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

by Dale Amidei

  The balls on this bitch! “Come on out, honey. I got sixteen buddies in this clip waiting to meetcha,” Mikulek encouraged.

  “Aw … get ready, man, she’s gonna go for it. She’s gonna come … I can feel it,” Bart rattled in a low, harsh tone.

  “Bart … shut the fuck up,” his partner advised again. Mikulek turned back toward the office. He barely saw the flick of the gloved hand flinging a small, heavy cylindrical object. It landed directly between the security guards. Holes were milled into the wall of its metal housing. What the—

  The tips of Boone’s fingers came out of her ears immediately after the detonation of the flash-bang grenade. Its force had rattled the windows of the security enclosure and the glass of the front entryway. Her hands then met around the grip of Little Swiss. Her little fingers curled under the bottom of the small weapon’s magazine, and the rest of them squeezed into an interlocking hold. Here we go!

  It was not a fair contest, but then again a gunfight had few rules. There were two her instructors had repeated time and again during her training: Always Cheat. Always Win. She heeded them now.

  The two security men were kneeling behind insufficient cover, stunned by the blinding light and loud blast of the entry grenade she had brought in with her from the Escalade, “just in case.” Yes, just in case. Just in case I screwed up this badly. Boone gave both of the blind, deaf and disabled guards a single round in the skull. The two men who had marginalized Rex Schiller themselves died without seeing or hearing who or what killed them.

  Boone again looked right and saw her pair of empty cases on the waxed tile floor of the building’s foyer, one of them still smoking. I’m out of spare barrels now. Time to call a SIG SAUER parts distributor and hope they don’t ask too many questions, I guess.

  It was time to go. She took the four steps to her cartridge cases and scooped them off of the floor, again pocketing the only evidence tying her to the scene. She was not sure how much it would actually matter. Two more dead guys. Same ammo as at DARIUS. Same rate of twist and rifling dimensions. Same MO in recovering the empties. Fucking bread crumbs, every one of them. I hate domestic operations.

  Boone separated and secured her pistol and its suppressor, dipping down to also recover the still-hot serial-numbered cylinder of the flash-bang. She was grateful for the driving gloves covering her fingers. Trotting toward the rear of the building, however, she still tossed the hot potato from one hand to her other to avoid its residual heat. Don’t worry, little guy. You’ll cool down real quick at the bottom of the Potomac. She glanced back at the corpses of the two meatballs who had just crossed her and lost. It’s too bad I can’t do the same with them.

  An incongruity struck her as she realized it was her old self who had been the voice talking in her mind. The thought grew into reflection on her spiritual aspirations, from there to guilt, and then to painful regret for having taken two more lives as a trained reflex. Another chapter in your long sad story, isn’t it. This life you lead is a trap, she realized. It hurt.

  Chapter 11 - Any Means Necessary

  Liberty Crossing

  McLean, Virginia

  Wednesday morning

  His Senior Case Officer had e-mailed to inform him of her late start since she had flexed her work hours into the previous evening. As a result, Bradley decided to consciously avoid scanning the D.C. news sites, contrary to his usual morning routine. The DNI knew any report she filed as an addendum to their Level Zero case would generate a flag in his document-management Inbox. He also knew if she did not, it was likely the omission was meant for his own protection. A relationship is based on trust and shared vulnerabilities. We seem to have a lot of that going on lately.

  Regardless of Bradley’s necessary commitment to The Big Picture as the Director of National Intelligence, productivity still entailed concentrating on the moment and taking on his day one task at a time. The process, as it did with executives everywhere, often began with managing the incessant flow of messages pouring into his e-mail client.

  He momentarily changed the default sorting, as was also part of his daily routine, from Date Received to Priority by clicking on the column header. Usually, it required only a momentary glance as few people bothered to prioritize their messaging. This morning, however, there was indeed such an item, sent the previous evening under the highest priority. And from damned near the highest authority.

  One of two red-flag icons in his leftmost column highlighted a missive from the Office of the President, its emphasis overshadowed only by its rarity. Bradley, of course, opened the message as his first order of business. Reading the formal directive, he saw it was entirely and deliberately void of any comforting personalization:

  Presidential Determination with respect to the Assimilation of Supporting Entities relating to the Collection of National Intelligence

  MEMORANDUM FOR THE DIRECTOR OF NATIONAL INTELLIGENCE

  SUBJECT: Directed Assimilation of Supporting Entities into the United States Intelligence Community

  Pursuant to the authority vested in me as President by the Constitution and the laws of the United States, I hereby determine it necessary, in order to protect the national security interests of the United States, to fully incorporate into Executive oversight the operations of any entity involved in the collection or dissemination of information deemed National Intelligence. Organizations so designated a Vital National Asset by the Office of the President or the National Security Council shall be required to submit a plan for transition into the designated stratum of the appropriate Agency structure.

  The White House Press Office is authorized and directed to transmit this determination to the Congress, accompanied by a report in accordance with relevant authorizations, and to publish the determination in the Federal Register.

  This policy shall take effect after the transmission of this determination and its report to the Congress.

  “Well … she says next week, and exceeds expectations by getting it done before Wednesday,” Bradley observed, muttering into his first mug of ODNI coffee. Issued by the Office of the President and signed by the Chief Executive himself, the memo was one of the varied forms of executive order by which the workings of government were directed. Regardless of the issuing authority, Bradley knew the directive was more than an organizational realignment; it, like so many of the current administration’s policies, was an extension of one woman’s will: that of Valka Gerard. Worse, so formalized through the chain of command, she had made compliance unavoidable as possible.

  Such was reinforced by a subsequent memorandum, also designated High Priority, listing the types and categories of supporting organizations which in the future could be labeled as “collective or distributive intelligence assets.” Research and development firms, think tanks, and media outlets all seemed possible candidates for interpretation as residing within the scope of the language of the policy directive. In the body of the message, however, only one entity was so named, appearing in the final paragraph:

  InterLynk, of Geneva, Switzerland, and operated as an associative entity of the Central Intelligence Agency and United States Intelligence Community, is hereby designated a Vital National Asset by the Office of the President of the United States. The Office of the Director of National Intelligence shall, by any means necessary, safeguard the ongoing operation of said firm as an Associative Asset, and direct the transition of the entity into governmental Agency status.

  “Any means necessary,” Bradley murmured. The wording was entirely irresponsible and symbolic of the overreach which seemed to define the current chain of command. Were he of a mind, the DNI knew he could construe this as authorization to take any number of unfortunate actions to achieve the Executive Branch’s objective. They had now crystallized their defined goal: subordinating a private firm to one of its own clients, and the one reaping benefit from its achievements to the greatest extent.

  Bradley’s support had given the company—a firm afterward dominant in the emergent
field of private intelligence—its initial forward momentum. Rather than allowing General McAllen to continue as a partner of his state sponsor, though, the Executive Branch wanted to assume control over the General's brainchild. And not out of envy or any concern with national security. They could very well want to control him because they are afraid to endure another setback. Someone might suspect the man to have played a role in disrupting the DARIUS raid.

  The DNI’s suppositions, however, were unsupported by any presentable evidence but rather framed through long familiarity with the personalities involved. So far, only his intuition and the same of his Senior Case Officer bolstered the working hypothesis. As the top-level executive of the federal umbrella enveloping his nation’s intelligence organs, he had no choice but to comply with the directive, lacking a resolution to his investigation of Executive Branch malfeasance.

  Stall. Compliance follows comprehension, and logically descends from clarification, the request for which is entirely my prerogative. If Valka Gerard wanted to play by the rules of government, then she necessarily accepted the arena where the game was conducted. Anything worth doing is worth doing well, including delay. Let’s see how well the Office of the Senior Advisor anticipated my playbook.

  As a sitting member of the National Security Council, Bradley had the Office of the President on speed dial. The President’s secretary answered as usual.

  “Yes, Mister Bradley,” the equally efficient, if more shapely, counterpart to his own Edna Reese responded.

  “Darcy … I’ve received last evening’s directive. I was wondering if the President was available to clarify some aspects of his language,” Bradley asked, knowing virtually every moment of the Commander in Chief’s waking hours to be allocated well in advance. Of course he won’t be available. With luck, you’ll put me on the schedule for low-priority follow-up by a staffer.

  “One moment, Mister Bradley … yes, as I thought, the implementation of your particular directive has been delegated to the Office of the Senior Advisor. Let me transfer you.”

  “Great,” Bradley responded, with only his administrator’s degree of self-control preventing a tone the comment would have otherwise carried. His call, dispatched efficiently, was answered with less alacrity at the next extension.

  “Senior Advisors,” a lackluster voice answered without cordial introduction.

  “Yes, this is the Director of National Intelligence. I understand the Office of the Senior Advisor is managing implementation of the overnight Presidential directive.”

  “That is the case.”

  Aside from being annoyed at not knowing to whom he was speaking, Bradley sensed an attitude of disinterest on the part of the disembodied voice. It’s almost as if this call was expected, and they had drawn straws to see who would take it. “Yes … well, I am calling for clarification of certain content of the memorandum. Can you direct me to someone able to accomplish such a thing?”

  “One moment.” The Senior Advisor's lackey placed him on hold, and the DNI's aggravation grew as he waited. “Mister Bradley,” the voice said on returning, “as I’ve confirmed, the memorandum’s language was deemed unambiguous before issue, and the policies defined therein are currently in effect. A request for an update on your responsibilities is likely to come at the next regular session of the NSC. I have no further information to offer.”

  “I understand,” Bradley responded, seething. “Have a good day, ma’am.”

  The impersonal receptionist in the Office of the Senior Advisor—a staffer doubtless with other concerns—then hung up on him. Bradley pulled his telephone handset away from his head and stared at it for a moment before cradling the device.

  Bitch, he thought. Tear that page out of the playbook. You’ve just been sacked at your own three yard line, big guy. His options, limited by design, were also now proofed against delaying tactics. ODNI would be implementing the President’s issued policy. It was now just a matter of delegation. And the subordinate whom my personnel guidelines tell me I should first involve is the one I least want to approach with this particular task.

  Fortunately, his SCO was not in the office this morning. Her absence, at least, gave him time to devise a workable alternative strategy. None, however, was forthcoming … and Terry Bradley would not have bet anything substantial on such an escape hatch materializing between now and when she appeared in his doorway. That’s when Boone and I need to have a real conversation. Being a realist, it was one he did not expect to enjoy.

  Wednesday morning gave way to the afternoon. Bradley’s lunch had not featured the three martinis it might have in days gone by, only the passable if familiar food of the campus cafeteria’s executive lounge. Not that I’m tempted toward getting blitzed on the clock. Of all the bottles in his office’s liquor cabinet, none had ever been restocked. In fact, only the container housing Boone’s formerly favored brand of absinthe showed a marked reduction in content. If booze was the answer, I’d just stay drunk for the sake of the country. Unfortunately, national security doesn’t work that way.

  He walked slowly on the route back to his office, unwillingly riding the card-access elevator to his floor, being one of the few people able to bypass multiple security stations on the way up. Once he arrived, Edna and the crew sensed his languid demeanor. His first real words beginning the second half of his day were murmured to the machine keeping his coffee pot warm. “Here we go, Mister BUNN. Are you ready to witness the onset of the Apocalypse?” The stainless-steel appliance had no advice to offer, only steaming liquid promising to clear the circuits of his mind in anticipation of what was about to occur.

  She reported in for the second half of the day, having spent the morning assessing the aftermath of her late-night foray on behalf of a departed friend. Shedding her coat, Boone felt as if coming back to Rex’s office—she could not yet think of it as hers—was now more tolerable. The aura of the workspace seemed assuaged by the knowledge she had settled his business with the pair who had racked up the largest tab in the man’s Accounts Receivable ledger. Rest in peace, Rex buddy—I got ‘em, she thought as she settled in behind the desk. At what cost to myself … who knows?

  Her decision to approach the DNI was made unnecessary by his appearance in her doorway. Tie loose, jacket off, coffee in hand. Dear God, what just happened?

  “Boone, do you have a few minutes?”

  The question, she could tell, was posed as unwillingly as any she’d ever had from him. “Certainly,” she responded.

  “In my office, then.”

  He led the way, and as she followed, she began to feel his apparent anticipation of the conversation to come. They stepped inside his space, and he closed the door a few moments later. Boone noted the significance of his meandering with his coffee toward his windows instead of his desk. He needs more personal space for this one, and more comfort.

  “Terrence? What is it?” she asked, unable to wait for him to formulate his opening remarks of their conversation.

  “A presidential determination issued last night, Boone. It follows the vision Valka Gerard shared with us at Monday night’s affair. Executive Branch policy now directs me to incorporate, among others, intelligence-gathering associate organizations into entities subject to direct oversight.”

  “What does it mean for General McAllen at InterLynk?” Boone’s hand went to her hip of its own accord.

  Sighing, Bradley sipped before he answered. “InterLynk was specifically named a Vital National Asset in the addendum. Management of the initiative has been delegated to the Senior Advisor’s Office, and she deems the language of the directive unambiguous. We are to pursue incorporating the firm as a child agency. Valka Gerard wants the General under her thumb.”

  “And just how does she expect you to accomplish that?”

  “By Any Means Necessary.” Bradley sipped his coffee again, returning his gaze to the trees of Liberty Crossing.

  “Terrence … they didn’t.” Boone saw his only response was a grimace and a s
hrug. She struggled to contain her emotion. “That’s tantamount to a kill order. It’s … duress. It’s extortion.”

  “As I said … unambiguous.”

  Crossing the few steps to his guest furniture, Boone rested her hands on one of the seatbacks. “What are you going to do?”

  Bradley turned toward her, the muscles of his jaw clenched. “I have very little choice, Doctor. I will open a dialogue with InterLynk to determine the best means of implementing the directive.”

  “Terrence,” Boone reacted, frowning. “General McAllen will laugh in your face. You saw his reaction in State Dining.”

  “That’s why I will need to hand this one off to a liaison.” His eyes locked on hers as if his expression conveyed the information his words could not manage.

  You have got to be shitting me. Boone’s head lowered and cocked. “And do you have anyone in particular in mind?”

  “You’ve worked closely with the firm in the past. Organizational guidelines place the role within the purview of the Senior Case Officer. I’m naming you as the transitional officer.” He obviously sensed her upset. “I’m sorry, Boone. I have no choice.”

  She felt her fingers curl into the padding under his leather upholstery. “Permission to speak freely, Mister Bradley … sir.” I could count to ten first, but I might explode.

  “Granted, Agent Hildebrandt.”

  Though the DNI's heavy office door was well insulated against sound, the sudden increase in volume of conversation therein made Edna Reese, the closest to his wall, actually startle at its onset. Her admin assistants to a woman turned, mouths agape, at the raised voices inside the Director’s Office.

  “God, what is going on in there?” one of the junior employees asked.