One Last Scent of Jasmine (Boone's File Book 3) (30 page)

Nodding, Bradley sighed. “Social initiatives, political campaigns, and leftist causes and regimes internationally.”
I might as well let her in on the rest.
“The man is also a silent partner in DARIUS, as well as equivalent firms in Europe and the Russian Federation.”

The red-haired woman on the other end of the connection assimilated the information quickly and drew the same conclusion as had he. “Son of a bitch. I
knew
it! And he envisions kicking off an arms race in missile defense for fun and profit. It’s what this has been about from the start.”

“Dead center, Doctor Hildebrandt,” the DNI concurred. At least to him, Boone's countenance seemed to turn somewhat apologetic on the video feed.

“Well, Terrence, I hope Lambert’s confirmations will help advance your Level Zero item.”

“
Our
Level Zero item,” he corrected her again. He watched her cock her head there in Geneva. “Yes, Boone, I’m restoring your status.”

“Terrence, I
resigned.
”

“Your resignation was not accepted, Doctor.”
This obviously came as a surprise. It’s nice to know I can still catch her off guard once in a while.
“No one has ever walked from Level Zero, and I don’t intend for you to be the first. We can talk after we see this current situation through. Until then, let me know what you need.” She again adapted to the unexpected, he saw, and the possibilities seemed to register with the impact for which he had hoped.

“Direction, sir?”

The DNI sat up in his chair. He confirmed the encryption level of their video connection with a glance to the icon's appropriate display by his browser.
I trust her telephony. I’m not as sure about mine.
Bradley checked the volume indicators of his workstation’s speaker and microphone. “Boone, switch to conference audio, please.”

He watched his agent pluck out her earpiece. He then hung up his handset. A moment later, they were conversing through the scrambled web-serving connection instead.

“We have an international player,” he continued, “seeking to disrupt balances of power, as well as threatening what the Executive Branch has defined as a Vital National Resource. You will proceed as appropriate for a national security issue and formulate a solution outside the scope of oversight per Level Zero protocol.”

“Execute by Any Means Necessary,” she correctly interpreted his orders.

“Ironic, isn’t it?”

His Senior Case Officer wasted no time. “Terry, I need permission to contract with InterLynk for manpower. Besides, they hold concurrent interests.”

“Granted, Doctor. Good luck.” He cleared his throat. “And
please
update the General on our arrangement.”

“I shall. Thank you, Terrence, for everything.” Her eyes warmed, and she gave him the smile he had been craving for the last week. She proceeded to close the Web session and the video connection.

With the video conference ended, her image was replaced by the InterLynk logo. He wanted her back. Whether or not it happened, he realized, depended on more factors than lay within the control of even the Director of National Intelligence. Terry Bradley closed his browser and went on to do the same with his other running applications. For once, he was letting go and leaving the office at the close of business. It was as much of a celebration as he could muster until her return.

Chapter 18 - The Morning Agenda

London Heathrow Airport

London, England

Tuesday night

Lambert walked down the British Airways aerobridge exiting his flight from Geneva and spotted his waiting colleague standing in a deliberately visible position. The French operative looked the area over carefully. Nowhere were the four Germans lent by their mutual employer to the Saudi as his manpower pool.
If I am to be eliminated, al-Khobar is apparently willing to accomplish it without assistance.

Yameen fell in step beside Lambert without a word, the two not even engaging in French until they were well away from the throng of travelers at the gate. The Saudi was the first to speak once the idea seemed more prudent. “So … how was
your
flight from Geneva, my friend?”

“It was a bit of a rush,” Lambert admitted. “Fortunately, I had no luggage.” From his sideward glance, the Frenchman could see a trace of a smile forming underneath the week’s growth of beard sported by his companion.

“A fitting end to your less-than-successful trip.”

The Saudi’s observation cut deep. “A waste of time all around,” Lambert corrected him. “Even the shot at the Porsche was a useless expenditure, unless you know someone in Geneva who is seeking work as a high-end auto mechanic.”

The Frenchman's revelation was apparently news to Novak’s newly freed contractor, who showed only for a moment the beginnings of an angry reaction. “So what did you tell them?” he asked after a moment.

“As little as I could and survive.” Lambert shook off the nearest sensation to a flashback he had yet encountered after a field operation. “Believe me, my friend; you do not ever want to be interrogated by the little redheaded woman.”

“Better her interrogation than her blade or her bullet, believe
me
,” al-Khobar countered. “So now what will we do?”

As the Saudi’s head turned toward him, Lambert could almost see the sympathy in his colleague's eyes before they looked away again. The Frenchman answered, “I have as little choice as you. We must tell the man. To run is useless.” Lambert found himself wallowing in resignation, his only solace being al-Khobar’s apparent accord.

“Yes,” his Middle Eastern companion agreed. “We would only die tired.”

InterLynk Home Offices

Geneva, Switzerland

Wednesday morning

The morning meeting, not surprisingly, included the entirety of the executive team. Boone was the last to appear, wishing to keep any preliminary chatter to a minimum. She closed the door to her father’s office without his prompting.

“Morning, Beck,” her father said with his cup of coffee poised for a sip, the only one so served. He looked at Ritter, who appeared as impassive as ever, and at Bernie, who seemed like a man who might never need coffee again. “So, how did everyone sleep?”

Schuster grimaced. “Sleep?”

Boone took her seat at her father's left. Quietly she opened her iPad.

The General nodded, acknowledging Bernie’s insomnia. “Yeah, that was an annoying day. Now we got another one.” InterLynk’s president scrutinized his Field Operations team. “You two want to bring us up to date on your late night down in the basement?”

“
Dad!
How did you—” Boone began.

He raised his hand. “Access cards tell all, honey … from your coming in the back door to your drawing med supplies from storage. On the security cam it didn’t look like Mister Lambert enjoyed much of it at all.”

Ritter shrugged in as much a display of emotion as she expected. Boone’s nose wrinkled in her own
mea culpa
. “I never could pull anything over on you, Daddy.”

McAllen finished his sip. “So the cork-sniffing son of a bitch was a plant, huh?”

“One hundred percent,” Ritter confirmed, looking disgusted by the renewed vacancy on his roster. He glanced Boone’s way. “We did get a complete interview on tape, not that it will ever see the light of day.”

Her father’s glare turned toward her. “Admissibility problems, I assume?”

“Well, frankly … yes,” she admitted. “The exercise was for our own information, being our opposition, who we now know as Benedek Novak, has set the rules.”

“My
ass,
if you’ll pardon my French, darlin’. The rules were set in Washington at her damned reception.” He paused only a moment before his next question. “Where is Mister Lambert now?” her father demanded.

“London, sir,” Ritter volunteered. “After what transpired, we thought his best use was as a courier of understanding to the man who set the current situation in motion.”

“Well, it beat putting a bullet in his damned head, I guess. It’s not a war zone, and we’re not operating on government sanction,” her father allowed.

Here we go.
Boone cleared her throat, straightening slightly and drawing the attention of the three men at the table. “Not true as of last night.” She looked around and then back to her iPad. She drew a breath before she returned her father’s gaze. “Daddy, guys, I don’t know how else to say it … ODNI has elected to not accept my resignation. I’m going back in.”

Schuster registered surprise. Her father went back to his coffee. Ritter might as well have been a statue.

Boone leaned forward. “I
do,
however, have Terry Bradley’s authorization to seek a Field Operations contract to pursue our concurrent interests.”

Her father looked pleased at least by the revenue, knowing the depths of ODNI’s pockets. “Well, honey, ain’t you Daddy’s little rainmaker,” he said with a grin.

“I’m sorry, Dad,” Boone said, frowning. “I didn’t plan on any of this.”

“Well,” he responded, “I guess none of us did.” He looked at his tablet, swiping and tapping a few times on the surface of the screen. His eyes flicked to Bernie. “Mister Schuster, I’ve restored access to our friends in Virginia on the previous terms. Follow up when you get the chance, will you?”

“You got it, sir,” InterLynk's second-in-command said with a nod.

“Well, Doctor, since you represent a client now, what does your organization need from us?” the General inquired.

“I’ve been authorized to act on my own initiative. Now that we’ve interrupted the other side’s momentum, I’m inclined to do the same to their command and control.” She glanced at Ritter and then back to her father’s steely stare. “I might have to borrow Sean for a few days.”

“It’s all right with you, Colonel?” the old man asked.

“I am inclined to agree with the Doctor, sir,” the Director of Field Operations concurred. Boone thought the man appeared just as eager to proceed as she.

McAllen made another few adjustments on his tablet. “All right, then. Get going, both of you. Ritter, you’re back in the field pool for the time being.” Her father’s eyes returned to her. “Becky, I’m altering your status to Assistant Director
at liberty
. I don’t want to have to redo your employment paperwork if you and Bradley have another fight.”

“
Daddy!
”

“Daddy nothing. I said get going, both of you.”

Boone and Ritter rose simultaneously. “We’ll be in London,” she said, resigned to her father’s stubbornness.

“As long as you’re busy, and on the grid,” McAllen acknowledged. He turned to his XO. “Are you up to running Field Operations during the interim, Bern?”

“So long as it doesn’t involve any more new recruits,” Schuster qualified.

Bernie's grimness only seemed accentuated by the expressions on Ritter’s face and, she had no doubt, her own. Boone rolled her eyes, taking one step and reaching for the latch on the door. Her father was right. It indeed was time to go to work.

British Airways Airbus A320

Above France

Midday Wednesday

Her neighbor, from his appearance a student, was absorbed in his musical selection and had not seemed interested in conversation even before departure. Neither was Ritter available as company, being seated further to the rear in Business Class. With an upgraded aisle seat, Boone rode the air lanes alone with her thoughts. Inbound like her fellow passengers to London Heathrow for an early afternoon arrival, she used the time to run her preoperational analyses. The solution to the immediate problem Boone thought obvious. As always, finding her route
to
the solution was proving to be problematic as ever.

The question is how to engage a target as well financed and secured as Benedek Jancsi Novak without the level of state support Dad and I enjoyed in Russia.
She knew some British spooks, and while they were not the superheroes of the James Bond movies, the various agencies they served were hardly slouches of international intelligence. She and Ritter intended to target a man in whom the United Kingdom’s Security Service—MI5—would undoubtedly hold an interest.
Possibly also MI6,
she thought, adding the agency to her growing list of concerns.
The foreign intelligence specialists in the SIS would not be out-of-bounds involving themselves, considering Novak’s international engagement.

Neither was interference from British law-enforcement assets beyond consideration. Understandably and honorably, they would be more concerned with the rule of law than addressing the weight of the Hungarian financier’s tainted karma. And
those
were only Boone’s
operational
concerns.

Five years ago—
hell,
one
year ago
—the proposed assassination of a designated subject, given the level of her nation’s security interest, would not have been problematic.
Not with a shot or two of absinthe available before and afterward.
Boone sighed.
Can I carry out such an op today?

Her life was not getting any easier, and at times like this she found herself amazed she had so far resisted the urge—diminishing, but not altogether absent—to resume her drinking.
So what’s kept me from going back?

She pondered the question.
Awareness,
she decided.
Once the full realization of the lie manifested in my drinking bubbled up to the front of my mind, I couldn’t delude myself any longer. My addiction became a real problem instead of a false comfort, and ever since, the thought of going back has never survived as more than a moment of weakness.

The clarity
itself
had become an addiction.
I lost my absinthe in Russia and my cynicism backstage with Pastor Lin. Reality has been free to kick my ass ever since.
Exposure to truth, she realized, could never be undone, only accommodated …
and assimilated, if one chooses to remain healthy.