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

True to form, traffic seemed to sense him coming as he approached the Leesburg Pike. The lure of the more freely moving rightmost lanes sucked him in. As if on cue, a slow-moving vehicle ahead of his Corvette and a tractor-trailer beside him combined to congest what were, seconds ago, the “fast” lanes. In apparent synchronization, they compromised what should have been a painless a.m. commute.

C’mon, buddy,
Rex thought as he sent a telepathic message to the driver ahead of him.
Unless you want us both to go onto the 7, we need to get out of this lane.

Finally, the van ahead seemed to understand what the overhead signs had been telling them for the last three-quarters of a mile. It accelerated briskly and then really put the horses under the hood to work as the lane divider changed to dotted white; soon it would become solid, signifying the imagined point of commitment to the exit for Virginia SR 7. The Chevy V-8 powering his Corvette responded as Schilling accelerated in his determination to follow the vehicle ahead. It was a last bid to pass, albeit on the right, the semi pacing them.

Another vehicle, big and black like the reinforced battlewagon SUVs the Secret Service and his own USIC fielded, came up fast on his six o’clock. It appeared the newcomer also wanted to squeeze through the fast-diminishing window of opportunity to escape the 495’s slowdown.

You crazy son of a bitch. You’re never going to—
He barely saw the brake lights of the van ahead illuminate and didn’t see at all whatever had prompted its driver to suddenly change his mind. Worse, the driver of the SUV behind did not seem to heed the warning lights in the least.
Idiot! Are you trying to kill me?

The van again raced ahead now, and Schilling’s foot moved from the brake to the accelerator in an attempt to prevent the rear-end collision his mind warned him was coming anyway.
Nope.

The crash bar's jarring impact on his vehicle’s rear quarter lifted the back wheels of the sports car from the roadbed. To Schilling’s amazement, it turned his entire vehicle straight toward the concrete traffic barriers lining the shoulder. He heard the roar of the motor behind him and realized the big vehicle to his rear was doing nothing to prevent what was happening. The notion stayed with him as the roll of his car seemed to shift into slow motion. The world tilted crazily, with the top of the barrier heading straight toward the fragile roof of his red convertible. His final thought was the unjust irony of his death being classified in the police report as an accident.

Those who might have been not only nearby but monitoring the correct FRS band
might
have caught the terse order passing between the van, the black SUV and the tractor-trailer via short-range communications equipment. The code word uttered, though, would hardly have been understood. Afterward, the pair of passenger vehicles returned to the 495 as did the big rig. Its covering action assured there would be no effective witnesses to the operation just concluded. Upended with its passenger compartment bisected by the top of the traffic barrier, the mangled state of the red convertible left no doubt as to the effort’s success.

United States Embassy

Paris, France

Wednesday afternoon

Boone was busy assimilating the afternoon additions—morning, really, since they originated in the U.S. Eastern time zone—to the USIC global SITREP. Her MacBook was limited inside the Embassy building to hard-wired connections only. Network security regulations further restricted the personal machines of authorized visitors and employees, such as hers, to the isolated ports available only in this particular room on the other side of the wall from the Com Center.

Renee—the communications supervisor—appeared, sticking her head through the doorway of the staff research library. “Doctor Hildebrandt? You have a call from Director Bradley in McLean. Would you prefer taking it on the clean phone?” the portly woman asked, wearing a detached headset around her neck.

Surprised, Boone looked up. “Oh, yes. Thank you. I will be there right away.” As Renee disappeared, Boone hurriedly folded her MacBook. She then detached it from the patch cable tethering her to the interior wall of the study cubicle, stowing the machine in its Apple backpack.

Her status since the late spring had been one of a semi-permanent guest of the Ambassador. Here on the grounds, she was relegated to basic accommodations pending her upcoming review and possible reassignment to another duty station. She doubted Terry Bradley would be of a mind to force such a transition, but in government service anything
was
possible. Once her future solidified, it would then be time to find another hotel. Boone hoped she could match the homey elegance of the establishment on the Rue Marbeuf which had satisfied her for so long. It was a satisfactory arrangement until, at least, a grenade attack had blown her cover—as well as the door to her room on the fifth floor—to smithereens.

Prudently she took the backpack with her. However unlikely the possibility an Embassy staffer would swipe her notebook, Boone never took the risk of losing her primary means of communication with her employing agency.
Besides, it also has all my music on it, not to mention a wonderfully pornographic and incriminating digital snapshot of Janine Harrison-Bradley ... one she has to know is waiting to go out onto the Internet should I have any trouble with the little tramp ever again.

Terry had gotten his uncontested—if not yet finalized—divorce from a spiteful, betraying bitch of a wife. The woman, from what details he shared, simply cited “irreconcilable differences.” Apparently she had taken to heart Boone’s warnings. From the USIC operative's perspective, it was much rather better than having Jan ever relate to him her encounter with a small redhead, dressed in black and sporting a digicam and suppressed 9mm pistol, late one July night in Virginia.

As Renee settled back in at her desk, Boone returned her thoughts to the present and crossed the communications center. The DNI’s agent reached the glassed-in carrel of the clean phone, situated in the corner across from the door, as the woman heading Embassy Communications returned the plug of her headset to her supervising phone. A glance came from the com manager and then a gesture, and Boone heard the phone inside the enclosure ring. She waved and nodded to Renee before entering, latching the transparent door to assure the privacy of her imminent conversation before picking up the waiting handset. The connection, she could tell, was not on speaker. “Terrence, dear,” she fairly purred. “How lovely it is to hear from you.”

“Likewise, Doctor. The day here probably can’t be salvaged, unfortunately.”

Damn. Such an unusually blunt prognosis for Terry
. Without conscious effort Boone’s tone changed to one of a concerned friend. “I’m so sorry. What can I do?” She heard him clicking away at his keyboard, there at his desk in ODNI.

His voice took on an air of concentration. “It looks like you still have time to catch an overnight out of de Gaulle. How does a morning appointment sound?”

“Horrid, but I’ll be there, of course,” Boone answered honestly. She leaned back in the booth’s uncomfortable, bargain-basement folding chair. “But please tell me at least you’re not winging me back across the Atlantic purely for the sake of my company.”

“I wouldn’t ordinarily be able to rule it out, but unfortunately this trip is guaranteed to be all business.”

“Then I’ll wear slacks,” she promised.

“You’re a treasure, Agent Hildebrandt. I’ll see you here at zero-eight-hundred Eastern, then. You’ll have Friday free to make up for it. Details, I’m afraid, are restricted until then,” he informed his Case Officer.

“Certainly, Mister Bradley,
sir.
”

His voice took on a soft enough tone to convince her she was not in trouble. It assuaged the thought of returning to face arrest in Virginia. “Safe travel, Boone. I’ll see you tomorrow, bright and early, please.”

“Until the morrow,
mon ami,
” came the easy reply. The connection severed, and Boone replaced the handset. She stared at the device for a moment, despite the fact she should have already been in her room, packing her bags.
Bloody hell. What just happened that Terry won’t discuss over a secured and encrypted phone line?

Liberty Crossing

McLean, Virginia

Thursday morning

Feeling dualistic after her travel ordeal, Boone had dressed in the white Chanel blouse and slacks she had picked up in Seoul earlier in the year. The great looks of her strappy pumps, however, would not begin to compete with their complete impracticality on a November day in D.C. Instead, she was shod with a more tactical choice of low, sturdy wedges. They were, of course, coordinated well over insulating silk hose. The footgear deserved nothing less while bearing the maker’s mark of an exclusive shop in Paris. Her long, black coat and white scarf, as well as her usual impenetrably dark, round-lensed shades, completed the ensemble. She knew she looked professional, and successful, and her best.
Current,
Confident, Competent, and Capable.
Ready for anything you care to bring, unpredictable world.

The three security stations had her name in the system for an early arrival, and so she was able to pass directly into the inner sanctum of the Office of the Director of National Intelligence. There, the suite—beyond the frosted glass etched with the seals of the USIC and the ODNI—remained early-day darkened and still secured. She tried her access card and found it worked just as well for the outer office as it always had for Terry’s. Boone smiled, wishing his rotund and usually disapproving administrative supervisor, Edna Reese, was here to be a witness.
I mustn’t surprise her should she come in,
Boone resolved.
The poor woman could easily have a coronary. Better I should wait in Terry’s space.

As she entered, Boone smelled before she saw the outer office had experienced an influx of floral arrangements … a conclusion she could confirm as the motion-activated lighting brought up the overhead fluorescents. Every desk held the handiwork of a florist, and a folding table set up near the glass exterior wall held the overflow.

She took in the sight, wondering how many trips through the triple-layer security Terry’s people had been forced to make during the previous day in order to transport the vases of flowers and potted plants displayed here.
Wedding? Anniversaries? Someone’s new baby?
Boone’s analytical side kicked in a moment later.
No. Sympathy!

Going to the nearest desk, she checked the arrangement there for a card, finding it removed. It was the same at the next desk and at the table.
What did I miss? What made Terry bring me in on the overnight flight?

The quiet swish of the office door sounded from behind, reminding her she had meant to be out of sight when Edna appeared. Boone turned and saw the DNI there instead, looking as if she had discovered already a subject he had intended to broach in other ways. She gestured around the bedecked room. He nodded, but said nothing. “Terry … what has happened?” she asked.

The Director of National Intelligence sighed, removing his topcoat. “We need to talk, Agent Hildebrandt.”

A minute later, their coats hung in his office behind a secured door, and Bradley was signing into his workstation. He remained quiet. Bringing up an info panel, the DNI swung his right-hand monitor into her field of view. “We kept the news off your SITREP. I didn’t want you to find out in an impersonal way,” he explained.

Peering at the display, Boone saw the wire story of a traffic accident on the Beltway, one of many appearing in the news media each year.
One killed in early morning rollover.
“Who?” she inquired in a quiet voice.

“Rex,” Bradley said with another sigh.

“Oh …
damn.
” Boone bit her lip, leaning forward to read what details appeared in the story. Her eyes misted slightly before she determined to maintain her control.

“Sorry, Boone. You guys came up together, I know.”

“Almost right out of the gate,” she confirmed. “We were both on our first Embassy security gig back in the day. Two years in Berlin. We got drunk the night before I transferred out.” She sat back in Bradley’s leather visitor’s chair. “God, that was … six
years
ago.” Rex had made Senior on operations points after three more and was—as she had told Terry at the time—the right asset for the job.
He went up the ladder to buy it in a friggin’ traffic accident? What a ridiculous waste.

“You OK?” her Director asked.

“I’m fine,” she insisted though her sad smile was a forced effort. “God, he
never
spent enough time here in the office. It’s been a year since I’ve even had
dinner
with him.” She accepted Terry’s offer of a tissue, using it to dab her eyes. “Now he’s gone … sands through the hourglass, right?”

Bradley swung his monitor back into place. “His was a loss, Boone ... as a friend
and
as a Level Zero.”

While she nodded in agreement, the tone in his voice aroused her innate ability to forecast his state of mind.
He’s transitioning. This isn’t going to be about Rex any more.

“Boone,” he continued. “The circumstances are horrible, of course. We’ll join the government in doing whatever we can for Rex’s family. But his loss leaves a professional vacuum as well. It’s one I wanted to discuss with you about filling.”

Damn. It’s moments like this I really miss my absinthe
. Boone sighed and rose, pacing to the bank of glass on the other side of his desk. There his view overlooked the bustle of USIC’s day-shift employees now arriving en masse ... though she hardly noticed. Using the tissue to dry her eyes, she almost complained. “Terry, you
can’
t be serious.” From behind, she heard Bradley utter his disagreement with her assessment.