One Last Scent of Jasmine (Boone's File Book 3) (37 page)

She reviewed the facts as she knew them. The academic was a near acquaintance, having been on the same sidewalk with Sean, Farrah and herself one evening in New York when bullets flew. The advice she needed now was not tactical, nor was the subject matter covered by classification. And Doctor Jon was a former InterLynk associate whose vital info, Boone was certain, would reside in the Executive Contacts on Daddy’s portal.
You need to settle your questions, Boone honey, before you know what you can do.

The possibility of such a visit carried with it some comfort. Finally, the promise of the rest needed so badly by her tired mind arrived, and she rose. The silk slipped off her shoulders once again. She silently glided around the bed to slip under the covers next to the Director of National Intelligence, barely stirring in his own slumber. She moved close and touched him gently, luxuriating once more in the warmth of his body.
I will find us the answers we both need, Terrence, dear. I promise.

Britteridge College

Sheffield, Maryland

The end of the semester was approaching, and the deadline meant nothing but work for a college professor as Dr. Jon Anthony knew well. Term papers needed reviewing and grading, and any revisions to his final exams would need to be addressed before the end of next week. Even with such a workload facing him, he approached each task as a blessing.

His popularity with the student body was one of his greatest sources of satisfaction, even more than he had imagined while pursuing this life. The kindling of understanding he nurtured in them brought with it a warmth better than any hearth’s fire.
The earthly kind will blaze only to eventually fade and die.
These spiritual lights will burn forever. Let it be, Lord.

An hour into his Saturday morning—even
he
had not felt guilty about starting at ten—his desk phone rang. He briefly considered letting it slip past to the answering system before the oddity of a weekend call to his office prompted him to pick up the receiver. “Theological Studies … Doctor Anthony.”

The voice at the other end of the line seemed somewhat surprised. “Doctor … forgive me, I expected voice mail.” There was only a moment’s pause. “We’ve not been introduced, I’m afraid … my name is Doctor Rebecca Boone Hildebrandt—a colleague of Colonel Daniel Sean Ritter. I was hoping to arrange an appointment, or lunch if you can forgive the terribly short notice.”

One of Sean’s people?
A tingle crept up his back.
Everything happens for a reason,
Anthony’s faith reminded him. “Of course, Doctor,” he managed. “My lunch break is accounted for already, I have to say, but I’m in the office now. Do you know Roberts Hall?”

“I believe I do. May I impose by stopping by for a visit this morning?” the voice on the phone asked.

His adult mind overrode the fear arising from the prospects of welcoming a visitor from the deep dark which Sean traversed regularly.
Love one another.
“Please do,” he answered. “Any friend of Sean’s is always welcome.”

“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.

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.