a response. Good for you, Dad.

  Ritter and Farrah formed up with the older man and his wife. Within a few moments, InterLynk’s delegates were the first of the evening’s attendees to abandon the nominal hospitality of the State Dining Room.

  Along with the remainder of the room, Gerard watched as the attending White House usher closed the door behind Colonel and Mrs. Ritter. The couple had just followed General and Mrs. McAllen out into the Cross Hall of the State Floor. The dampened conversations, interrupted by the confrontation between the General and the President’s Senior Advisor, failed to recover.

  Boone could see the reason for the continuing stillness: the focus of virtually everyone in attendance was now on Gerard. As the woman turned, the center of attention ensnared Bradley as well. Together they comprise the top of the food chain in this room, and now it will be his turn. The SCO concentrated on outwardly maintaining her passivity. Inside, she seethed in the frustration of knowing she would not be able to play any supporting role.

  “Director Bradley, you are the man entrusted to maintain oversight of the umbrella of organizations on which this nation depends for its intelligence. It is incomprehensible to me how you could have allowed so loose a cannon as General McAllen to wield such a free hand.”

  Boone stifled an urge to punch the Senior Advisor in the throat. She’s not even in his chain of command, and the woman is dressing him down in front of his entire assembly of department heads. Castrating bitch. The SCO saw her supervisor's lack of emotion was as trained as her own.

  Bradley tensed. “Madam Gerard, you seem to forget the fact General McAllen is an entrepreneur. His actions are those of a member of the international free-enterprise system in an unmanaged world economy.”

  “I forget nothing. I am fully aware, sir, the CIA under your approval played a major—if shortsighted—role in establishing InterLynk as an aggregator of information.” Gerard’s voice betrayed her with a slight quiver.

  “Madam Gerard,” Bradley said, with an almost imperceptible lean forward, “I will not discuss in a public setting such as this one any such supporting action CIA or any of our nation’s other agencies might or might not have taken.”

  “We will discuss any topic I choose, Director. The topic at hand, for instance. Present your thoughts, please, on the steps you will take to assimilate the InterLynk system … and bring any other organization supporting the collection of intelligence into the USIC as the governmental entity it should always have been.”

  Reaching out to a passing, if visibly nervous, waiter, Bradley set his glass on the man’s half-filled bussing tray with other empties. In doing so, he made the Senior Advisor wait for his response, Boone realized. Good for you, too, Terry, his companion thought.

  “Madam Gerard, understand this: you are not in my chain of command. Neither are you privileged to demand access to any operational detail from any of the efforts my people undertake. You will refrain from directing I or anyone under my authority initiate any policy without generation of a proper directive through the usual channels. This government is not an autocracy, madam.”

  Contrary to Boone’s horrified expectations, Gerard smiled. “Think of my encouragements as merely being a ‘heads-up,’ Mister Bradley. I promise you that within a week from tonight the directive will be as formally defined as any of your other duties … and the fulfillment thereof will be as mandatory to your performance assessment as is an expectation for any other Presidential order.”

  Bradley bristled though Boone thought only someone as familiar with him as was she could see the subtle indicators. He glanced at Boone, who on cue turned and set her own glass on the tray of a nearby standing table.

  His attention returned to the waiting Senior Advisor. “Good evening, M
adam. Pass my appreciation for the evening on to the President, as well as my regrets at being forced to leave this early.”

  Boone discerned Gerard had fulfilled her function at the gathering, having served the purpose envisioned. It was obvious to the SCO the President's Senior Advisor was disappointed not at all.

  “Indeed I shall. Rest assured I will be speaking with him in the morning. Good evening, Director.”

  As Bradley turned his head again, Boone could see his eyes were burning. Still, he politely extended his arm for her to take before heading toward the exit. She refused to let her hand take a death grip on his sleeve as her frustration was demanding. She felt nothing but a sense of foreboding in anticipating the week to come. Impossible demands … made mandatory. Boone, now on Bradley's arm and walking toward the opening door of the State Dining Room, perceived Gerard’s intransigence typified perfectly the “magical thinking” of amateurs. And such a common failing, unfortunately, now seems to be a signature style of the people currently running the Executive Branch.

  Once in the Cross Hall outside, Boone could do nothing for her boss, her friend and her lover other than to play her role. She waited, demure, as he recovered their coats from the White House staff and held out hers to don before he attended his own.

  “Ready to call it an evening, Doctor?” he asked, a hint of resignation in his voice.

  “I’m more than ready to go back to the real world, if that’s what you mean.”

  Shrugging on his topcoat, Bradley, she thought, looked fairly disgusted. “I can get you as far as McLean,” his dejected voice replied.

  They had let Terry’s car and driver have the night off at her suggestion, driving her USIC company vehicle instead. The midnight-black Escalade, immaculate from the attention of the motor pool’s detailers on delivery to her hotel in the afternoon, shone now under the lights of Washington. Bradley drove in silence, lost in the many thoughts Boone knew to be flooding his skull.

  “Relax, Terry. Tomorrow is another day,” she encouraged. “It’s no certainty she’ll be able to demand the directive.”

  Bradley looked less hopeful. “She is the administration in many ways, Agent Hildebrandt. She might be the first unacknowledged female President in U.S. history.”

  For the moment, Boone gave up, considering the real possibility Bradley was indeed correct. It was not a thought which provoked conversation.

  The Monday night traffic allowed them back into McLean without any delays. Boone waited in the passenger seat for Bradley to open her door and then stepped carefully onto the asphalt lest the five-inch platform heels strapped to her feet undo her poise.

  “I’ll see you to your room before I call a cab, Doctor,” he suggested. “There’s no sense in you taking any chances in your Barbie clothes.”

  “Very considerate of you, Terrence,” she replied.

  The hotel staff was acclimated enough to black-tie events for the two of them to escape any special attention in the lobby. Neither did the pair encounter other guests in the elevator or in the hallway leading to Boone’s suite on the Executive Level, where he had met her earlier in the evening.

  Plucking the hotel’s access card from a clutch bag, Boone unlocked the door, unlatching it as Bradley stood beside her. Willpower. If only. She glanced up at his face, unable to read the expression she found there. Perhaps, she realized, she had not managed to guard her own as well as he.

  “I guess it’s time to say good night, Doctor,” he said in a tone begging for an answer rather than a response.

  You’ve had enough frustration for one evening, you beautiful man. “The night is young, Terry. It can still be a good one.” She reached out and undid his black bow tie, using the ends as a lead to pull him inside the door to her darkened room. He did not resist. The panel closed, and she felt the warmth of her covering garment depart as he slipped the coat off her bare shoulders. His topcoat followed it into the closet off the entrance, and he turned into her embrace.

  With her arms around his neck, Boone was thrust back against the room's door as Bradley roughly secured the dead bolt and guard. His mouth sought hers to share their mutual hunger a moment later. She felt his hands find and expertly undo the fasteners between her shoulder blades as the Dior began its own departure.

  Oh, Boone … for a professional, you still make so many mistakes. But now the dress was falling, and her hands as well as his were in motion. It was far too late for either of them.

  Truthful, or lying … quickening, or stilling … living, or dying … imprisoned, or willing? Boone lay in the dark now with the evening having indeed given way to the deep black of night—the time for sleeping. Not love play, not foreboding, and certainly not situational analysis. Rebecca Boone Hildebrandt wanted to run away from the reality she had once again created. She longed for an escape to her journal, on the chance she could pour out in verse the thoughts and fears piling up in the back of her skull.

  This will not last, her rational side acknowledged. It won’t because it can’t, and you know it.

  It will last until morning, her passionate side answered. The morning will last into the day. The day will last until the next. It’s the same with the coming week, month, year and life. For right now … now is enough.

  Only for a child, Boone. You are supposed to be an adult.

  If there was one thing she hated more than anything else, it was arguing herself into a corner. Sooner or later, her intellect would always come out swinging, and her heart would pay the price as there was no referee in this arena.

  Healer, or Huntress … Beacon, or Shadow … Bond servant, or Mistress … Abyssal, or Shallows. She would have to choose again tomorrow, and the day after, and every one following until her life conformed to her ideals.

  I’m not ready … I’m just not ready. It was an odd thought for a Level Zero, someone who was supposed to be continuously prepared for any eventuality. Even in her last twilight of consciousness before drifting off into sleep, she knew disaster came for the unready, as a paucity of preparedness was only the first fruit of a wretched harvest.

  I will not let this happen to Terry. I will not allow it for myself. I will not be the prisoner of a childlike mind. Boone’s consciousness faded as her resolution formed, and enough of the day’s tasks were done. She felt herself slipping into sleep, lying beside the man whom she had loved longest after her father. I thought love would make our lives better instead of worse. What do I know?

  Chapter 10 - Night Work

  Washington, D.C.

  Tuesday

  Boone had prodded Terry into consciousness early on the theory it would give him time to get back into his rumpled tux, summon a cab, and make his way back to his own rental in time for his usual workday morning routine. Her plan had one fatal flaw, however, which was waking up naked next to the Bradley morning libido. Two fatal flaws, if I count my pathological irresoluteness.

  Now Boone sat in her ODNI workspace, disgusted with herself, sipping hazelnut coffee. She considered the possibility of being just too damn horny to work for a man as handsome as Terry Bradley. It was a theory seemingly supported by more evidence than her imagined willpower, faith or any commitment to the reasoning of her adult mind. Whatever is your issue, they probably have medication for it these days, Boone honey. You really should look into getting a never-ending prescription.

  The federal alpacas in the reception area took turns formulating theories on what could be making the Director of National Intelligence late on a Tuesday morning. Listening to them made Boone realize her fears should definitely be allowed to win out over any vestige of idiotic optimism.

  “But nothing’s on his calendar.”

  “He looked fine yesterday. Too much champagne last night, maybe.” The sound of more hushed conversation, and then, “But she’s here,” in a lowered tone.

  Boone rested an elbow on her desk, rolled her eyes, and shook her head slowly while sipping her caffeinated mental salvation. It would be a good morning to get out
of the office. Fortunately, she had just such fieldwork in mind.

  Edna Reese saw the Senior Case Officer, coat and bag in hand, emerge from her workspace even before the office matron had managed to pop into her doorway. “Good morning, Doctor. Are you off already?”

  “I have some things to do in the District, Ed. Be kind to the DNI when you see him, will you? Executive Branch types gave him quite a beating at last night’s soiree.”

  “Certainly. You have your cell?”

  “Always,” was the call from the swinging glass entrance door. A swish from the damper, and the hard-bodied redhead in her black ensemble was gone. The sound of English boots stepping smartly in the outer hallway faded toward the elevator before the door closed.

  “Director Bradley took a beating? I wonder if she kissed it and made it better.”

  The comment, followed by conspiratorial snickering, made Edna Reese’s usually dour expression grow even more businesslike. She clapped her hands lightly three times. “Ok, ladies … enough of that. Let’s get back on task.” In response, the junior admin assistants swiveled back toward their monitors instead of each other. For the moment at least, ODNI was once again a professional environment.

  Boone’s Escalade sat in public parking now, directly across a broad avenue from Novak's office complex. She was researching and watching … and learning the rhythm of the place. Benedek Jancsi Novak, as Boone had found in the course of her morning expedition, maintained a business office and therefore a presence in Washington. This only augmented the widespread, vicarious influence he enjoyed through financially supporting his many subsidiary, leftist special-interest groups. From what Boone had seen this morning in her MacBook's browser—via her cellular broadband, a useful perk of her current position—the office in D.C. was the man’s largest established satellite outside of Budapest. Due to his enterprising nature and far-flung sphere of activity, the billionaire spent a great deal of time jetting from one financial center to another, living much of year in whatever five-star accommodations could meet his discriminating standards. His was such a stature he did not need to attend the political end of his business. Those who sought an allegiance more often came to him. Extent notwithstanding, this administration is not the first to have done so.