One Last Scent of Jasmine (Boone's File Book 3) (7 page)

“Terry,” she gasped. “No, not here.” She could tell the brakes were barely working. “Not
here,
” she said again.

His eyes seemed to register his understanding, but she could tell their fire had been relit. She acknowledged the inevitable with her next words. “Not with my king bed ten minutes away.” She could see he hovered at the edge of decision. “Terry,
please.
For the sake of whatever professionalism we have left.”

He relented, and she rose, straightening her clothing … thankful nothing had been torn. “Get your coat,” she encouraged, brushing her hair back from her face. “I still have the Escalade.”

“I’ll be driving,” the DNI insisted.

“For
hours,
” she agreed, walking toward his door and her own office with as much dignity as she could muster. “Don’t forget to leave a note for dear Edna if you plan on making it a late morning.”

Three hours later, Boone found her lover asleep beside her while she luxuriated in a dreamy postlude, the kind precipitated only by breaking an extended sexual drought. Therefore, her internal lecturing could begin again.

Rebecca Boone Hildebrandt … your moral fiber has all the tensile strength of a wet paper bag. Your professionalism is a profane joke, and your personal resolve is nonexistent.

Sighing quietly, Boone shook her head in disbelief at the poor decision making she had again allowed to complicate her life.
Well, I have to do
something
with my doctorate in physiology, after all,
was her glib answer to the accusing voice in her head.

Perhaps you missed your true vocation. You would have made a great high-end call girl,
the voice's upbraiding comeback countered.

Terry’s lovemaking had not suffered in the time they were apart. The man served her to climax even in foreplay. Immediately after, he still managed to hold out against her assault until her wall of passion was breached again.
You earned what you got next, Mister Bradley.
After a short lull, his gently aided recovery followed her incremental buildup of loving touches. Together, they drifted into renewed passion telling him without words,
No, you are not finished yet
.

She gave it all to him:  laying him down and taking the dominant position, finishing with a tilt back and rodeo rhythm. She concluded his evening with an assault of pleasure equal to what he had just given her—three times.

So I’m a great lay. I’m also an utter failure as a rational adult mind. Morning will be here eventually. What the hell will I do about him then?
Boone looked toward the darkened suite’s work desk, barely able to see the Tiffany lamp and the chain and pendant she had hung there to avoid breakage.
Was it the chain I was worried about, or the inhibition? Was I avoiding the next guilt trip I knew was coming until after my deeds—and my man—were done?

Boone’s head turned back to stare at the hotel ceiling again. Terry, out like a light, breathed slowly and deeply, on his stomach beside her.
What can you do, Boone? He needed you, and you needed him just as much, and you’ve always known you love him.

Life had indeed tested her. She possessed the discipline to earn a doctorate in Europe. After, she proved herself a harbor of strength and endurance sufficient to be awarded a black belt in Vo Binh Dinh from an old Vietnamese man, one who never conceived of teaching a Western female until he had learned her father’s name.

CIA. Embassy security. Case Officer Level Two. Level One. Level freakin’ Zero. And after all that, I just did the Director of National Intelligence to unconsciousness. Good career move, Boone. You’re brilliant
.
Wouldn’t Pastor Lin be proud of you now?

She continued to gaze up at the ceiling, drowsing, knowing her sleep was coming in its turn.
What am I? Am I the truth or a lie? Alive or dead inside? Hero? Villain? Agent? Mistress?
Dr. Rebecca Boone Hildebrandt knew all of her questions equally demanded answers, and nothing but rest and the effort of another day would give them to her.
Take it from here, Boone honey. Try not to screw it all up again tomorrow.

The Kremlin

Moscow, Russian Federation

Dmitry Gennadyevich Lyubov headed the
Federal'naya sluzhba bezopasnosti Rossiyskoy Federatsii
(FSB), in English the Federal Security Service of the Russian Federation. It was in such a capacity he now walked the halls of the Presidential Residence inside the Kremlin. His armed escorts, forbidden within these walls, remained behind to guard the executive limousine which had brought him across Moscow at the President’s bidding.

They will better serve me there in any case. Once in this building, my head is on the block. If it is required then it will be taken. I could have a squad of men with me; it would make no difference when the time arrived.

Lyubov knew his was a balancing act exceeding the danger faced by any Moscow Circus performer.
He
worked without a net and knew, should his fall come, no colleague present would rush to his aid. Likely instead, his peer’s only contribution would be the pistol bullet ending his brief wait for the judgment rendered by the highest echelon of Federation executive leadership.

Is this not exactly what happened to Grigory Sergeyevich? He possessed a rare talent for a suicide:  the flexibility to shoot himself in the back of his own head.
Grigory Sergeyevich Skripochka, former head of Russian Military Intelligence, had met his end earlier in the year. The man gambled his stake at the table of international intrigue and had lost by involving himself with the criminal Mikhail Ivanovich Smolin.
Had his conniving not initiated the death of Russian military personnel, he might have survived. As it was, the man embarrassed those who do not brook abashment.

The resultant power vacuum had elevated the influence of the FSB—and hence Lyubov—while the command of the Federation’s largest foreign intelligence service—the military’s GRU—remained in decapitated flux. Skripochka, who was himself a successor of the more capable Smolin, had likewise kept his successors weak in order to further his own longevity. Lyubov knew the men currently in place were no challenge to him.
Not while I manage to survive. Thanks to my friends in Geneva, I now hold the advantage.

His discreet alliance with the same Western interests Grigory Sergeyevich had tried to double-cross was rewarded with limited access to Web-based intelligence at least equal to any his organization could gather on its own. Furthermore, the InterLynk system presented its bounty in a far more organized and accessible fashion. Only now were his technical people beginning to emulate the Swiss firm's methodology.

It is clear the President and the Prime Minister need me and my organization more than ever. If I am to survive, it shall be because I extend their dependency into infinity. I will do this by serving the Federation rather than the men who have commandeered her.

The Russian Federation, so briefly freed after the rise of Boris Yeltsin, now drifted back toward totalitarianism, constrained only by the veneer of representative democracy. The consecutive-term-limited offices of the President and Prime Minister merely exchanged occupants now, after which the status would revert again in another meaningless transfer of titles. Lyubov consciously avoided speculation as often as possible. He focused on reality and on the present.
The President will be the power in this place for the foreseeable future. What tomorrow brings I will address in its own time. I am an intelligence professional … not one of the GRU’s damned psychics.

What he confronted today was having been summoned to an unscheduled meeting with them both:  the President and the Prime Minister, who could as well have been a marionette. Nothing on the regional horizon beckoned.
It must be the unexpected reelection of the American President. They seek counsel and strategy for the time to come.
Lyubov’s mind found enough solace in the thought to ease the tension always accompanying his visits to this place. Evil was resident here, a reality amplified by powerful men who disregarded the validity of the concept.

Recognized in the President’s outer office, Lyubov was waved into the inner sanctum without a word or announcement. Only a nod and a gesture came from the secretary, who also took his overcoat. The doors to the President's domain were not yet closed. It would be Lyubov’s task as always; his meetings with these men had never yet been conducted within earshot of others.
Russia has not changed so much as to make this appointment different in that regard.

“Ah, Dmitry. You arrive just on time as usual.” The man stood up from the seat behind his massive desk, and the already-present Prime Minister rose with him. Lifting his hand, the President pointed his finger toward the open side of the massive double panels. “Get the door, if you would, please? We are all here now.”

“Of course, Mister President.”
Well, Dmitry, perhaps you are a psychic after all.
Lyubov secured the door and thereby the privacy of the office, with its electronic countermeasures which would make the room difficult for even his own people to surveil. The three men might as well now be speaking on another planet.

The head of state strode forward when his Director in charge of internal security turned and approached the desk. A hearty handshake and a reassuring pat on the shoulder followed. The head of FSB was even granted a smile affecting some warmth from the Prime Minister.
They are in an unusually gregarious mood this day,
Lyubov noticed. His guard, however, did not drop; the anomaly merely aroused his curiosity.
What development has so elated them?

“Sit down, Dmitry. We have a lengthy agenda. Some tea?” the man offered his guest.

“Thank you, I shall,” Lyubov responded, still chilled from his exposure to the winter-like Russian weather.

The Prime Minister poured as the most powerful man in Russia began, “Thank you for coming on such short notice, Dmitry. We have
so
much to discuss.”

“Concerning?” the head of FSB inquired.

“Very recent developments, my old friend. Opportunities from abroad have arisen, of which we will take full advantage,” the Prime Minister explained. He glanced at his master, once more behind the huge desk. “Much as we thought they would. Significant enough we shall have challenges in accommodating the windfall.” The first in the line of Russian succession handed the newly arrived Director his tea in a tall glass supported by an ornate, silver holder.

“This seems good news for a change,” Lyubov observed, taking the beverage. “What can I do?”

“We will soon have a new technology initiative to accommodate. Sites must be identified and prepared, but prior to it all they must be secured. The Federal Security Service will be most involved,” the President said with a cold smile, the extent of emotion one was likely to see displayed on his face.

“This will be done, of course.” Lyubov took a welcome sip of the hot tea. “In what category of technology, if I may ask?”

“Missile defense,” the head of state informed him. “It is an airborne system of advanced design. Directed-energy weapons able to negate any airborne threat to the
Rodina
once we have them developed and deployed.”

No Russian system in development has such capability—but then the Prime Minister referenced opportunities from abroad.
Lyubov sipped again, seemingly unconcerned. He placed his tea on the low table beside his chair. “This initiative must have been held quite closely, if I have not heard of it. The developmental expenditures alone would cost billions. How will such an expense be managed?”

“Ah, but here we arrive at the best news of all. We needed no expenditure of Federation capital to develop the system at all. It will come as a gift, from friends in the West,” the Prime Minister explained.

“Friends?” Lyubov’s eyebrow raised. “You can mean only the Americans.”

“Indeed. It is nothing less than a goodwill gesture, sharing this capability which has raised so much concern on both sides with the balance of power in our region,” his President confirmed with a satisfied tone. “We can anticipate being the dominant power in Asia and Eastern Europe afterward, and for some time to come.”

The head of FSB struggled to keep his countenance impartial … as if his face was carved from stone. “Is this not supposition? The incoming American Congress would never approve of such a controversial transfer.”

His comment nearly made the head of the Russian Federation laugh, for the first time Dmitry Gennadyevich Lyubov had ever directly observed. “In this matter, the American Congress is of no concern. They will not be involved, nor will the American President. Nevertheless, we will soon be—and I speak of a matter of days—in possession of all the data we would need to build the system, as if we had developed it ourselves.” The Supreme Commander looked completely satisfied with the prospect.

Their exchange chilled Lyubov in a way requiring another sip of hot tea. He imagined a Russia invulnerable to missile attack, led by the man in whose office he now sat. Compounding the FSB executive's concerns was the knowledge his President pined for the return to the days of expansionism.
The American administration would take the advantage of missile defense from their allies and give it to this man instead? Are they stupid enough to believe a goodwill gesture is worth the risk of starting another war? The reaction from the Chinese alone would be tantamount to a break in diplomatic relations!

Lyubov did not attempt to pry details from either man. Even as head of the country's internal security, he was not party to intelligence compartmentalized on the level of the chief executive and President. Dmitry's only choice was rather to play his appointed role, appear to support their plans, and allocate whatever resources were requested from his organization. “I will of course do everything in my power to support Mother Russia,” he declared.