One Last Scent of Jasmine (Boone's File Book 3) by Dale Amidei Page A

a Beretta that would have put me to sleep even faster.”
    “Exposure?” Bradley asked, reaching for his coffee once more, all traces of the morning’s emotions extinguished.
    “None … on-site.”
    “Elsewhere?”
    Rolling her eyes, she admitted, “Players on the exterior. Big, well dressed. One sounded like a New Yorker. I assumed they were DARIUS security when they followed me into the parking lot.”
    “Boone … no. You didn't .”
    She grimaced. “Oh, they’re still alive. One tried to crack my head open with a shotgun. They were served concussions and contusions, but nothing life-threatening.” Boone clenched her jaw and sighed again. “Terry … they knew me. They followed me onto the site, and when I came back out of the building they had managed to regain consciousness, free themselves, and disappear.” She watched him take another sip of coffee. It all came on fast, and he’s thinking it through.
    “This was in the works before Rex’s accident ,” her Director concluded.
    Boone sniffed. You don’t believe it was accidental any more than I do. “Before Rex died , anyway.”
    As he thought, Bradley’s hand went to his face and then to his freshly shaved chin. “They left the scene. It means they’re covert players. That in turn speaks to an insufficient level of authorization … as I interpret it, anyway.”
    “I had a similar thought once they tried to fracture my skull. Terry, we should call in FBI CID.” Boone was more than aware Bradley knew the jurisdiction of the Criminal Investigation Division every bit as well as she. She also knew he was not going to go for the suggestion.
    “Not yet. Not until we have assessed the scope of the operation and the implications,” he pronounced.
    She blew an exasperated breath and went so far as to lean into his desk. “Terry, the freaking White House was going to upload DARIUS missile defense straight to the Kremlin. We can’t sit on this.”
    “Boone, sit down ,” he said in his DNI voice.
    Oops . Forcing a recovery, she sat in his leather visitor’s chair with contrition consciously evident on her face.
    He sipped again. “Agent Hildebrandt, I do not disagree with your assessment, only your perspective. Until I’m able to quantify the totality of what is happening … we will sit on it. This situation potentially involves criminal activity on the part of the Executive Branch, affecting national security. I am, therefore, opening a Level Zero case file to which you and I will have sole access. It will, at least, serve to demonstrate due diligence should the need arise. I expect your full report to appear in the folder ASAP.”
    “Yes, sir. Understood.” This means there is no one else in the United States government who we can trust right now . It also means I will not give you the evidence I collected on the site. You’re in the government too, Terrence Bain Bradley.
     
    Boone sat alone in her office, in the silence of the greater and still-darkened Office of the Director of National Intelligence. Head. Heart. Duty. Conscience. Every day now—unless I am mistaken—is to be a challenge in a course I will run the remainder of my life. She felt Thibaut’s crucifix again next to her skin. It was one of the few items— like my journal —she would never willingly expose to the risk of theft or loss. Win some, lose some and recover to try again? Your challenge is accepted.
    To produce a complete report had been Bradley's order. Her account, potentially incriminating in complete narrative, would be modified for the sake of practicality with respect to the removal of evidence from the scene. Complete could be interpreted to include the Who, What, When, Why, How and Action Taken of the incident in question. The fact each necessary component in her report would not be as complete as it could be merely yielded, in her mind, on the side of discretion. And the USIC is all about discretion.
    Boone worked into the morning as the federal