One Last Scent of Jasmine (Boone's File Book 3) (6 page)

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 the 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.

It was a joke, but the humor masked pain, Boone perceived. Like any person in his profession, Bradley despised personal weakness … though perhaps not on the level of his Senior Case Officer. His main concern was not his physical strength or his field skills as it was in her case.
The man thinks he failed his duty in marriage once again.

Bradley's first wife had walked out when he was but a midlevel administrator in CIA’s Directorate of Intelligence. Boone heard the story in the time she and Terry were together. While the first Mrs. Bradley did not have the level of self-absorption Janine displayed, the
first
breakup was likewise not his idea. Somewhere in the ten years between the first and second go-around, Terrence Bain Bradley convinced himself his life was one able to nurture a relationship with a normal human being. Boone held her doubts in reserve at the nuptials, and nothing had happened since to change her mind.

Conversely, Bradley’s vision of their working well together seemed to be holding up just fine. She was his Senior Case Officer, handling special assignments in addition to mentoring and advising the Level Ones in the field, some of whom needed more reinforcement than others. Boone realized she had been a relative lone wolf in her previous position. Operating on autopilot for the majority of her assignment in Paris must have looked good when compared to the judgment calls frequently requested by most of the other “Ones.”
And it is another reason he bumped me up,
her rational side insisted.

At the same time, the new SCO’s feminine intuition seemed to be telling her something else entirely. A week after taking the job, it was apparent Terry enjoyed her company as much, if not more, than before. Worse, she felt herself gravitating into the same circumstances which had preceded their on-again, off-again physical relationship. Their sexual adventure spanned nearly half the time of his postdivorce bachelorhood. The presidential appointment to his present position followed, and his new status had unfortunately been rewarded by meeting Janine. At the time, she fulfilled perfectly the role of a Washington trophy wife.
All due to our onset of mutual sensibilities. Please don’t tell me I’m going to screw up his career as well as I did his second marriage.

Sitting in her office, Boone ostensibly stared at the wording of her current report while reproaching herself for taking the guilt trip.
Janine made her decisions.
She
is the one who will have to live with them. I saw a fire starting, and I stepped on it. It’s what responsible people do.

Boone quickly realized the voices in her head were now having an argument.
Responsible people don’t unnecessarily expose themselves to jail time in the process
,
kiddo,
her better half declared.

Well, honey, in my experience, if no one knows, no one cares either. And if there’s one thing Janine doesn’t want going public, it’s what was in her hand in the date-stamped snapshot I took of her kneeling in front of Alec Harper.

The rejoinder shut her little angel up. The two contenders seemed once again compelled to stop talking to one another, and Boone felt her mind returning to her work.
Stay on task, Boone honey. You haven’t a chance here otherwise.

The SCO knew she was a big girl now, and, as such, it was her duty to balance every aspect of being human:  feelings, faith and logic … to hopefully follow a course plotted through life by her adult mind rather than her heart.
Maybe this time, after all my years of trying, it for once will actually work out that way.

“Oh, goddammit …
Boone!
”

She heard her boss's exclamation fifteen minutes after her own internal exchange had ended.
Oh shit. It’s his don’t-have-time-to-jack-with-a-speakerphone voice.
The USIC SCO charged down the hall and into Bradley's office, where he, to her surprise, was already on the phone.

Clapping his hand over the mouthpiece, he explained, “Cairo. Street protest. Moving toward the Embassy.”

“Great. I’m getting my desk set.” Boone returned to her office, noting the consternation of the admin assistants. They really should have been used to the sight and sound of emergencies by now, she felt, but instead, they somehow always seemed to resemble a herd of agitated alpacas whenever shit hit the fan
. Hourly federal employees, and largely nonessential. I should have gone to tech school instead of Saarbrucken.
She unplugged her Voice-over-IP phone from its wall jack and trotted back to Bradley’s office, snapping the unit’s cable into a spare network receptacle on the floor under his desk.

“Get on the horn to Fletcher. He’ll want in on coordinating the response to this one,” Bradley ordered.

“Come
on
, you pile.” Boone stomped her foot impatiently, waiting for the network-enabled Power-over-Ethernet phone to spin itself back up. As soon as she was able, she would call the tough-as-nails Principal Deputy Director of National Intelligence and retired admiral, Allan Fletcher, whose domain was now the military’s member agencies of the USIC. It promised to be a long day. Boone harbored no illusion of being able to follow the alpacas out through the frosted-glass doors once the campus clock struck five o'clock.

The day's incident was typical of upset endemic to the region after the Arab Spring outbreak had been encouraged by the American administration’s naive foreign policies. The protests in the capital city of Cairo grew and intensified through Egypt’s evening hours and the Virginia midday.

Bradley and Boone, along with Fletcher, worked equally as hard to pre-position local assets and military response teams, anticipating a possible breach of the American Embassy grounds and any resulting order from the Commander in Chief. The three monitored communications with the Marines on-site, hearing their calls for authorization to fire as the crowds began to rattle the perimeter fencing. Finally, and in the nick of time, exhaustion and cultural obligation combined effects to begin the restoration of order in Egypt. Their military seemed to regain the upper hand, breaking up the frustrated throng in the time leading up to the first, predawn call to prayer.

For twelve hours, the pair lived on coffee and delivery pizza brought in by ODNI security staffers. At the blessed end of an overly long day, the Director of National Intelligence, the Principal Deputy Director and the Senior Case Officer could finally draw their first unconcerned breath since the morning.

The crisis had come and gone and so had the day workers and swing shift cleaning crew. After a few, last encouraging words to the PDDNI, Bradley collapsed into his chair. Boone, who managed to unplug her phone from the floor, could not seem to immediately muster the energy to stand up again but leaned against the door to the cabinets behind his desk instead.

“I need a drink,” he managed.

“I’ve needed one for six months. You will get used to it,” she replied.

“Ah, yes. The downside of abstinence. Doing without.”

Boone did not even have the time to ponder the brilliance of his double entendre before the man rose, obviously weary, and extended a hand to her as she sat at his feet. She latched on, and, between his help up and her stumbling on the caster of his chair, they were once again much closer than was probably a good idea. His hands grasped her shoulders, resting where they had stopped her fall. Her hands were against his chest. No words came ... only the old look from those deadly gray eyes.

Oh no.
“Terry—” she began.

“Boone,” he answered.

“Terrence. You should let go.”
My, wasn’t that me at my most halfhearted.

“Boone, kiss me. It’s been long enough, hasn’t it?”

Longer!
She wrapped her arms around his neck, raising herself on her toes with his help, her mouth seeking his in a hunger which had lain unsated for far too long.
Damn. Damn, damn, damn.

His hands were on her now, and neither were hers staying still. She was swiveled around to the top of his desk before she realized it, his arms leaning her back.