One Last Scent of Jasmine (Boone's File Book 3) (17 page)

The federal alpacas in the reception area took turns formulating theories on what could be making the Director of National Intelligence late on a Tuesday morning. Listening to them made Boone realize her fears should definitely be allowed to win out over any vestige of idiotic optimism.

“But nothing’s on his calendar.”

“He looked fine yesterday. Too much champagne last night, maybe.” The sound of more hushed conversation, and then, “But
she’s
here,” in a lowered tone.

Boone rested an elbow on her desk, rolled her eyes, and shook her head slowly while sipping her caffeinated mental salvation. It would be a good morning to get out of the office. Fortunately, she had just such fieldwork in mind.

Edna Reese saw the Senior Case Officer, coat and bag in hand, emerge from her workspace even before the office matron had managed to pop into her doorway. “Good morning, Doctor. Are you off already?”

“I have some things to do in the District, Ed. Be kind to the DNI when you see him, will you? Executive Branch types gave him quite a beating at last night’s soiree.”

“Certainly. You have your cell?”

“Always,” was the call from the swinging glass entrance door. A swish from the damper, and the hard-bodied redhead in her black ensemble was gone. The sound of English boots stepping smartly in the outer hallway faded toward the elevator before the door closed.

“Director Bradley took a beating? I wonder if she kissed it and made it better.”

The comment, followed by conspiratorial snickering, made Edna Reese’s usually dour expression grow even more businesslike. She clapped her hands lightly three times. “Ok, ladies … enough of that. Let’s get back on task.” In response, the junior admin assistants swiveled back toward their monitors instead of each other. For the moment at least, ODNI was once again a professional environment.

Boone’s Escalade sat in public parking now, directly across a broad avenue from Novak's office complex. She was researching and watching … and learning the rhythm of the place. Benedek Jancsi Novak, as Boone had found in the course of her morning expedition, maintained a business office and therefore a presence in Washington. This only augmented the widespread, vicarious influence he enjoyed through financially supporting his many subsidiary, leftist special-interest groups. From what Boone had seen this morning in her MacBook's browser—via her cellular broadband, a useful perk of her current position—the office in D.C. was the man’s largest established satellite outside of Budapest. Due to his enterprising nature and far-flung sphere of activity, the billionaire spent a great deal of time jetting from one financial center to another, living much of year in whatever five-star accommodations could meet his discriminating standards. His was such a stature he did not need to attend the political end of his business. Those who sought an allegiance more often came to him.
Extent notwithstanding, this administration is not the first to have done so.

The Hungarian-American’s influence had grown with his fortune. His resultant ability to direct the flow of politics both domestic and international, significant even twenty years ago, was dominant now. The man’s primary fund had even forced a devaluation of the British pound netting him a cool billion in profit from short-selling sterling in the 1990s. The gain and resulting reputation solidified his present-day prominence.

USIC's SCO was certain the financial onslaught against the pound would have also netted Novak a “jacket” within Britain’s Joint Intelligence Agency, the equivalent to her own USIC.
Sir Chauncey Stewart and MI5 are the teeth of the British Bulldog when it comes to internal and economic security.
What makes one’s stash might cost one his friends … or more. This money man could be closer to learning a hard lesson than he realizes.

Two hours after the opening of business in most of the city, Boone watched as a long, black limo pulled up to the loading zone designated in front of the billionaire’s offices.
Yes, it was a long night in the Executive Mansion consoling Valka Gerard and whatever other politico you’ve undertaken to wet-nurse, wasn’t it?
For all Boone knew, the man could have had an overnight stay in the Lincoln Bedroom, complete with breakfast in bed served by the President himself.

She raised the small but powerful binoculars usually in the map pocket of her driver’s door, confirming the stretch indeed carried the financier. A moment later, she saw him rise out of the rear passenger-side door.
It’s him all right.
Where are Mutt and Jeff?

As if to answer her question, the same pair of burly men whom Boone had spotted outside the State Dining Room during the previous evening now emerged from the office building on cue.
Interesting. They are on-site security, not traveling escorts—Novak’s men in River City.
Boone lowered her glasses, visually able to track the trio as they climbed the few steps and disappeared inside the wall of reflective glass fronting the structure.

Novak commits to the expense of maintaining a staff here to support business interests and his political influence … though who can say how separated the two are in this day and age? Now I know of at least part of his enterprise.
It had involved running interference on a spunky redhead tasked with monitoring the security of the Defense Armaments Research Institute … on a night when hijinks were scheduled.
But why?

Boone turned back to her MacBook.
Was it business? Pleasure? Personal? Politics? Or with this man is it all of those at once?
Her research and her surveillance continued concurrently, and before long, she was connected via VPN to not only her USIC portal but the treasure trove of information on her father’s InterLynk system as well. The morning wore on toward lunch, and by the time the USIC’s Senior Case Officer realized the hour, she was well on her way to establishing a unifying theory of recent events.

As she had queried her boss last night, the financier indeed had investments in defense armaments. Those were not only in the United States, but
worldwide
… and they included a founding grant and nonvoting seat on the DARIUS board.
Couple it with a corresponding interest in political financing, leftist politics and a well-established record of opportunism.
It all equaled an incredible opportunity to make one of the world’s richest men even more money.

Sitting back, Boone mentally reviewed what she could imagine the scenario to be.
The U.S. military sees the utility of the DARIUS airborne missile defense platform and sets it as a priority. Such would be predictable, given the current concerns over the capabilities of rogue states such as Iran and North Korea.
Novak aids the naive and sycophantic political objectives of the current administration, and he does it by siphoning off the technology to empower and embolden the ambitions to reestablish regional superiority of the men heading the Russian Federation.

“And then what?” she wondered aloud.

He sets off an arms race in directed-energy platforms in Europe and Asia, profiting from investments in both sides, that’s what. Afterward, he might as well have a license to print his own money.

“Son of a
bitch,
” Boone murmured once the full scope of the likely scenario solidified in her mind. It was no longer a question
why
they had disengaged from her after the debacle at DARIUS.
There’s too much at stake. Novak gets rich, and the Executive Branch accomplishes a neat end run around Congress. Everybody furthers their dickless foreign-policy goal of leveling the playing field between us and the powers-that-be who could once again morph into enemies. All of it happens in the arrogant and fallacious assumption their good will shall inevitably be returned.

Boone shook her head and felt a strange anger building. Her intelligence professional’s commitment to the oath she had taken to protect and defend the Constitution—
against all enemies, both foreign and domestic
—reasserted itself in the foreground of her consciousness.
What politicians in their right minds would expect to maintain the allegiance of patriots when acting against our national interest?

“Deceptive and manipulative ones with divergent goals,” she concluded aloud. The USIC Senior Case Officer was glad of no one being near enough to see a solitary redhead, in sunglasses, sitting in a SUV and staring at a building across the broad avenue while talking to herself.

Boone knew her job entailed dealing with the world as it
was,
not as it was ideologically envisioned to become or interpreted to have been in the past. Her niche was one of a cold, hard realist, and regardless of the repulsive conclusion to which she had just arrived, she knew she and Terry would need to pursue to a definitive conclusion the Level Zero case created by the DNI
.

That’s what we do here, Agent Hildebrandt,
her boss had explained once, years ago.
We solve problems most people will never know existed.
She nodded now, a contemplative expression locked on her face.
I can live with that,
she remembered replying, and she had been right so far.
We’ll see what happens this time … once I’m inside your D.C. digs, Mister Novak.

As the noon hour approached, and she continued to watch, the limo returned. Shortly afterward the financier and his attending heavyweights reappeared. The pair of men from the DARIUS parking lot watched the limousine depart on a route which could have been heading toward Dulles. A moment later, Boone watched them pivot to take a cursory scan of the area and then return to the interior of Novak’s office building.

Tonight. Definitely.

She reappeared in Bradley’s doorway at the beginning of the afternoon, looking like a woman who had a full compliment of concerns on her mind. “Terrence, do you have a few moments?” she asked, her tone as refined as ever.

Bradley looked up from the log-in screen of his workstation and then at his calendar showing the commitments filling the remainder of his day.
Barring any emergent, more highly rated concerns at least.
He nodded, waving her forward. “Come in, Agent Hildebrandt.”

Closing the door behind herself, she seemed to him to be short of her usual level of enthusiasm. As his SCO plopped down in the leather-upholstered visitor’s seat on the other side of his desk, he rolled his own chair back for a better view of her face.

“So … what do we need to talk about?” he inquired.

“Business, Terry. Level Zero.”

Good. Last night and this morning is where we left it … at her hotel door.
Bradley nodded. “You were out all morning. Edna said on business in the District.”

The woman in night camo nodded in return. “Terrence, can I ask a question?”

“Shoot.”

“How black is too black? I’m asking … how much of what I find in this case do you really want to know?”

Across his desk, Boone Hildebrandt’s green eyes bore down on him, interpreting, he knew, his every nuance of body language.
This is not a woman to whom you can—or should—lie.
“Wants and needs are separate issues, Doctor. We have the same arrangement as ever. You get to do things your way as long as you fulfill the duties of your position. An ODNI Level Zero case, once resolved, ceases to exist. The classification is unique in the aspect.” He shifted in his chair. “If there is something regarding the case I
need
to know, I’ll expect you to bring me in.” He could see she was conflicted but resisted the urge to ask why. Then he saw her decide.

“What do you need to know about the possible murder of your former Senior Case Officer?”

Bradley clenched his jaw and realized after the fact his fingers unconsciously had drummed the polished wood of his desk top. “Actions against opposing field personnel in cases with a national security concern are at the discretion of the Level One operator and above per standing Presidential order,” he quoted from memory.

“And afterward?”

“There is no debrief requirement at Level Zero.”

Boone nodded again, seeming to need so badly the answers she was receiving. “Terrence, may I ask yet
another
nagging question?”

“Of course. Always.”

“How many Level Zero cases have there been?”

Smiling, Bradley leveled his gaze on hers. “During our tenure? None. And, as I implied, the history of any previous examples is unlikely to come to light.”

“Then how do we determine our operational guidelines?”

Bradley sighed. “Same as always.” His voice took on a less professional tone. “We make our decisions, and live with them, hoping we were up to the task the circumstances entrusted to us.”
Yes, she understood.
He watched her flex a lithe body and get up and out of his guest chair.

“Thank you, Terry. For everything.”

“Likewise, Agent Hildebrandt.”

Giving him the hint of the old smile, she turned for his office door. Boone left it propped open in the same position as when she had arrived, and then headed back down the hall toward her office.

Bradley drew a breath and returned his concentration to agenda planning for his upcoming appointments.
Delegation is about picking the right people for the job. She’s the best you’ve ever had.
The irony of the thought hit him immediately.
Yes. Isn’t she, though?

Nine hours later, Boone watched the last of the office lights extinguish in the building across the way.
Finally. I was beginning to think I might freeze to death.

Her dinner had been extracted from a cooler resting on the floorboards of the Escalade’s passenger side, and the wrappers returned to it afterward. An empty bottle of water was stashed there as well, with the second of the evening now in her gloved hand
. I hope Novak’s cleaning crew doesn’t dawdle on the way out. The first thing I’m going to do in there is find a freshly tidied bathroom.