by Dale Amidei
“Thank you so much, Doctor. I’m actually only a few minutes away.”
Whoa. She’s here. “Yes, of course,” Anthony answered in his best engaged professor’s voice. The call then ended, but its resultant trepidation remained. It was the sensation of distant dangers, ones he could now blessedly leave to people like his friend in Geneva … and others like him.
By the time he remembered to prop his office door open as a courtesy, she was already on approach in the hallway. Anthony saw she was a petite woman though obviously fit. She was dressed in black from her topcoat and cowl-necked sweater down to the riding pants and boots underneath and even the fashionable bag hanging from her shoulder. Her fair skin and cosmetics, expertly applied in shades which accentuated her blaze of fiery, bobbed hair, added color complementing her dark ensemble. She was on the sidewalk in New York, Anthony recalled, outside of L’Homme the night they shot at Sean.
His visitor stripped her dark, round-lensed sunglasses from her face and extended a gloved hand clad in thin leather just as black as the remainder of her outfit. “Doctor Anthony, this is truly a pleasure.”
“Doctor Hildebrandt,” he answered, feeling strength in her handshake. “Please come in.” She passed inside, and Anthony realized he was shutting his door once again without conscious consideration. It’s just as well, I’m sure.
She regarded his diplomas, framed now in better housings and hanging in a row on the single wall of the small office not occupied by file cabinets or standing shelves loaded with books. “You’ve managed an accomplished life, Doctor,” she observed, noting the two volumes he had penned himself.
Anthony moved to his desk, one which faced the wall to allow room for his frequent visitors. Their arrival, however, rarely elicited the adrenal response this one had. He looked toward his sheepskins as well. “Milestones in a life, Doctor, as you know. Won’t you have a seat?”
“Yes, thank you,” she said easily.
Her every move projected confidence, yet Anthony sensed something else he had seen in others. She’s a searcher. “Your degree, Doctor?” he asked.
“Call me Boone,” she encouraged. “I earned a PhD in Physiology, from Saarbrucken, in 2002.” She paused. “Ten years ago already … really, it seems forever.”
She must have been really young. Accelerated advancement? “It’s Jon, then,” he allowed as she settled into his one visitor’s seat, set comfortably outside his own personal space. “How may I help you today, Boone?”
His visitor surveyed her surroundings, where the decor was as academic as any space was likely to become. “Learning, Doctor Jon … the courses we put ourselves through come to a terminus when we reach our goal. I was wondering, in your opinion … speaking in a spiritual sense, will we ever arrive—ever graduate?”
“Well, yes,” Anthony answered, “though for us it will be at the event of our death, I’m afraid.” When it seemed his answer somewhat disappointed her, he took the opportunity to continue. “Temporal existence is but a means to an end, and His end, within the will of God … making all of the moments therein unimaginably important.”
His addendum, he could see, moved her from disappointment to upset though she compensated for the emotion well. Anthony drew a breath. “May I ask, Boone—are you in a field equivalent to Sean’s?”
“Quite similar,” she said with a trace of discomfort.
She shows the same load as he does … and possibly for the same reasons. There is weight here. “Sean carries burdens I can only imagine.”
“I know those well, Doctor.”
He asked the last question he had imagined posing to her. “If I may, Boone … Sean’s burdens largely come from the taking of lives in the course of his duties.”
Nodding, she let Anthony in. “I know. As do mine.” She paused. “And afterward one wonders what the net effect will be on one’s soul.” Another contemplative moment passed for them both. “Jon, what do you think?”
Frowning, he considered her query. “Such will always vary from one life to another, of course.”
She reached inside the neck of her sweater to bring out a small crucifix, cast and carved in gold. Regarding it with a glance downward, she asked, “According to our priorities?”
Pain. Anthony shook his head, saddened through his empathy. “According to our path.” He glanced to some of the larger tomes on the nearest shelf, by Aquinas and Augustine, and pointed. “People have had to consider the same questions ever since civilization began, and people endeavored to gather themselves into static societies. What are the limits of moral behavior, when the uncivilized intrude?” He paused. “The consensus is that there exists an allowance for the taking of life in the gravest circumstances for which the opposing force is ultimately responsible.”
“But is such the business of a believer?” Her question was more of a plea.
“The business of a believer is faith, Boone. Any circumstances encountered must be met with a faithful attitude. Good people—when we are lucky, and they are stronger than the bad ones—must sometimes act to upset the plans of evildoers.” Memories of the last battle he had witnessed in Iraq regained the foreground of his mind, and with the memories came more sadness. “I watched Sean kill men in Iraq, so many of them … one after another, and it was horrifying … until I realized any one of them would have done the same to me, but for him standing in the way.”
“God must hate such things,” her quiet voice observed.
Sighing, Anthony nodded. “Violence is a sign something, somewhere, has gone terribly wrong.” He looked into her green eyes, now as sad as his own. “But we can’t always turn away from a bad situation, can we? In the end, we need to remember whether or not we are in perfect alignment with the will of God, we are always where we are supposed to be, doing what we are supposed to be doing … on a journey He plots on the behalf of those who love Him. Even hard, horrifying, disturbing work—if it is morally necessary—should be viewed in context.”
“And yet, you speak on television of personal responsibility being paramount.”
“Yes,” he acknowledged. He shifted in his chair, using his hands to accentuate his point. “God directs us into situations and choices. In each of those it is our personal responsibility to exercise stewardship and the faith-based judgment of an adult mind. He knows already what the choice of our free will shall be, through His being on the outside of our line of time.” The premise was usually a tough one, and he had learned to let the concept of nontemporal Divinity sink in. This one is up to it. He saw Dr. Hildebrandt nod in understanding but still hesitate in ways he had observed elsewhere.
“Long ago,” she said, “I used to think our ways were set from above. But I can see what you are saying.”
“I can only urge you to pay attention to each moment, Boone. They are all here to bless us, or build us,” he encouraged. “Each holds a lesson within our grasp. Don’t let those slip away unnoticed.”
The red-haired woman looked him in the eye, her lip distorting. After a long moment, she nodded. “Thank you so much, Doctor.” Her feet came together underneath her as if she were about to rise.
“Boone, can I offer to pray with you?” he asked in a gentler tone.
Her hand went again to the crucifix hanging on its chain, and she nodded once more, her lip now trembling. Anthony rolled his chair across the floor, near enough to his guest to take her free hand in both of his as they bowed their heads.
“Father in heaven,” he began, “I thank you for the soul of my friend Boone, whom I met today in her search for understanding of Your Will. Bless her travels as she crosses those difficult and dangerous places many of us will never need to enter. Guide her thoughts and her actions toward the culmination of Your perfect Purpose for her days, and grant her the peace of faith as Your free gift to those who believe. In the name of Jesus we pray, through the power of His Blood, shed on our behalf toward the forgiveness of sins … Amen.”
“Amen,” she whispered through her tears.
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He brought her up out of her chair as her gloved hand wiped a stream of wetness from her face. “Thank you, Jon.” Her eyes turned toward the door. “I should leave you to your work,” she sniffed.
“It’s all our work, Boone,” he reminded her. “We’re in this together, and never walk alone. Please remember.”
Tucking away her pendant, she offered a wordless, elegant, one-armed hug, and he accepted. They stepped to the office door, which Jon opened. There in the hallway stood his wife Mary, wearing an odd expression and holding little Grace. His daughter happily chewed on a fuzzy bobble hanging down from her winter hat. He guessed his wife had not yet reminded the child to keep it out of her mouth.
“Good morning … please excuse me,” the woman in black with now faulted eye makeup managed. She moved down the hallway with Mrs. Anthony's stare following her.
The door to the stairwell swung and closed after a few seconds, and Mary’s quizzical eyes turned to him. “Jon … who was that?”
“She was on the sidewalk in New York, after dinner, remember?” He could see Mary did, and her concern nourished what her confusion had caused to sprout.
“Jon … why was she here?” Mary asked him.
“I would say weight,” Anthony hazarded as a guess. He looked in the direction of Boone's departure and then back to his wife. “And for me as a Ministry of Opportunity.” He paused and then sighed. “She’s one of Sean’s kind.”
Mary's eyes finally registered understanding. She looked toward the stairwell in sympathy. “Oh … that poor woman.”
Reaching back inside the door, Anthony grabbed his coat for their lunch date. It would be the most normal of things, on what for him would continue as the most normal of days. He was suddenly and incontrovertibly glad for such a blessing.
The Wolseley
London, England
The unfortunate business in Novak’s suite three days ago had completely eradicated his ability to do business there. Local authorities had sealed the accommodations, and with his telephones and the majority of his belongings, while the three murders within were being investigated. Benedek Novak’s smartphone was now his lifeline, even with his numerous calls now unavoidably ringing through unscreened by his missed and mourned Ludwiga.
Consequently, on these last days before the formal opening of the Econ Conference, his business hours had necessarily shifted to the evenings. He could well afford to reserve private dining rooms like this one at the Wolseley, located in the swank of a former luxury-car showroom and a short distance from St. Ermin’s. Here, the space could hold in one sitting those who would have visited him in an entire day, and what the setting lacked in permitting private discussion it gained in interoperability. One must adapt to changing circumstances, the financier thought. A momentary lull in the conversation allowed him a sip of the excellent wine which had accompanied his meal.
Inside his suit jacket his cell vibrated with an incoming call. He plucked it out before the device could disturb his guests with its chiming. From America, he thought, rising with a nod to his companions while touching the screen to answer the call. He walked a short distance away from the table out of both courtesy to the others and to escape the buzz of multiple conversations. “This is Benedek Novak,” he answered in a businesslike voice.
“Benedek! This is Boone,” the caller replied.
A sensation of panic flared within him. Good God. What does this woman want with me so quickly? “Yes, how good to hear from you once more,” he said, drumming up a false enthusiasm from his reserves. “How can I help you?”
“This,” her voice purred, “depends entirely on your mind-set, Benedek. Is it still of the timbre you displayed on the street this Wednesday past?”
His anger, fueled by the discovery of his people dead in his suite and fanned back to life by her inquiry, seemed to fortify his response. “Entirely, miss.”
“I have a proposal, then,” the American woman informed him, “one which will allow us to balance the accounts under discussion at the time.”
“One I would be most anxious to hear,” he assured her, no longer needing to conjure the impression of interest in her call.
“I hope so, Benedek … my needs are beyond any which can fit into an operations budget on a whim, even one as far ‘in the black’ as my Director’s.”
Only money? How tiresome. Novak chuckled into the phone. “You need only assure me, dear lady, that my satisfaction will be equal to the expense.”
“Benedek, I can absolutely guarantee it.” The redhead on the other side of the Atlantic paused. “I will forward the details to your panel—the one for your account in Geneva unrelated to banking.”
InterLynk will be in the middle. “So long as they do not harbor resentment, dear.”
“Everyone there embraces the power of redemption, Benedek, I assure you,” the Hildebrandt woman responded to his fears with a confident tone. “Besides, once you see my proposal, you will realize the full extent to which we will all appreciate your effort.”
Novak drew himself up to his full height. “Some transgressions demand additional offset, Doctor. As I said, please let me know what I can do.”
The dangerous little woman in Virginia made an intriguing and most satisfied sound. “So I shall, sir. Look for it tonight. It will give you something to mull over in your dreams.”
“Something to which I may now look forward,” he replied in an earnest voice. “And I promise an expedited response will surely follow.”
“Then, sir, I will bid you a wonderful evening.”
“And a pleasant day to you, Doctor.” The call ended. Novak, thoroughly intrigued, stared at his phone for a moment before pocketing the device. His more overt business could occupy the remainder of his evening. He would apparently need to make an extra effort toward offsetting an anticipated outlay. It matters little. These figures are but waves in a never-ending stream. What we do to generate them comprises the true pleasure in our lives.
Thirty-seven hundred miles and six time zones away, Boone pocketed her own phone, sitting in the sunlit warmth of her USIC Escalade now parked in a designated visitor’s space on the Britteridge campus. How correct I was to expect my life should supply an endless parade of moral conundrums to provision the remainder of my days. Her mind corrected herself a moment later. Or, at least, that of my career.
Her business finished, she eschewed the pleasures of an Ivy League lunch in favor of an earlier start on the road back to McLean. Pleasures will come later, when I encourage Benedek Novak in his penance. She grinned to herself and turned the key to fire up the Caddy’s powerful engine. Who should have thought I would someday have any nun in me?
Chapter 23 - Spontaneous Combustion
The White House West Wing
Washington, D.C.
Five days later
The day's entries in Valka Gerard’s calendar were blocked off. Her self-imposed cloister allowed her to devote every effort toward her considerations in advising the President on his next and increasingly necessary choice of a senior staffer to replace Del Givens. The junior SA would then be assigned the more mundane line items and projects from her own task list. And a delegate will leave me enough time to devote my full attention to bringing the intelligence community back into line. Gerard looked forward to a day in which the work of the second term could truly begin in earnest.
By midmorning, she had narrowed the candidates down to a manageable group of five and was beginning to think she had earned a break. As if to confirm her intuition, the chime of her smartphone announced an incoming connection. Grabbing the device from her desk and looking at the screen, she saw it was from one of her personal contacts in the Democratic National Committee, calling through a Skype video conference. Business before pleasure. “Well! How are—” Wait … this is not who it's supposed to be, she realized. Rather, the same petite, redheaded woman who had accompanied Terry Bradley to the event next door appeared on her phone instead. What was her name?
/> “Madam Gerard, good morning.” Her expression, being unapologetic, came across as quite chilling and professional. “I see I’ve caught you in your office as your calendar suggested I would,” the woman obviously observed through the phone’s front-facing camera.
“What is the meaning of this?” Gerard demanded in a properly outraged tone.
“Forgive the subterfuge … and the hacking of your e-mail and cell phone. We have matters we need to discuss, madam, and this seemed the most straightforward way to arrange a conversation.”
“Very well, Doctor … forgive me my lack of total recall.”
“It’s just as well, Madam Senior Advisor. My name will be familiar soon enough, I can assure you. I wanted to call, being yesterday marked a full week following your attempt on the life of Benedek Novak.”
This is a trap, and an amateurish one. “How outrageous an accusation! Benedek is one of our—”
“—biggest mistakes, with all due respect, ma’am,” the redhead finished for her. On the video conference, she for the first time seemed to display contempt. “This is the Information Age. Communication by any means exists now as data … bits and bytes susceptible to intercept and interpretation … as well as dissemination.”
The woman at the far end of the conversation seemed to wish her point to settle before she continued. “Do you and your kind in Washington think technology would only aid your operating in an environment of deceit instead of also revealing your actions? Did you particularly think such when you were targeting players who understand the science so much better than do any of your own people?”
“I can only assume there is a point to all of this,” Gerard said with a snarl.
“There is most certainly a point, ma’am. I want to give you a preview of next week’s news cycle, one guaranteed to feature your many culpabilities.”
“If this is some second-rate attempt to obtain an unintentional confession, I would suggest you’ve been watching too much commercial television,” the Senior Advisor said in a voice which now dripped disdain.