One Last Scent of Jasmine (Boone's File Book 3) Read Online Free

McLean. Would you prefer taking it on the clean phone?” the portly woman asked, wearing a detached headset around her neck.
    Surprised, Boone looked up. “Oh, yes. Thank you. I will be there right away.” As Renee disappeared, Boone hurriedly folded her MacBook. She then detached it from the patch cable tethering her to the interior wall of the study cubicle, stowing the machine in its Apple backpack.
    Her status since the late spring had been one of a semi-permanent guest of the Ambassador. Here on the grounds, she was relegated to basic accommodations pending her upcoming review and possible reassignment to another duty station. She doubted Terry Bradley would be of a mind to force such a transition, but in government service anything was possible. Once her future solidified, it would then be time to find another hotel. Boone hoped she could match the homey elegance of the establishment on the Rue Marbeuf which had satisfied her for so long. It was a satisfactory arrangement until, at least, a grenade attack had blown her cover—as well as the door to her room on the fifth floor—to smithereens.
    Prudently she took the backpack with her. However unlikely the possibility an Embassy staffer would swipe her notebook, Boone never took the risk of losing her primary means of communication with her employing agency. Besides, it also has all my music on it, not to mention a wonderfully pornographic and incriminating digital snapshot of Janine Harrison-Bradley ... one she has to know is waiting to go out onto the Internet should I have any trouble with the little tramp ever again.
    Terry had gotten his uncontested—if not yet finalized—divorce from a spiteful, betraying bitch of a wife. The woman, from what details he shared, simply cited “irreconcilable differences.” Apparently she had taken to heart Boone’s warnings. From the USIC operative's perspective, it was much rather better than having Jan ever relate to him her encounter with a small redhead, dressed in black and sporting a digicam and suppressed 9mm pistol, late one July night in Virginia.
    As Renee settled back in at her desk, Boone returned her thoughts to the present and crossed the communications center. The DNI’s agent reached the glassed-in carrel of the clean phone, situated in the corner across from the door, as the woman heading Embassy Communications returned the plug of her headset to her supervising phone. A glance came from the com manager and then a gesture, and Boone heard the phone inside the enclosure ring. She waved and nodded to Renee before entering, latching the transparent door to assure the privacy of her imminent conversation before picking up the waiting handset. The connection, she could tell, was not on speaker. “Terrence, dear,” she fairly purred. “How lovely it is to hear from you.”
    “Likewise, Doctor. The day here probably can’t be salvaged, unfortunately.”
    Damn. Such an unusually blunt prognosis for Terry . Without conscious effort Boone’s tone changed to one of a concerned friend. “I’m so sorry. What can I do?” She heard him clicking away at his keyboard, there at his desk in ODNI.
    His voice took on an air of concentration. “It looks like you still have time to catch an overnight out of de Gaulle. How does a morning appointment sound?”
    “Horrid, but I’ll be there, of course,” Boone answered honestly. She leaned back in the booth’s uncomfortable, bargain-basement folding chair. “But please tell me at least you’re not winging me back across the Atlantic purely for the sake of my company.”
    “I wouldn’t ordinarily be able to rule it out, but unfortunately this trip is guaranteed to be all business.”
    “Then I’ll wear slacks,” she promised.
    “You’re a treasure, Agent Hildebrandt. I’ll see you here at zero-eight-hundred Eastern, then. You’ll have Friday free to make up for it. Details, I’m afraid, are restricted until then,” he informed his Case