One Last Scent of Jasmine (Boone's File Book 3) Read online

  Other employees, she saw, tackled simulations of flight operations, testing the effectiveness of the products under development. “Largely virtualized,” she observed.

  “Oh, yes. From concept to design and testing, with the technology available to us, we can now be confident of producing a system efficient, effective and affordable before a prototype is ever assembled.”

  “Your firm, from what I understand, is at the leading edge of missile-defense technology,” Boone remembered from her show prep.

  “I’m glad to say we are. There has been a geometric acceleration in supporting technology, and it has advanced the field.” Kemp’s facial expression, it seemed, lost some of its luster as he continued. “From the company’s standpoint, there’s no downside. The repercussions, politically and internationally, have been somewhat less than ideal.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. “The open-mic incident?”

  “Exactly.”

  It was another foreign-policy embarrassment for a President who already had racked up his share. This one happened during an aside with the outgoing Russian President … now the Prime Minister. It took place during the windup to the year’s Nuclear Security Summit hosted in Seoul, South Korea. About the time I was so busy with the ambitions of another Russian, Mikhail Ivanovich Smolin … God rest his rotting soul.

  Plans had been long held to position protective technology in NATO-bloc countries against the threat of missiles launched from rogue nations. Established in policy prior to the rise of the current administration, a potential, unintended consequence would effectively be to hobble the Russian arsenal. A plan to greatly reduce the Bear’s military dominance of Asia and Eastern Europe made predictably few friends inside the walls of the Kremlin. Nothing is worse, after all, than technology promising to shrivel a man’s phallic symbols. No matter how many lives it could safeguard.

  The sound bite had become an instant classic: “I need space on the issue of our missile shield. After my next election, we’ll see what we can do.” The comment in confidence from the American Chief Executive, though made in a public setting, was caught only through the use of a long-range microphone in response to a less intelligible query from his Russian counterpart. It centered on—Boone had no doubt—the same subject of concern then and now. Though subdued by a protective domestic press corps, the slip received extensive play overseas. And suddenly Congress insists on Department of Defense research and development partners becoming a national security concern. That’s when Rex’s caseload went through the roof.

  “DARIUS technology now in the late stages of development, you see, delivers the ability to mount directed-energy weapons on airborne platforms similar to the AWACS jets now in use by multiple nations,” Kemp informed her. “Previously DE was applied only to targets in flight. Current DARIUS systems, however, are now projected to include lasers powerful enough to immolate enemy weapons in each of the four stages of flight: launch, boost, midcourse and terminal phase. Each may be conducted from outside the territorial holdings of the enemy. The rapid-response targeting and multiple-target capabilities even assure a measure of defensive capability to the platform.”

  Boone allowed her expression to match her level of interest. “So you’ve developed an invulnerable jumbo jet, mounting lasers powerful enough to secure a range of hundreds of kilometers, and able to fend for itself? No wonder your firm has generated a measure of envy overseas.”

  “Excellence can be a burden, Doctor, but it is one we at DARIUS are willing to bear,” Kemp confirmed as they walked the extensive facility.

  “One of the burdens, I understand, is talk of nationalizing the technology?”

  “As you said, the technology has generated measures of envy. For the time being, though, DARIUS is a private firm: one committed to nonproliferation of what could be a critical tactical advantage.”

  They emerged from the development area into what appeared to be the executive and administrative offices. Kemp led her to his own space, nicely glassed and situated in the prime territory of one of the building’s corners.

  Boone withheld her comments until the heavy door closed behind them. “My compliments, Paul. The company’s achievements are best measured by the concerns of those who, in a different era, were called our enemies. ODNI will do everything possible to assist the firm’s ability to secure the integrity of its data.”

  “And we appreciate your efforts, Boone. As to the data, the network housing the research and development stores are quite nicely isolated from the outside world, and even our business and administrative computers. Mister Schilling was most helpful in pointing out vulnerabilities. He held remote access as a security consultant, a consideration I am happy to extend to you as well.” He offered her a seat, easing behind his own massive desk.

  “Thank you. It will be a convenience.” As she sat, Boone appreciated the level of trust such access represented. I’m doing my job, then.

  “We will be looking at our data facilities in the next phase of your tour. Are there any other questions you might have in the meantime?” Kemp inquired.

  “Only philosophical,” Boone admitted, crossing her legs. “How does it affect a firm such as yours, when conceptual excellence makes one’s product such a tempting target for multiple suitors?”

  “As you said, Boone, they once would have been called our enemies.” His expression grew distant as he considered her question. “The world has changed, however. By tomorrow it will have changed again in one manner or another. The line between ‘our side’ and ‘the other side’ is blurring, within our borders and beyond. We simply must keep our heads up, as do animals at the edge of a herd. Mister Bradley’s efforts toward maintaining our security are, of course, most appreciated.”

  Boone nodded, thinking of the oath of office she had taken so many years previously. It was one sworn against all enemies, foreign and domestic. We never used to even consider the latter. Boone kept any emotion from registering on her face. We never had to. As Paul said … things change.

  Two hours later, across the lobby from the DARIUS main entrance, a junior Vice President of Operations and Development—the branch of the organizational chart headed by Paul Kemp—observed his boss escorting yet another government spook out of the building. At least this time the one they sent is something to look at.

  Marcus Fraco was twenty years Kemp's junior and more politically active than the old man. Fraco was, in fact, still feeling the elation resulting from his party’s political victory earlier in the month. It took so much effort to get where we are. To think it all could have gone to waste by turning the country back over to knuckle-dragging douche bags protesting under tricornered hats. Nice try, wing nuts. It was a close one, but like the Prez told you in his first term, he won.

  Fraco had no doubt his man would always win. The DARIUS junior vice president was of the coming generation of leaders. It was one of the reasons he did what he could in the meantime for those empowered in his party. His current employer being a private company rather than the federal government concerned him not at all. His priorities, as well as his loyalties, were clearly defined in his mind if not apparent in his professional life.

  Kemp's subordinate knew his supervisor preferred to deal with the USIC rather than interface with the White House. The latter role, in fact, the older man often delegated to Fraco as a junior executive. What had started as simply an area of responsibility for him was turning into a nice sideline. He knew it could just as easily become a career path. Business and politics: above a certain level, it’s all the same thing. Fraco relished his future, and he took every action he could to safeguard it, including one he initiated as soon as he saw the little redhead was safely out the front door.

  Turning back toward the admin area—where he had an office with a door at age twenty-eight, thanks much—his smartphone came out. His head ducked down as he walked, allowing him to compose a message in the manner of the technology-enabled everywhere. ODNI rep is out the door, it read. He had on
ly made it a few more paces down the hall when a reply jiggled the silenced cell in his hand.

  “Subject of visit?” the terse text asked.

  His thumbs typed out the answer. Security eval as previous.

  Again the wait for a reply was not long. “Contact info of the ODNI designee?”

  Fraco was still typing as he rounded the corner, arriving at the doorway leading into his small workspace. Momentito. He unlocked his workstation and brought up the DARIUS e-mail client, going to his shared resources and navigating from there to his senior V.P.’s Contacts list. He sorted by creation date and, indeed, found a new entry time-stamped only a few minutes ago. His thumbs returned to the screen of his smartphone. Dr. Rebecca Boone Hildebrandt, Senior Case Officer, ODNI, Liberty Crossing. He included the mailing address and the extension listed. No other information available here.

  This time the reply was nearly instantaneous. “Received. Delete these messages immediately.”

  “You’re welcome,” he snarked softly though he also complied, whisking the most recent missives out of memory from his SMS Inbox and Outbox. His phone secured, he reluctantly returned it to his jacket pocket. Back to the grind I guess. He glanced at the decorative clock on his office wall. On second thought, he decided, it's close enough to lunch for a salaried employee. He perfunctorily checked his company e-mail and, seeing nothing there which could not wait for his return, rose again. Maybe some hot wings today. I could use a beer, too.

  Evening followed, and Boone was again happily ensconced in a hotel which seemed as if it would do. It was of a chain but a nicely appointed and relatively recent addition to the area. More importantly, it was located only a few minutes from the Liberty Crossing campus. Her Executive Suite seemed to have every amenity for which a working woman could wish and at a price seeming ridiculously low after her time in Paris.

  In-room dining was an option any time of day, and she had been delighted to discover the kitchen’s repertoire included a lovely duck galantine. The delectable dish made her look forward to exploring the menu’s other offerings.

  The hotel also featured a spa for its guests, and it was likely she would be utilizing the treadmills until at least the coming spring. She could return to open-air running once the ideal outdoor circuit to address her road work materialized.

  Her evening routine, however, was purely limbering, and the suite left enough room for her to spread out an exercise mat and work to maintain her flexibility. The volume on the sitting room’s LCD flat panel was turned up to provide Boone company during stretching exercises of such long habit the sets needed practically zero mental attention.

  As for television itself, the only attention she paid it was to the news channels, much as she had in Europe. Here, the left-leaning ForwardNews network stood in juxtaposition to the traditionalist Eagle Network, and the contrast between the diametrically opposed viewpoints made for an evening’s entertainment. Once sorted out from the pair of biased presentations, the same news event—if the incident was featured in both venues—could be filtered through her own perspective of a realist. In her experience, she could usually determine one unbiased way of relating whatever event actually occurred. The PhD forced herself to remember a truism: lacking an intelligence professional’s level of information access, the average, everyday person would never be able to determine the true state of affairs at any given time.

  I miss Europeans … so haughty and self-assured they are entertaining. Stateside, arrogance and condescension seemed the rule instead ... when one side or the other was not actually insulting viewer intelligence. News programs were the ultimate reality show. Deprogramming herself afterward was an excellent exercise for her mind. Equal, Boone thought, to those to which she subjected her body in the next-to-last part of her nightly routine.

  The Deborah Vosse Hour of the past had been one of the worst in regard to agenda, at least before the show’s hostess had seemingly embraced a noveau balanced approach. Now, purists on the left end of the political spectrum lobbied the network for her termination. Business, being what it was, geared toward results. Vosse’s prominence had since grown to draw the largest audience of any of the struggling news outlet’s programming. Whenever Boone was stateside, she found herself becoming one of those regular viewers. The intelligence operative considered the newswoman’s ruthless and equal-opportunity skewering of any side daring to misrepresent the facts of a story on her turf to be the reason.

  Vosse was back from commercial break now. Boone lifted the remote to allow the audio once again.

  “Joining us for our final segment tonight is Doctor Jon Anthony of Britteridge College,” the short-haired blonde woman said in introduction. “Jon, how good to see you again.”

  Ah, Doctor Jon. Boone remembered him not only for the notoriety stemming from his adventures of recent years, but also as a near acquaintance. They had shared the danger during a drive-by shooting on a New York City sidewalk seven months ago.

  “Thanks, Deb. It’s good as always to be back,” the young, bright-eyed academic professed. He smiled in a way seeming more genuine to Boone than the vacant expression of the average Vosse interviewee.

  “Well, Jon … how is the new book doing? This is your second best seller already.” Vosse picked up and perused her own copy, to the obvious delight of her guest.

  “Everyone involved is quite pleased! I’m glad to have been able to again write something people find interesting,” Anthony said. Likewise his customary humility seemed to Boone more authentic than was usual in this venue.

  “Personal responsibility from a spiritual perspective … it’s an interesting topic,” Vosse commented. “One would think, given all the issues recently examined in the course of a lengthy campaign, the President’s opponent would have brought up the subject.”

  One would have thought. Such initiative, however, would have required guts, Deborah, and he was a politician. Boone exhaled, sliding her hands down the length of her left leg until her head rested beside her own knee. Hold for the count.

  “The main problem with the subject, Deb, is our having come to see the embracing of standards, which themselves are necessarily judgmental, as a detriment to conversation. As a result, the supporting fabric of our society is being degraded, one individual at a time. We blame any number of root causes, but ignore the issue at the heart of every one: personal responsibility for the state of our lives.”

  Amen, and amen. No one is going to keep me Level Zero trim except the chick in the mirror, Boone concurred, rising for a welcome breath.

  The hostess put aside the hardcover book. “The election is over. What do you think of the results?” Vosse posed the question to Boone’s amusement. The woman never gave up trying to paint Anthony in a corner.

  “This country's electorate has spoken,” Anthony said with a hint of resignation. “The consequence is also something for which we as a people are responsible. We will live with the results, good, bad, or tragic.”

  “And which do you expect, Jon?”

  “It depends on the focal length of one’s perspective, Deborah. Personally, I know God to be sovereign in every circumstance, regardless of appearances. All times, good and bad, only serve to move us toward His appointed ends. Every day arrives to bless us, or build us. It’s best to live them all in a mind-set of faith. Realizing our personal responsibility is one of the greatest burdens of spiritual growth, and the abrogation of essential truth can only lead to disasters on a personal, spiritual or a national level. Keeping a level horizon while navigating our perspective is the greatest responsibility of all.”

  Dipping again, Boone reaped the reward of her choice to remain fit and flexible. On the television, she saw Vosse smile in a manner rare during her interviews.

  “And your latest title seems to bring the point across extremely well. I’m so glad you could join us once again.”

  “Thanks for having me, Deb.”

  The Deborah Vosse Hour wrapped after a last word from the hostess, and t
he network’s offerings moved on, but for Boone it all moved into the background of her mind as the finale of her limbering sets approached. Thoughts returned from the past to haunt her again, memories of lives taken and friends lost along the way. Now Rex is gone, too. Compounding her melancholy were the weighty, borderline decisions forced upon her by the circumstances of her existence. A life in the shadows of a world the average citizen can easily ignore. It will only stay this way as long as I—or others like me—keep living it. It has to mean something. Doctor Jon has to be right.

  She straightened for the last time and drew a breath, looking over to where Thibaut’s crucifix hung in its usual nighttime spot. The luminescence from the small Tiffany work light—her Embassy had shipped it via the usual diplomatic transfers from Paris—shone on the pendant's polished, yellow metal. Her burdens used to send her into an absinthe-infused haze of temporary relief, though the weight from them was still there. They remain, as they always will. All are to be my eternal responsibility. Thank God I no longer need to bear them alone.

  Chapter 4 - Head and Heart

  Liberty Crossing

  McLean, Virginia

  Thursday

  Monday is expected to be the bad day of the week, Boone found herself thinking. The others are supposed to have a shot at turning out decently. But then again, why would I be surprised to find a life in ODNI seems to be composed entirely of Mondays?

  Her turnover of caseload had matched her predecessor’s almost immediately. Boone found it surprising as she had expected a lag time in her productivity, like any employee freshly out of the gate in a new role.

  The week’s major scare had been an accounting error which, for much of Wednesday afternoon and evening, made it appear as if a quantity of tritium disappeared from a South Carolina nuclear plant. Being the isotope remained a critical component of nuclear weapons, the discrepancy demanded everyone’s attention until ODNI resolved the matter. As it was, it meant only a sixteen-hour day, and in the end all was well. “Too bad Janine didn’t stick around. She would have loved this one,” Terry had said on their way out.