by Dale Amidei
Replacing his head cover, Sidorov adjusted its angle to perfection and grabbed the now fastened case from the table as he turned to leave. He stomped down the two steps to the rough field of the air base, turned, and addressed his men. “Have our Cuban comrades give him to the jungle,” he directed. He shot a last look toward the corpse inside. “He does not deserve a Russian’s labor.”
“By your command, comrade!” the senior of the two Special Forces troopers responded with enthusiasm.
Sidorov stalked to the vehicle he had driven across the grounds. His men, following closely behind, boarded their own. He could return to his nation’s business now, grateful indeed for the indulgence of satisfaction the Federation intelligence command structure had allowed. Certainly I am in your debt, Dmitry Gennadyevich.
Chapter 25 - Multiple Choice
InterLynk Home Offices
Geneva, Switzerland
Peter Wallace McAllen was not in the habit of working Saturdays, having reordered his priorities in retirement. His wife Karla, however, had taken the occasion to make a shopping excursion to her home city of Dusseldorf in preparation for the Christmas holiday, leaving him ample wiggle room to return briefly to his old work habits. As he had been forewarned by the alert sent last night to his cell phone, an executive-level filter had delivered an unscreened infonugget directly to his Inbox, marking it accordingly at the highest level of priority. From our one account in Moscow.
Upon opening the item, McAllen saw it consisted only of a lone photograph featuring a familiar face marred by a bullet hole just above and directly between the eyes. The fully dilated pupils did not detract from the amazed expression on Yameen al-Khobar’s face.
“Well, ain’t karma a bitch when she rolls around, son?” the General muttered to the departed soul. At least this business has been settled before the holidays. You were directly responsible for the deaths of nine of my people, not to mention the civilians you took out, you little son of a bitch.
McAllen transferred the item to the executive store, into the limited-access jacket the rogue Saudi agent had accumulated over the course of the past year. The General designated its status Closed from the drop-down menu of the document-management system, and watched as the folder’s icon drifted from the Active container to the appropriate stack before settling down. A sight well worth coming in to observe.
Returning to his regular queue, McAllen scanned for any other items which might have stimulated an old man’s interest. In doing so, he nearly forgot to link the one member of his team who would not be in attendance at Monday morning’s executive briefing. He rectified the oversight with another few flicks of his mouse before resuming his abbreviated routine. There goes a little more peace of mind for Becky. God knows the girl can use it.
Liberty Crossing
McLean, Virginia
Six hours behind Geneva
Late even for him, the DNI would be barely out the door before Friday turned to Saturday. Bradley had sent Boone off-duty until they—with Admiral Fletcher—would report in the morning as Essential Personnel for the duration of the President's security alert. It was not likely any malefactor would take advantage of the turmoil in the chain of command to launch an attack—but one might. And if so, we will be as prepared as is prudent.
Bradley already knew the following week would be an intense exercise. There would be many questions coming from the Highest Authority geared toward reconstructing the last activities of the Power Behind the Throne; such was Gerard's designation when other government officials were out of earshot of the President’s Senior Staff.
The term disgusted and disturbed the Director of National Intelligence. Even he just now had referred to the President as royalty, rather than a servant to the people. The philosophies of usurpers like Valka Gerard, which he understood as a student of history, had been the norm for the greater expanse of human governance. It was the fragile experiment of this representative Republic which was the aberration, along with the recognition of individual rights his nation’s founding documents acknowledged as divinely bestowed. It was an ugly business, defending the framework. The Senior Advisor’s malevolent arrogance had demanded nothing less than the harshest response. Her actions were outside of the established norms. Did she really expect the reaction to be confined within those boundaries? Her supposed authority, extended through moral abrogation, had met the only force capable of mending the breach. And it’s not a lesson gentle enough for a tyrant to learn more than once. Boone’s premise had proven its validity: adaptability is indeed the distinguishing characteristic of a successful field operative.
Reading once again the text of the crystal plaque which adorned his desk, he muttered the words aloud to accentuate the nobility of the ideal expressed therein: “We will always succeed … for the sake of our nation.”
So he would ... while he was able. Seeing the clock had passed all reasoning and being tired beyond reckoning, Bradley logged out of his computer workstation and called it a week.
Here we are again, you and I. Not so changed as we hoped and believed, nor the same as ever. Somewhere between always. Boone, also yet awake, recognized the return of her postoperative melancholy once she had been assured of the tactical operations truly being over. Perhaps it was a physiological reaction to the cessation of her adrenal dump … or the guilt from knowing she again had survived a conflict an opponent had not. Such a voice the Green Faerie in my absinthe has. She can call me across a span of months. The magic of her song, however, was fading. The power of Boone's continuing pride in her unbroken sobriety was stronger. I was right. The rest of my life is here to test my resolve, just as Doctor Anthony also implied.
After wandering back to her hotel room, she had taken a small meal though it did not extend her any relief. It was not food, exercise or even Terrence Bradley who possessed what she needed tonight. This is an evening to deal with my Muse.
By the time she was finally prepared, the lights were low, and she dressed in warm and comfortable clothing. Boone sat with her journal in the light of the Tiffany lamp, one of the few possessions she always brought along during her travels when it was possible. Her fountain pen was inked, tested and blotted. As always, the lines came naturally when they were truly ready for paper:
Truthful, or Lying
Quickening, or Stilling
Living, or Dying
Imprisoned, or Willing
Hero, or Villain
Warrior, or Weakling
Sustaining, or Killing
Listening, or Speaking
Healer, or Huntress
Beacon, or Shadow
Bond servant, or Mistress
Abyssal, or Shallows
Bounty, or Fallow
Blessing, or Cancer
Savior, or Coward
Questions or Answers
Boone knew her tears were close, but they had not come this time. She capped the pen and took comfort in silent prayer rather than the fog of her drinking or a purging wash in her emotions. I hope Doctor Jon is right, Lord … and You are guiding my steps just as You did my missteps, so they all carry me down the road ahead. I want it to be Your road, not mine. I understand now … and awareness will be my penance. Thy will be done.
She had to decide, and so she did, and then tested her emotions afterward. Yes, Boone, this is the way it will have to be. You’ve passed through now. Things will need to be different, and difference comes through effort … not by waiting in hope.
Her journal lay open for the newly penned ink to dry while she pondered the words she had only just brought into the world, and her chin rested on her small fist. She stroked the cover's worn leather with the index finger of her other hand, loving every fleck of texture found there.
“Go to bed, Boone, honey,” she whispered to herself. “Tomorrow’s going to be a big day.” She raised her torso up to turn off the lamp, luxuriating in the darkness promising rest … and anticipating a new dawn which always offered … What? Another chance, she
remembered.
Liberty Crossing
McLean, Virginia
Saturday
The Essential Personnel alert was ongoing, as Bradley had so informed Boone via text message early this morning. His intuition, though, was that the level of government mobilization would not last through the day. Somewhere close to noon, someone would get hungry and then realize there was really no logical reasoning behind tethering people to their office desks when now they were universally equipped with mobile phones.
She came in at nine per his suggestion as there would be little to do but stand by and take the opportunity to clear away another portion of their ever-present administrative backlog. He looked up at the sound of the glass double door, knowing it could be no one else. He was, regardless, surprised when he saw her.
Boone sauntered in, hair and makeup done to perfection and dressed in her best white Chanel, to include the strappy heels she had brought back from Seoul. She took only a side step to lay her coat and bag on Edna’s desk before pausing in his office doorway, a hand elegantly positioned on each side of the jamb. The posture allowed him a glimpse beneath a blouse both more sheer and low-cut than her usual office attire. “Good morning, Terrence,” she said in an almost husky voice.
No brassiere. Damn. “Good … morning, Boone,” he replied after an appreciative pause, “You’ve … gone to some trouble for a Saturday.”
She acknowledged his compliment with a crooked smile and strode the rest of the way into his office, looking at his monitors. “How is business?”
“Slow,” he admitted with a sigh. “Still nothing from the Atlantic. The weather out there is worse, if anything.”
Nodding to him, Boone came closer to sit at the right-hand edge of his desk, kicking her wonderfully shod foot. “Dear … we need to talk.”
It required little effort to give her his full attention. It would have been true for any man. “Regarding?” he asked.
“You and me, Terry.” Her green eyes were neither evasive nor upset, holding only the loving and frighteningly alive gaze enduring in his best memories. “The misgivings I held for the two of us working in such close proximity seem to have been borne out. Things need to change, and I suspect you know it every bit as well.”
The DNI felt her words cut through his hopes and into the domain of his adult mind. She’s right. It was a mistake from the beginning and a result of my loneliness. He gave the moment its due consideration before speaking. “It’s possible you’re correct,” he admitted, unable to muster much enthusiasm for the words. His administrative side anticipated her solution. “You’re wanting to return to Level One, I assume?”
“Terry, no … not at all. Even there, I wouldn’t be safe from my feelings for you.”
Shit. “Geneva, then, to work with your father.”
Sighing, she shook her head just as sadly. “No, I’m afraid not.” Her eyes took on a more businesslike glint. “My relationship with him interferes there, too … in a way unfair to his other operators.”
Where is she going with this? What future is she going to choose? Bradley felt himself to be at a loss, and the tone of his voice revealed his confusion. “What then, Boone? What is it you want to do?”
She reached out and took his hand, her grip as small and as strong as it had ever been in their best moments. “Terrence Bain Bradley … marry me. Make me your wife.” Residing at the apex of the most capable intelligence organizations ever assembled by any government, the Director of National Intelligence realized even he could still experience the chill of being completely blindsided. “Boone—”
Her grip did not diminish. “Yes, Terry?”
“—I’m not good at it.”
She swiveled around and dropped to her knees in front of him, looking slightly upward in a manner he knew to be meant as a comfort. “Oh, spare me, Mister Bradley, sir. All you ever needed was a woman who knows why the phone rings at three in the morning … someone who can provide the stability and the support you need to get through day after day of a job like this one. You’re up to living your life. You need a woman who is just as strong. You’ll have the wife you deserve for the first time. I promise.”
“And what will you have, Boone?” he asked. “OPM won’t allow you to remain in ODNI. It would mean the end of your career as a case officer.”
“I’ll have my last chance to bring a life into this world, Terry, after having taken far too many out of it.” Her eyes, it was plain to see, projected nothing but the most beautiful glimmer of hope for the life which could be theirs. “Besides … with the secrets we share, either of us would be insane to ever let the other out of our sight, n’est ce pas?”
When he could not find the words, she found them for him. “What do you say, Mister Bradley? Feel like training for this mission together?”
Yeah. Forever. Sighing, he held up his hands. “I have no ring, Boone.”
Smiling, she rose and took those hands to draw him up onto his feet. “Neither do I. Kiss me, if you accept my offer … and my resignation.”
Her arms went around his neck, and they shared the moment, no longer adulterated with guilt or ethical impropriety. He realized he was as hungry for it as was she. Consequently, it lasted an appropriate and wonderfully long span of time.
Here we go. He looked into the pools of loving jade which were her eyes. “Boone, was that the last chance I will ever have to say ‘no’ to you?”
She grinned and then shrugged. “I’ve given up forecasting the future, Terrence, dear.” Her eyes glinted in a different way as a thought shone through them. “It’s something I learned not long ago. Sometimes you have to let go, and walk in faith.”
“Dinner tonight, then” he suggested, surreptitiously gauging the size of her ring finger against his smallest digit. And before then, one hell of a jeweler.
“Definitely,” she replied.
Measuring my finger with your own. You clever man. The look in his eyes had been restored to the state for which she had longed, Boone realized, as was the condition of her spirit. Beneath her blouse, the gold of Thibaut’s crucifix rested, warmed by her skin. The feeling also represented a welcome change. For the first time, Rebecca Boone Hildebrandt felt worthy of the effort which had been put into her existence.
I get it now. Love was where it all began, isn’t it? Boone, in her mind, reached the end of the long, white hallway once haunting her REM sleep. I can do this. I definitely believe I can do this, she thought. Thank you, Lord.
There in Terry’s arms, she opened the door from her recurring dream. A portal she had sought nightly appeared at last, and she stepped out into bright, warm sunshine.
*****
Boone will return in Meat for the Lion.
A note from the author:
Personal responsibility held by citizenry to keep government within its bounds is the essential fabric of a free society. Without widely held adherence to the concept, a population slowly assumes the status of something less, eventually giving itself over to the herd instinct of the willingly managed.
Likewise, once a nation’s leaders are no longer held to account for the results of poor policy—the ill effects originating in obvious incompetence or outright disregard for the limitations of an office—society also suffers. The erosion of valid standards of behavior degrades principle until hard-and-fast guidelines demarcating Right and Wrong are no longer acknowledged. Such is a formula tailor-made for the onset of opportunistic tyranny.
Tyranny to some—rather than being anathema as in the case of a free-thinking person—is the goal. When presented, often it is couched in psychologically appealing terms such as “hope,” “fundamental change,” “progress” and “action.” Foundational to the scheming of the architects of collectivism is the breakdown of the individual's ability to shoulder the burdens of managing a responsible life.
We are every one responsible for the state of our lives and collectively for the condition of the world in general. Responsibility requires, at times,
the sacrifice of self-interest in the name of duty. One must also willingly accept the outcome of one’s best effort, be it stellar, average or abysmal. Only by accepting the inequality of outcome—resulting from the innate differences in ability and talent—can we as a people ensure an environment of universal accountability in which our personal dignity and economic freedoms will endure.
Displaying such character, a task far from being easy, calls for a unique category of strength instead. It requires embracing the valid faith God promises to souls who seek Him with their whole heart, and the same conviction those who wish to oppress us aspire to extinguish. Boone has found hers. It remains my sincere hope you have as well.
-DA
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