One Last Scent of Jasmine (Boone's File Book 3) (34 page)

Ritter shoved the MI5 senior agent down next to the sheet-metal body of another limo as Boone did the same to the terrified female officer next to her. The USIC agent, like Ritter, gravitated to the single most valuable resource available—the sidearms of Chauncey’s officers. All the while, more arriving lead either ricocheted off or lodged in the cars and objects around the pair of InterLynk assets.

Boone made it back to cover with a full-size Beretta 92 plucked from her man’s shoulder holster. Ritter, she saw, held a Glock of similar capability. The retired USAF officer, regarding her weapon, seemed disappointed.

“
What?
” she demanded.

“I hate Glocks,” he admitted, almost sheepishly. “Trade?”

“Oh, for God’s sake—
here!
” She tossed the Italian shooter at him, which he caught one-handed. His Austrian pistol flew back toward her, and a moment later she was armed with a weapon she could shoot every bit as well as her own.
Men.
“
Go!
” she snapped.

The two of them rose and fired in the same moment, only the tactical training of Lambert and al-Khobar allowing them to evade the repeated shots. The pair of rogue operatives, though able to return more fire of their own, nonetheless found their advance was halted and shortly afterward quickly reversed.

Boone ripped off another couple of controlled shots at her moving targets, frustrated to see the rounds fail to take effect as she had hoped.
This is a seventy-five-meter gunfight. Tough country for handguns.

The Saudi and the Frenchman seemed to think as much, making it, she observed, to a vehicle parked at the far corner.
There they go,
Boone thought with regret.
Wherever it is I might see you again, Camille … expect no mercy.

Everyone whom she could see on the street—including the unarmed Bobbies—was either behind cover or running like hell.
French and Americans and Saudis causing trouble. If the world were only England,
Boone’s mind snarked.

Though he held a Walther PPK in his hand, Stewart had seemed to abstain from firing, perhaps recognizing his weapon’s limitations, Boone guessed. She straightened, feigning an accusatory look at the distinguished intelligence professional. “Friends of yours, Sir Chauncey?”

“
Hardly,
” the Brit said with an appropriately stiff upper lip. “Nor Mister Novak’s, from appearances.” The older man turned toward the Americans. “You two shall put those weapons down
immediately.
”

Boone and Ritter complied, making it quite clear they wished to do so slowly and carefully. Stewart pocketed his own pistol, his eyes going to his wounded men.

“Let me help you with them, sir,” Ritter, the ex-Pararescue medic, suggested.

“Most kind, Colonel,” Stewart acknowledged, hearing as did they all the approach of sirens indicating medical attention as en route. The pair helped the downed men press wads of clothing against their injuries, making as much of a compress as the situation allowed.

She turned toward Novak’s shredded limousine, amazed to see the man rise up from behind the quarter panel to lean against the vehicle. His driver, apparently a bit worse for wear, remained on the concrete walkway.

Striding over with confidence, Boone snugged her thin, leather gloves back onto her hands, clapping them together once she drew near enough.
He has to still be reeling from the blast. Lucky bastard.
The Hungarian was alert enough, she realized, to notice her approach.

“How do you like life in Field Operations, Benedek?” she questioned, with a playful punch to his shoulder. “Laugh a fuckin’ minute, isn’t it?”

“Who … who in God’s name are
you?
” the confused financier managed.

“I’m not here on His behalf, buddy. Only General and President Peter McAllen’s.”

“InterLynk,” Novak perceived with a grimace. “Ah, it never rains but it pours.”

“Yes,” Boone agreed, “and sometimes it’s precipitating
shit
. That’s a usual day in the arena. Not as much fun as you envisioned, is it?”

Novak looked extremely tired and quite disgusted. “I have no idea what you are talking about, Miss—”

“
Doctor
Rebecca Boone Hildebrandt,” she introduced herself in full frost.

“Doctor … my apologies, as much as I am able.” Her target of such a short time ago looked in the direction to which his assailants' vehicle had retreated. “I owe you a debt, madam.” His weariness seemed to give way to his fury. “And unlike others in this world, I do not forget the graces of a benefactor.”

Damned near a confession. Confession and redemption perhaps?
Boone sensed genuine regret in the man, a sentiment she found calming to the welling anger inside her.
What will he tell me if I ask?

The financier did not wait for her prompting, straightening his suit jacket instead and drawing himself up with as much dignity as yet remained. “Have you in your education read Dante, Doctor?” he inquired.

“It has been some time,” she admitted, crossing her arms.

The billionaire’s eyes locked on her own. “Do you recall the sight those travelers finally encountered in the ninth circle of the Inferno?”

Her skin chilled in a way unrelated to the weather. “Betrayers,” she recalled.

“Correct,” Novak intoned, “specifically, Brutus, Cassius, and worst of all, Judas.” His eyes returned to the direction of his departed assailants. “Betrayers and assassins.”

“Such as your hires … Camille Lambert and the Saudi, Yameen al-Khobar?”

His eyes registered the caution of a man who had not accumulated one of the world’s most significant portfolios by accident. He shook his head with a sad smile. “I do not know those names.”

It was a lie, of course. He knew it, and she did as well.
Legalities are what they are. There will be no open-and-shut case made here,
Boone noted.

Novak, however, was not finished. “I refer to a betrayal deeper than that of any hire:  a betrayal by a beneficiary. Dante knew what awaited them. I should have remembered before today,” the man grumbled in a self-reproving tone.

“To whom do you refer, then, sir?” she asked.

“The faithless. The backstabbers,” he replied. “Individuals in your own government, madam, and in mine. Those in an administration whose place in the world I have dedicated time and treasure toward securing.” He motioned at his ruined luxury vehicle. “This is my reward.”

“The wages of sin are death, sir, and ever shall be,” she reminded him.

“Indeed,” Novak concurred. “And I, Doctor, besides my many contributions, have paid my share of wages as well.” The man looked almost humble. “I should add reward to my repertoire.” He surprised her with a smile. “I owe you my life. What can I do?”

“A mere pointing in an inerrant direction will do, sir,” she told him. “Give me a name and let me go about my work.”

“You know it already. Your largest problem at the moment, as she is for us all, is a power broker, mad with influence, drunk with malice … and unassailable by any conventional means.”

Good enough for me.
Boone grimaced. “How did you come to know her?”

Smirking, Novak replied, “Originally? Through my Russian business contacts, if you can believe it. The woman has her own goals, though her interests are political rather than financial, and reside on more continents than the Americas.”

“This woman sounds like a survivor,” Boone observed, “with her alliances shifting as necessary.”

“Yes, well … alliances need
allies
, Doctor. The woman has today lost one of her most significant … one you, conversely, have gained.” The financier drew himself up to his full height. “Should you have a need in your contest, madam, I do hope you will let me know of it. I trust you will be able to make contact when the time comes.”

“Perhaps,” Boone allowed him. She offered her hand, which he took gracefully. “It has been more of a pleasure than expected, Benedek.”

“The pleasure is mine, Doctor.”

“Call me
Boone,
” she said with a smile.

She returned just as the responding paramedics were loading Sir Chauncey’s men into their respective ambulances, and Ritter along with the MI5 man were cleaning blood from their hands with large antiseptic wipes. The former USAF officer shot a look toward the old man standing at the shattered limo, now attended by additional first responders.

“Looks like you two had quite a conversation,” her InterLynk colleague observed.

“A contrite man, really,” she said, observing the surprised reaction on Ritter's face. “And no longer our problem.”

“So glad to hear it, Doctor Hildebrandt. I assume this means you and the good Colonel intend to leave these shores in favor of the healthy Alpine air from whence you came,
post haste,
” Stewart huffed.

“Washington for myself, I’m afraid,” she admitted, looking at Ritter. “Though the Colonel will be returning to update General McAllen.”
Message received. Good boy.

“I approve completely. As I said, Colonel, and
Doctor
… let us see if your next trip to the Queen’s Realm might be conducted within the bounds of proper protocol. Such would be a visit to which I could look forward.”

“We as well, Sir Chauncey,” she affirmed with a smile as the MI5 senior officer sighed. She watched him walk away shaking his head.
Professional courtesy,
Boone thought.
It makes the world go ‘round and ‘round.

Liberty Crossing

McLean, Virginia

Friday morning

Boone breezed into ODNI fashionably late for once, her reappearance an apparent surprise to the alpacas. Edna Reese’s greeting consisted mostly of an incredulous expression projected over the top of her morning coffee although she did manage to verbalize something appropriate. “Doctor Hildebrandt … good morning?”

“Morning, Ed,” Boone tossed out in a nonchalant tone on the way by. Her office, she noticed as she shed her coat, was untouched. Even the paper clip with which she had been playing before she was called into Bradley’s office lay where she dropped it. This is
the power of believing, Terry. And so, here I am.

She heard him stirring in his office, but she reached his door first.
I hope your morning is clear. There is no higher priority of a conversation than the one you and I are about to have.
Stopping in his doorway, Boone saw he had made it halfway there already. “Might I have a moment, Mister Bradley,
sir?
”

His expression was one of surprise and seriousness, possibly mixed with relief, she sensed.
Is there something more? Is it the same emotion I feel, or is it the straw I grasp at, just a hope from an essentially hopeless soul?

“Come in, Doctor,” he encouraged.

She did so, kicking up the stop to close his door behind her. He pivoted and returned to his desk …
back to his comfort zone. This is where we are right now.
Boone played within his subconscious rules, taking her place in the less intimate space of his visitor’s chair.

“You’ve had quite a busy week, Agent Hildebrandt,” the DNI observed.

“
Quite,
Terrence. Busy and
disturbing,
” she added.

Bradley nodded, retrieving his coffee mug from his desk. “It’s the nature of intelligence, Boone. We are paid to cast aside our comforting delusions and see the world just as it is.” He sipped his elixir of awareness, perhaps to recover from his bout of early morning philosophy. “So what did your trip to Europe add to our panorama of actuality?”

Sighing, she slumped back into his chair and folded her hands in front of her, staring out his windows. “My diagnosis is our government has a cancer.”

Bradley said nothing. He seemed content to let her get the words out.

She continued. “Over the course of the last few days I’ve watched it metastasize into conspiracy to affect escape from a Swiss penitentiary … to commit a murder … and to attempt four more. These people are
unbridled,
Terry. They operate on the assumption there is no one able to tell them ‘no.’ No voice within themselves, and certainly not from above. They have the resources of government, and private funding which equals or exceeds the same. They feel entitled to impose their will on the existence of others, to the point they lack any constraint of humanity holding civilized men and women back from the brink of savagery.”

At her pause Bradley nodded. It appeared he had heard nothing with which he could disagree.

Drawing a breath, Boone took her premise farther. “It starts with schemes … and the schemes lead to empowerment … and empowerment leads to authority, and authority delegated to the wrong personality type kills inhibition. My
God
, what a dangerous progression it all is.”

“You’ve hit on a hazard of the democratic process,” Bradley concurred. “It can lead to the elevation of sociopaths.”

Boone sighed again and drew herself back up in his visitor’s chair. She steeled herself to face the realities of her nation’s situation.
Terry is right. Awareness is our duty.
“What can we do?”

“
I
can do any number of things,” Bradley smiled. “I could go to the President, who is the man who empowered Valka Gerard in the first place and has benefitted immensely from her guidance and her advice ever since.” He sipped again, luxuriating in the contemplative silence found between his many futile options before continuing.

“I could present our inadmissible evidence to the Justice Department, also staffed by political allies of the administration and empowered to ignore altogether any potentially damaging issue. I could go to Congress, who could initiate investigations which could consume years with the Executive Branch impeding progress at every slogging step.”

“With the result at any turn being exactly the same,” Boone projected.