One Last Scent of Jasmine (Boone's File Book 3) (41 page)

“I confess I do not,” Yameen answered.

The Spetsnaz officer extracted a large black-and-white service photograph of a Russian man and slid it across the table toward his guest. Al-Khobar regarded it briefly. The Russian indicated the print. “
This
man’s name was Sidorov.
Fyodor
Sidorov, most recently attached to a Russian Army unit on the outskirts of Moscow. He was a demolitions man.”

Within seconds al-Khobar’s horrified mind added a fur hat to top the ruddy face.
He was the man sent to blow Smolin’s generator shack. He carried the satchel.
The Saudi struggled to maintain his composure as the Russian continued.

“He was also my brother.” The officer across the table seemed to recognize the onset of understanding in his captive. “We thought at first his profession had claimed him, until the forensics technician extracted the bullet which had killed him from the trunk of the tree where he was found.”

“My sympathies,” al-Khobar offered, with more than feigned sincerity. “But explain …what does this have to do with me?”

“It will be easier to show you, my friend, than explain.” He reached into the briefcase once again, and to the Saudi's complete astonishment, the Russian’s hand emerged gripping a Beretta model 951.

It cannot be.
His eyes went to the front of the muzzle, where the mark of a bullet had marred the steel of the weapon’s slide.
But it is. There is the dent from the redhead’s bullet that took it out of my hand in Vladimirskaya. My father’s Beretta.

The barrel and threads, though having rusted since al-Khobar had last seen the weapon, were intact. Sidorov demonstrated the fact by extracting a Russian suppressor from the briefcase as well and screwing the long tube onto the end of the weapon.

“This is the weapon ballistics matching says killed my brother with a shot to the back of his head. A remarkably cold-blooded method of execution, do you not think?”

“I would not know,” al-Khobar insisted.

The Russian flicked the slide, the glint of brass visible as a 9mm round was chambered. “Nor would I, comrade,” Sidorov agreed. “Only a coward would shoot a man without first looking into his eyes.”

Al-Khobar realized himself to be staring directly into the Russian’s cold, blue orbs, a sight which was overtaken by the muzzle of the suppressor tube as it swung toward him.
It is over, then.

Sidorov saw the heavy, fully jacketed round had exited the back of the Saudi’s skull cleanly and passed through the tin wall of the shack to find its way into the Cuban jungle behind. The Beretta was locked back and empty in his hand, its magazine having contained only the single cartridge. He rose, unscrewing the silencer from the muzzle of the weapon, and returned both to his briefcase before placing his brother’s photograph atop them, as it had been when he arrived.

Reaching into his trouser pocket and extracting a small camera, Sidorov regarded the corpse, noting the relaxation of death had allowed a stream of urine to run down its leg and through the flooring into the dirt beneath.
Soon to be joined by the rest of you.
He raised the camera, allowed the autofocus to perfect the shot, and snapped his evidentiary portrait. Confirming the quality of the still, he powered down the Japanese device and returned the unit to his uniform pants.

Replacing his head cover, Sidorov adjusted its angle to perfection and grabbed the now fastened case from the table as he turned to leave. He stomped down the two steps to the rough field of the air base, turned, and addressed his men. “Have our Cuban comrades give him to the jungle,” he directed. He shot a last look toward the corpse inside. “He does not deserve a Russian’s labor.”

“By your command, comrade!” the senior of the two Special Forces troopers responded with enthusiasm.

Sidorov stalked to the vehicle he had driven across the grounds. His men, following closely behind, boarded their own. He could return to his nation’s business now, grateful indeed for the indulgence of satisfaction the Federation intelligence command structure had allowed.
Certainly I am in your debt, Dmitry Gennadyevich.

Chapter 25 - Multiple Choice

InterLynk Home Offices

Geneva, Switzerland

Peter Wallace McAllen was not in the habit of working Saturdays, having reordered his priorities in retirement. His wife Karla, however, had taken the occasion to make a shopping excursion to her home city of Dusseldorf in preparation for the Christmas holiday, leaving him ample wiggle room to return briefly to his old work habits. As he had been forewarned by the alert sent last night to his cell phone, an executive-level filter had delivered an unscreened infonugget directly to his Inbox, marking it accordingly at the highest level of priority.
From our one account in Moscow.

Upon opening the item, McAllen saw it consisted only of a lone photograph featuring a familiar face marred by a bullet hole just above and directly between the eyes. The fully dilated pupils did not detract from the amazed expression on Yameen al-Khobar’s face.

“Well, ain’t karma a bitch when she rolls around, son?” the General muttered to the departed soul.
At least this business has been settled before the holidays.
You
were directly responsible for the deaths of nine of my people, not to mention the civilians you took out, you little son of a bitch.

McAllen transferred the item to the executive store, into the limited-access jacket the rogue Saudi agent had accumulated over the course of the past year. The General designated its status
Closed
from the drop-down menu of the document-management system, and watched as the folder’s icon drifted from the Active container to the appropriate stack before settling down.
A sight well worth coming in to observe.

Returning to his regular queue, McAllen scanned for any other items which might have stimulated an old man’s interest. In doing so, he nearly forgot to link the one member of his team who would not be in attendance at Monday morning’s executive briefing. He rectified the oversight with another few flicks of his mouse before resuming his abbreviated routine.
There goes a little more peace of mind for Becky. God knows the girl can use it
.

Liberty Crossing

McLean, Virginia

Six hours behind Geneva

Late even for him, the DNI would be barely out the door before Friday turned to Saturday. Bradley had sent Boone off-duty until they—with Admiral Fletcher—would report in the morning as Essential Personnel for the duration of the President's security alert. It was not likely any malefactor would take advantage of the turmoil in the chain of command to launch an attack—
but one might. And if so, we will be as prepared as is prudent.

Bradley already knew the following week would be an intense exercise. There would be many questions coming from the Highest Authority geared toward reconstructing the last activities of the Power Behind the Throne; such was Gerard's designation when other government officials were out of earshot of the President’s Senior Staff.

The term disgusted and disturbed the Director of National Intelligence. Even
he
just now had referred to the President as royalty, rather than a servant to the people. The philosophies of usurpers like Valka Gerard, which he understood as a student of history, had been the norm for the greater expanse of human governance. It was the fragile experiment of this representative Republic which was the aberration, along with the recognition of individual rights his nation’s founding documents acknowledged as divinely bestowed. It was an ugly business, defending the framework. The Senior Advisor’s malevolent arrogance had demanded nothing less than the harshest response.
Her actions were outside of the established norms. Did she really expect the reaction to be confined within those boundaries?
Her supposed authority, extended through moral abrogation, had met the only force capable of mending the breach.
And it’s not a lesson gentle enough for a tyrant to learn more than once.
Boone’s premise had proven its validity: 
adaptability is indeed the distinguishing characteristic of a successful field operative.

Reading once again the text of the crystal plaque which adorned his desk, he muttered the words aloud to accentuate the nobility of the ideal expressed therein:  “We will always succeed … for the sake of our nation.”

So he would ... while he was able. Seeing the clock had passed all reasoning and being tired beyond reckoning, Bradley logged out of his computer workstation and called it a week.

Here we are again, you and I. Not so changed as we hoped and believed, nor the same as ever. Somewhere between always.
Boone, also yet awake, recognized the return of her postoperative melancholy once she had been assured of the tactical operations truly being over. Perhaps it was a physiological reaction to the cessation of her adrenal dump … or the guilt from knowing she again had survived a conflict an opponent had not.
Such a voice the Green Faerie in my absinthe has. She can call me across a span of months.
The magic of her song, however, was fading. The power of Boone's continuing pride in her unbroken sobriety was stronger.
I was right. The rest of my life is here to test my resolve, just as Doctor Anthony also implied.

After wandering back to her hotel room, she had taken a small meal though it did not extend her any relief. It was not food, exercise or even Terrence Bradley who possessed what she needed tonight.
This is an evening to deal with my Muse.

By the time she was finally prepared, the lights were low, and she dressed in warm and comfortable clothing. Boone sat with her journal in the light of the Tiffany lamp, one of the few possessions she always brought along during her travels when it was possible. Her fountain pen was inked, tested and blotted. As always, the lines came naturally when they were truly ready for paper:

Truthful, or Lying

Quickening, or Stilling

Living, or Dying

Imprisoned, or Willing

Hero, or Villain

Warrior, or Weakling

Sustaining, or Killing

Listening, or Speaking

Healer, or Huntress

Beacon, or Shadow

Bond servant, or Mistress

Abyssal, or Shallows

Bounty, or Fallow

Blessing, or Cancer

Savior, or Coward

Questions or Answers

Boone knew her tears were close, but they had not come this time. She capped the pen and took comfort in silent prayer rather than the fog of her drinking or a purging wash in her emotions.
I hope Doctor Jon is right, Lord … and You are guiding my steps just as You did my missteps, so they all carry me down the road ahead. I want it to be Your road, not mine. I understand now … and awareness will be my penance. Thy will be done.

She had to decide, and so she did, and then tested her emotions afterward.
Yes, Boone, this is the way it will have to be. You’ve passed through now. Things will need to be different, and difference comes through effort … not by waiting in hope.

Her journal lay open for the newly penned ink to dry while she pondered the words she had only just brought into the world, and her chin rested on her small fist. She stroked the cover's worn leather with the index finger of her other hand, loving every fleck of texture found there.

“Go to bed, Boone, honey,” she whispered to herself. “Tomorrow’s going to be a big day.” She raised her torso up to turn off the lamp, luxuriating in the darkness promising rest … and anticipating a new dawn which always offered …
What?
Another chance,
she remembered.

Liberty Crossing

McLean, Virginia

Saturday

The Essential Personnel alert was ongoing, as Bradley had so informed Boone via text message early this morning. His intuition, though, was that the level of government mobilization would not last through the day. Somewhere close to noon, someone would get hungry and then realize there was really no logical reasoning behind tethering people to their office desks when now they were universally equipped with mobile phones.

She came in at nine per his suggestion as there would be little to do but stand by and take the opportunity to clear away another portion of their ever-present administrative backlog. He looked up at the sound of the glass double door, knowing it could be no one else. He was, regardless, surprised when he saw her.

Boone sauntered in, hair and makeup done to perfection and dressed in her best white Chanel, to
include
the strappy heels she had brought back from Seoul. She took only a side step to lay her coat and bag on Edna’s desk before pausing in his office doorway, a hand elegantly positioned on each side of the jamb. The posture allowed him a glimpse beneath a blouse both more sheer and low-cut than her usual office attire. “Good morning, Terrence,” she said in an almost husky voice.

No brassiere. Damn.
“Good … morning, Boone,” he replied after an appreciative pause, “You’ve … gone to some trouble for a Saturday.”

She acknowledged his compliment with a crooked smile and strode the rest of the way into his office, looking at his monitors. “How is business?”

“Slow,” he admitted with a sigh. “Still nothing from the Atlantic. The weather out there is
worse,
if anything.”

Nodding to him, Boone came closer to sit at the right-hand edge of his desk, kicking her wonderfully shod foot. “Dear … we need to talk.”