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

by Dale Amidei

  The Hungarian-American’s influence had grown with his fortune. His resultant ability to direct the flow of politics both domestic and international, significant even twenty years ago, was dominant now. The man’s primary fund had even forced a devaluation of the British pound netting him a cool billion in profit from short-selling sterling in the 1990s. The gain and resulting reputation solidified his present-day prominence.

  USIC's SCO was certain the financial onslaught against the pound would have also netted Novak a “jacket” within Britain’s Joint Intelligence Agency, the equivalent to her own USIC. Sir Chauncey Stewart and MI5 are the teeth of the British Bulldog when it comes to internal and economic security. What makes one’s stash might cost one his friends … or more. This money man could be closer to learning a hard lesson than he realizes.

  Two hours after the opening of business in most of the city, Boone watched as a long, black limo pulled up to the loading zone designated in front of the billionaire’s offices. Yes, it was a long night in the Executive Mansion consoling Valka Gerard and whatever other politico you’ve undertaken to wet-nurse, wasn’t it? For all Boone knew, the man could have had an overnight stay in the Lincoln Bedroom, complete with breakfast in bed served by the President himself.

  She raised the small but powerful binoculars usually in the map pocket of her driver’s door, confirming the stretch indeed carried the financier. A moment later, she saw him rise out of the rear passenger-side door. It’s him all right. Where are Mutt and Jeff?

  As if to answer her question, the same pair of burly men whom Boone had spotted outside the State Dining Room during the previous evening now emerged from the office building on cue. Interesting. They are on-site security, not traveling escorts—Novak’s men in River City. Boone lowered her glasses, visually able to track the trio as they climbed the few steps and disappeared inside the wall of reflective glass fronting the structure.

  Novak commits to the expense of maintaining a staff here to support business interests and his political influence … though who can say how separated the two are in this day and age? Now I know of at least part of his enterprise. It had involved running interference on a spunky redhead tasked with monitoring the security of the Defense Armaments Research Institute … on a night when hijinks were scheduled. But why?

  Boone turned back to her MacBook. Was it business? Pleasure? Personal? Politics? Or with this man is it all of those at once? Her research and her surveillance continued concurrently, and before long, she was connected via VPN to not only her USIC portal but the treasure trove of information on her father’s InterLynk system as well. The morning wore on toward lunch, and by the time the USIC’s Senior Case Officer realized the hour, she was well on her way to establishing a unifying theory of recent events.

  As she had queried her boss last night, the financier indeed had investments in defense armaments. Those were not only in the United States, but worldwide … and they included a founding grant and nonvoting seat on the DARIUS board. Couple it with a corresponding interest in political financing, leftist politics and a well-established record of opportunism. It all equaled an incredible opportunity to make one of the world’s richest men even more money.

  Sitting back, Boone mentally reviewed what she could imagine the scenario to be. The U.S. military sees the utility of the DARIUS airborne missile defense platform and sets it as a priority. Such would be predictable, given the current concerns over the capabilities of rogue states such as Iran and North Korea. Novak aids the naive and sycophantic political objectives of the current administration, and he does it by siphoning off the technology to empower and embolden the ambitions to reestablish regional superiority of the men heading the Russian Federation.

  “And then what?” she wondered aloud.

  He sets off an arms race in directed-energy platforms in Europe and Asia, profiting from investments in both sides, that’s what. Afterward, he might as well have a license to print his own money.

  “Son of a bitch,” Boone murmured once the full scope of the likely scenario solidified in her mind. It was no longer a question why they had disengaged from her after the debacle at DARIUS. There’s too much at stake. Novak gets rich, and the Executive Branch accomplishes a neat end run around Congress. Everybody furthers their dickless foreign-policy goal of leveling the playing field between us and the powers-that-be who could once again morph into enemies. All of it happens in the arrogant and fallacious assumption their good will shall inevitably be returned.

  Boone shook her head and felt a strange anger building. Her intelligence professional’s commitment to the oath she had taken to protect and defend the Constitution—against all enemies, both foreign and domestic—reasserted itself in the foreground of her consciousness. What politicians in their right minds would expect to maintain the allegiance of patriots when acting against our national interest?

  “Deceptive and manipulative ones with divergent goals,” she concluded aloud. The USIC Senior Case Officer was glad of no one being near enough to see a solitary redhead, in sunglasses, sitting in a SUV and staring at a building across the broad avenue while talking to herself.

  Boone knew her job entailed dealing with the world as it was, not as it was ideologically envisioned to become or interpreted to have been in the past. Her niche was one of a cold, hard realist, and regardless of the repulsive conclusion to which she had just arrived, she knew she and Terry would need to pursue to a definitive conclusion the Level Zero case created by the DNI.

  That’s what we do here, Agent Hildebrandt, her boss had explained once, years ago. We solve problems most people will never know existed. She nodded now, a contemplative expression locked on her face. I can live with that, she remembered replying, and she had been right so far. We’ll see what happens this time … once I’m inside your D.C. digs, Mister Novak.

  As the noon hour approached, and she continued to watch, the limo returned. Shortly afterward the financier and his attending heavyweights reappeared. The pair of men from the DARIUS parking lot watched the limousine depart on a route which could have been heading toward Dulles. A moment later, Boone watched them pivot to take a cursory scan of the area and then return to the interior of Novak’s office building.

  Tonight. Definitely.

  She reappeared in Bradley’s doorway at the beginning of the afternoon, looking like a woman who had a full compliment of concerns on her mind. “Terrence, do you have a few moments?” she asked, her tone as refined as ever.

  Bradley looked up from the log-in screen of his workstation and then at his calendar showing the commitments filling the remainder of his day. Barring any emergent, more highly rated concerns at least. He nodded, waving her forward. “Come in, Agent Hildebrandt.”

  Closing the door behind herself, she seemed to him to be short of her usual level of enthusiasm. As his SCO plopped down in the leather-upholstered visitor’s seat on the other side of his desk, he rolled his own chair back for a better view of her face.

  “So … what do we need to talk about?” he inquired.

  “Business, Terry. Level Zero.”

  Good. Last night and this morning is where we left it … at her hotel door. Bradley nodded. “You were out all morning. Edna said on business in the District.”

  The woman in night camo nodded in return. “Terrence, can I ask a question?”

  “Shoot.”

  “How black is too black? I’m asking … how much of what I find in this case do you really want to know?”

  Across his desk, Boone Hildebrandt’s green eyes bore down on him, interpreting, he knew, his every nuance of body language. This is not a woman to whom you can—or should—lie. “Wants and needs are separate issues, Doctor. We have the same arrangement as ever. You get to do things your way as long as you fulfill the duties of your position. An ODNI Level Zero case, once resolved, ceases to exist. The classification is unique in the aspect.” He shifted in his chair. “If there is something regarding the case I need to know, I’ll
expect you to bring me in.” He could see she was conflicted but resisted the urge to ask why. Then he saw her decide.

  “What do you need to know about the possible murder of your former Senior Case Officer?”

  Bradley clenched his jaw and realized after the fact his fingers unconsciously had drummed the polished wood of his desk top. “Actions against opposing field personnel in cases with a national security concern are at the discretion of the Level One operator and above per standing Presidential order,” he quoted from memory.

  “And afterward?”

  “There is no debrief requirement at Level Zero.”

  Boone nodded again, seeming to need so badly the answers she was receiving. “Terrence, may I ask yet another nagging question?”

  “Of course. Always.”

  “How many Level Zero cases have there been?”

  Smiling, Bradley leveled his gaze on hers. “During our tenure? None. And, as I implied, the history of any previous examples is unlikely to come to light.”

  “Then how do we determine our operational guidelines?”

  Bradley sighed. “Same as always.” His voice took on a less professional tone. “We make our decisions, and live with them, hoping we were up to the task the circumstances entrusted to us.” Yes, she understood. He watched her flex a lithe body and get up and out of his guest chair.

  “Thank you, Terry. For everything.”

  “Likewise, Agent Hildebrandt.”

  Giving him the hint of the old smile, she turned for his office door. Boone left it propped open in the same position as when she had arrived, and then headed back down the hall toward her office.

  Bradley drew a breath and returned his concentration to agenda planning for his upcoming appointments. Delegation is about picking the right people for the job. She’s the best you’ve ever had. The irony of the thought hit him immediately. Yes. Isn’t she, though?

  Nine hours later, Boone watched the last of the office lights extinguish in the building across the way. Finally. I was beginning to think I might freeze to death.

  Her dinner had been extracted from a cooler resting on the floorboards of the Escalade’s passenger side, and the wrappers returned to it afterward. An empty bottle of water was stashed there as well, with the second of the evening now in her gloved hand. I hope Novak’s cleaning crew doesn’t dawdle on the way out. The first thing I’m going to do in there is find a freshly tidied bathroom.

  Boone watched the uniformed cleaners exit and set the alarm at the front door before the last of the evening camaraderie took place, and the coworkers drifted off for the night. You’re on, Boone honey.

  Exiting the Escalade, she started her walk, taking a roundabout path. It was one, she had determined earlier in the evening, which would terminate at the rear of the offices. It was growing cooler outside, and she was glad for the Under Armour Cold Gear now insulating her under working clothes as black as any she had worn all day—to match my mood. Boone attempted to convince herself this was only an investigative foray, albeit one without the legal support of any search warrant. Once inside, she would have to be good, careful and fast. Then, perhaps, it’s time for a nice hot bath with bubbles and candles.

  The building's rear entrance was rigged with the same security system as the front and much more concealed from public view. Boone looked around the area to assure her privacy and reached into the short leather jacket she wore for a red-filtered flashlight, screwdriver and USB flash drive lurking there. Here’s where those god-awful tech refresher classes pay off again.

  A few moments later, the plastic cover of the access pad was detached, and the maintenance port exposed. Boone inserted the flash drive and, once the information was requested, entered the factory code. The security system, then disarmed, entered into its standby state. She punched a corresponding factory code into the keypad on the door to her left. It led to the interior, clicking as the latch disengaged. I’m in. Hopefully, the ladies’ room is close.

  After her overdue visit to a toilet in the maintenance area’s locker facilities, Boone wound her way up through the building. With the maintenance message visible on each security panel, she decided the building security system indeed seemed integrated. Thankfully, no cameras appeared to be in evidence as her survey of the exterior had led her to believe. It’s an office building, not a liquor store … and certainly not DARIUS. Some of Novak’s associates and business partners, she realized, were likely to be just the type of individuals whom one would expect to be the most camera-shy. For once, a target’s institutionalized paranoia makes life easier for a Level Zero federal ninja.

  The security office was located where she had expected: on the ground floor, near the front-entrance reception area. It was also secured though not by any mechanism more challenging than her skills could address. Six minutes later, the dead bolt turned under the expert employment of her locksmithing tools. No record set … but then again, it wasn’t Terry’s liquor cabinet, either.

  Boone once again clicked her penlight on, careful to restrict the play of the beam in an office so close to the public side of the property. The secured file cabinet inside was likewise defeated in short order, and the contents given a cursory evaluation. Access records, security code agreements, user manuals. Nothing operational. Boone frowned. What did you expect? Hard copy is dead. Everything everyone does is on computers now.

  No, not everything, she corrected herself. Not what you wouldn’t care to have someone find in an investigation into the murder of a White House Senior Advisor or the felony burglary of a defense contractor. “Or office building,” she grumbled under her breath. You gave yourself twenty minutes. Time’s damned near up, Boone. Toss the desks and then let’s get your hiney out of here.

  The two built-in cabinets supporting each work surface in the office were not even locked, greatly diminishing her hopes of finding anything interesting. More of the same day-to-day crap occupied the drawers and hanging files therein. Big risk ... and waste of time, she concluded, closing the last drawer and hearing an unhappy sound from the rear. A crunch? What the hell just crunched?

  Pulling the drawer open again, Boone looked behind it. There a sheet of paper had lodged some time before, apparently from the back of the drawer above it. Pulling it out of the recess, she played her red light across the one-sided document.

  It was a map, printed from the Internet. A route had been highlighted running up from Annandale, one which would eventually run toward … Liberty Crossing. There was an exit marked near the intersection with the SR 7, and a tick mark comprising the end of the highlighted section. Precisely where Rex died.

  Boone lowered herself to sit in an office chair, her hands betraying a slight tremor. She realized then how angry she was. You bastards. You’re the guys who killed him. You sons of bitches were running interference on him in prep work for the data raid, just like you ran interference on me the other night. In her case, she now knew, they had been forced to act without the benefit of rush-hour traffic to cover their dirty work.

  Outside, past the main reception area at the front doors, a series of beeps sounded as someone else manipulated the security system’s pad. Immediately following, another tone sounded as an again-functional access card admitted the same someone through the front doors.

  Shit! Boone slipped out of her chair and down to kneel on the floor, folding and pocketing the map. Her hands slipped under her jacket to free Little Swiss from her shoulder rig, and in an afterthought, the pistol’s suppressor as well. She joined the two below her line of sight as she watched the entryway.

  It’s probably someone on the maintenance crew coming back after forgetting their jacket or lunch bucket. Be cool. Better yet, be invisible. Boone glanced to the windows of the security office, trying to determine if anything reflective would allow her to monitor the new arrival unseen. Nothing. At that precise moment she focused on the bulbous attachment balanced on the frame of the monitor at the far desk. It’s a goddamned webcam. A tiny, red diod
e told her the unit was active. Not that it did anyone any good in the dark … it’s not infrared. It’s a cheapie.

  She slipped across the floor of the office to the second desk, her hand searching for and finding the USB cable attached to the back of the thing. She pulled it out, just before the illuminating lights of the reception area came on. There won’t be any stills. It did, however, show a shadow moving in their office. That’s how they knew.

  “Security officer! You in the cubby! Come out with your hands in plain sight!” Wally Mikulek shouted. Bart, to his left, was also looking at the desk’s enclosure over the sights of a Beretta 9mm.

  A woman’s voice sounded from behind the cover of their largest file cabinet. “Call the police, guys. I found something their traffic fatality division will want to see regarding a man named Rex Schilling.”

  The hell. Bart, a panicky look on his face, threw a harsh whisper Wally's way. “It’s her, man … it’s the spook bitch in the Escalade.”

  “Shut the fuck up. Lemme think.”

  “Oh, you want to think, big boy? You should have put that cap on before you decided to fuck with ODNI.”

  The disembodied voice from their office did not sound frightened or even particularly excited. Listen to her. She sounds like she’s ordering a goddamned pizza.

  “I’m going to give you two the deal of the night,” the voice continued. “Put down your weapons, turn around, raise your hands, and I’ll let you live. I won’t even lay your asses out like I did last time.”