One Last Scent of Jasmine (Boone's File Book 3) (8 page)

Both the President and the Prime Minister appeared equally pleased with his spirit of cooperation. Perhaps, too, they were happy with their Director’s lack of further questions for them.

“Very good, Dmitry. We will be glad to have your assistance.” The President donned a pair of reading glasses. He opened one of the massive document folders in front of him as the Prime Minister rose to assist with laying out the hard copy.

As they prepared to examine what Lyubov assumed to be the site surveys prepared in contingency, the head of FSB pondered his actual course of action.
Such a unique opportunity this situation now presents me. I am able to be both a traitor and a patriot with the same acts.
Lyubov knew Russia now to be poised on the edge of a geopolitical disaster, brought on by both ambition and the blindly seized opportunity advanced by naive elements in the West.
My duty is to secure the Rodina. I must stop this initiative before it starts.
He recognized the need to get through this meeting.
And then I will need to act as quickly as I am able.

Almost an hour later, Lyubov—the man who directed the most significant remnant of his country's post-KGB intelligence infrastructure—was back in his own car. He traveled the reverse of the route which had brought him to the seat of power in the Russian Federation. In the best of times, the scope of his influence demanded he exercise care in how he approached his superiors.
And these circumstances have transitioned far from those.

He passed the historic headquarters of Lubyanka Square en route to his own domain in a more advanced command facility some distance farther across the city. Dmitry Lyubov was not so proud as to delude himself against the feelings assaulting him. He was shaken by the implications of what he had just observed.

It was more than personal ambition
. Such a trait certainly was no surprise in a man such as the President, who had wrested control of Russia away from an irresolute citizenry. The people were, undeniably, either unwilling or unable to hold onto the responsibility to direct their own lives after the fall of communism under Gorbachev.

The country is led by those who once again hold geopolitical aspirations
.
How many times must a nation learn the same lesson?
Lyubov knew the answer, of course.
As many times as there are generations to learn and be followed by the ones who forget.

As seen through the eyes of the Director of the FSB, the duty of Russia's leaders was relatively straightforward: 
maintain the integrity of the borders and provide for the welfare of her citizens. Militarism feeds no one except the voracious gods of war, and the Rodina has already fattened those gluttons enough.

Lyubov, as his car entered the underground garage of his headquarters, ruminated on the enormity of his isolation in this sentiment. He trusted few enough in any event. In this matter—only his conscience would not label his thoughts as treasonous—he was utterly alone.
I do not even know what is about to happen. I cannot stop what will occur. The most I can do is provide a warning … but to whom?

The Director mulled over the question as his car was secured, and his escorts prepared to accompany him back into the intelligence hub housing his offices.
The American intelligence organs are controlled by the executive offices, some elements of which are obviously complicit in the effort.
Any alert anonymously pointed their way would only be—in a best-case scenario—ignored. At the worst, Lyubov knew, such a betrayal would be subject to analysis, and his identity would become known.
It would accomplish nothing … but to put me into the frozen ground next to the body of my former rival Grigory Sergeyevich Skripochka.

He was in his office by the time his only rational course of action became apparent.
If I cannot inform the government of the United States directly, then I can confide in an American who will hold as much concern for the situation. And you know only one such man whom you can trust this much.

Reaching out to his computer keyboard, Lyubov unlocked his workstation, afterward bringing up the secure browsing options bypassing the oversight of his official Internet access. He withdrew a tiny USB drive from behind his lapel and plugged it into an available port on the side of his monitor. Once the drive was in place, a start-up routine initiated, the product of which was an English-language application in the dialogue window in front of him. Dmitry Lyubov logged into the InterLynk portal with a user name and password which had never been and
would
never be written down anywhere, even in code.
General McAllen, I hope you are there.

Chapter 5 - Fade to Black

InterLynk Home Offices

Geneva, Switzerland

One hour behind Moscow

“Good morning, Caroline, and everyone,” General Peter McAllen greeted his lead admin assistant and her pool on the way in.

“Good morning, General,” was the chorus as usual.

He waved his access card at the reader near the discreet weapons lockbox now mounted next to his office doors. They released immediately. He turned the handle, holding the panel open as his foot flipped the door stop down. Settling into place, Caroline’s assistants were themselves preparing for the opening of business at 0800. Their boss and the president of the firm sipped from the travel mug he brought with him on a chauffeured ride from his lakeside home. His Jamaican blend, now cooled enough to consume, evoked a satisfied sound from him as Caroline started another pot of the brew proving every bit as good once he got around to it.

“Everybody ready for a weekend?” he inquired of the troops. The noises indicating consensual agreement were his reward. Thereby satisfied his people felt attended and appreciated, McAllen took a step to the conference table as the overhead lighting in his office activated. Setting down his mug, he removed his winter coat and hung it on the back of his office door.
Let’s see what the world has been up to overnight. It can’t be anything too damn bad if it didn’t wake anyone up.

He logged in, and his computer responded with only enough of a delay to allow another swallow of brain rations. His working windows automatically populated a quad-array of multiple LCD panels a short time afterward. Habitually, McAllen scrolled down the list of messages in his Inbox. Once the highlighted items ceased to appear, he moved back up the subject lines almost as quickly, scanning for any item he felt might have been inappropriately prioritized.

The excitement in Egypt had generated a number of submissions, but as McAllen had heard from the morning news reports on the way in, the situation in Cairo resolved in a positive manner.
There’s always another chance tonight. And the night after.
The necessity of the intelligence sector’s vigilance never diminished, and McAllen was familiar enough with human nature to accept such as his permanent reality.

Finally returning to the top of the stack, McAllen noticed the lead item, its significance initially missed. This line featured a flag icon bearing a different color than usual, signifying it had not passed through the usual InterLynk screening process. The missive had been delivered, per his electronic instruction, directly to his Inbox. The account name was a blind as were all the usual identifiers associated with this particular InterLynk user. There was Top Secret, and then there was Black, and
then
there was whatever classification was appropriate to the arrangement between Peter McAllen and Dmitry Gennadyevich Lyubov.

“Well, hullo, comrade,” McAllen murmured in a tone so low someone standing beside his desk would have had trouble hearing him. He clicked on the submission, noting via the time stamp his missed opportunity to have observed the item pop in, had he been running only a couple minutes ahead of his morning routine.
What’s got you choking on your tea this frosty morning, Dmitry?
McAllen sipped his own preferred brew as he began to read.

“Comrade General McAllen:  I trust this message will find you well after your country’s recent election, and earnestly hope for the mutual sake of your country and my own it arrives without any interception.”

“So far, so good, Comrade Director,” the General muttered to his diminishing beverage.

“I regret being forced to inform you of an extremely disturbing development, of which I was made aware only this morning through our highest authority. You are doubtless mindful of the politicization early this year of the subject of missile defense technology by your President, highlighted by his failure to anticipate monitoring by the press. I can confirm an unfortunate circumstance; following the outcome of your election process, plans to balance the level of capability between our two nations are apparently coming to fruition. Unfortunately, through what authority and by which means, the information to which I am privy does not disclose.

“I can tell you the system involves an airborne platform of great capability, involving the deployment of directed-energy systems. In my opinion, placing such technology in the hands of my country’s current leadership might well serve to bring about precisely the opposite effect anticipated, and serve to destabilize the status quo among the nations in the region.

“I understand also this transfer of technology, though it has not yet taken place, is expected in the near future. Certainly it is to occur within days if not hours. I dare not approach your government via any means, as it appears these actions, however inappropriate, are officially sanctioned at some level within your Executive Branch.

“I am afraid I have nothing beyond this information to add. I trust to your resources, my friend, and your good sense and patriotism in this matter.”

The message was unsigned as there was no need. McAllen sat back, his mug for the moment serving only to warm his hands.
Sonsabitches. I remember when the other side was the only one an old boy like me needed to worry about.

McAllen found himself amazed, if not actually surprised, at what was tantamount to sanctioned espionage by a rogue branch of the United States government.
They came into office promising change. The last four years might be the most a politician has ever done to keep his goddamned word.

The oath McAllen had taken on his commissioning as a Second Lieutenant so many years ago was never altered or revoked, nor was it one from which any superior had released him following his retirement:
I do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help me God!

Besides taking it himself, he had over the years attended many others who did the same. It was not surprising the General could still recite the attestation from memory.
I guess there was a good reason for Congress ordering the priorities of loyalty the way they did.

By planting the medicine ball in McAllen’s court, Lyubov had done as much as he was able. The question for the General now was just what he himself could do, and consideration required another sip of his home brew.

I ain’t gonna have any more luck taking this through channels than Dmitry would, with the exception of it being marginally less likely to get me killed.
Nevertheless, the situation begged for action to be taken as Dmitry Gennadyevich had warned there were hours—or at the most days—remaining.
At least,
before anything anyone could have done really doesn’t amount to a hill of shit anymore.

McAllen had always valued the efficiency of direct communication. If the other side—whoever they were—wanted to play in the shadows, then he would pass this one along to those who operated best in the dark. In the United States government, one man sat atop its heap of spooks, and McAllen had the same level of access to Terrence Bain Bradley’s InterLynk account as he did to any other.

It would not be long before Bernie Schuster came over for the morning briefing. McAllen spent the remaining minutes paraphrasing Lyubov’s infonugget for Bradley's consumption. Handled properly, the verbiage of the General's outgoing message would provide few clues identifying the originator. McAllen sent it off just as he heard Bernie coming down the hall. The line item disappeared from his daily stack, moving into his private store with the flick of the mouse.
No need for me to share this with Bern, Dmitry. This infonugget is just between you, me and ODNI.

McLean, Virginia

Six hours behind Geneva

“Terry, your phone is making some kind of annoying noise.” Boone heard him grumble in response and then fumble for his device, which was vibrating and chirping on the hotel’s bedside table. She forced herself to swivel her head and look at the red LEDs of the clock radio on her side.
It’s two thirty in the freakin’ morning. This must be some op force’s idea of psychological warfare.

The screen of his smartphone lit up the area, and she was tempted to bury her head in his shoulder until the blaze diminished. It was not, however, going away. She felt him sit up and then swear under his breath.

“What?” she asked. She was awake now and no longer able to pretend this was not happening. “Who is it?”

“Direct message from InterLynk. General McAllen on the early morning express.”

Terrence Bain Bradley. You have an account on Daddy’s system!
Boone realized she should not have been surprised. Nearly everyone in her field of expertise had signed up, after her father’s way of doing things had become accepted in the community of international intelligence. “So why is he messaging you at two thirty?”