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Absinthe and Chocolate: Boone's File, #1
Absinthe and Chocolate: Boone's File, #1
Absinthe and Chocolate: Boone's File, #1
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Absinthe and Chocolate: Boone's File, #1

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At the top of her profession. Bottoming out personally.

Now, the "intel" game is changing; international intelligence entities react to the growing influence of an emergent private sector effort. The USIC's Director of National Intelligence assigns Dr. Rebecca Boone Hildebrandt, a case officer empowered to take any necessary action, to safeguard the firm's growing data store.

 

Strikes, targeting key company players, force suspending operations in securing corporate infrastructure and remaining personnel. The agent responsible for covertly shepherding InterLynk responds to attacks targeting her principals; to counterbalance an attempted hostile takeover of the private company, Boone gathers her own assets: no strangers to direct action.

 

Ranging from Switzerland through New York City to the Russian forests, the resulting covert conflict pits committed professionals from the spectrum of international intelligence against equals. The prize: technology housing intelligence that could reverse the balance of power between East and West.

Approx, 83,400 words / 288 pp. print length.

LanguageEnglish
Release dateSep 10, 2014
ISBN9780984025183
Absinthe and Chocolate: Boone's File, #1
Author

Dale Amidei

Dale Amidei lives and writes on the wind- and snow-swept Northern Plains of South Dakota. Novels about people and the perspectives that guide their decisions are the result. They feature faith-based themes set in the real world, which is occasionally profane or violent. His characters are realistically portrayed as caught between heaven and earth, not always what they should be, nor what they used to be. In this way they are like all of us. Dale Amidei's fiction can entertain you, make you think, and touch your heart. His method is simple: have something to say, then start writing. His novels certainly reflect this philosophy.

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  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    What if Black Widow were to join the cast of '24?'Absinthe and chocolate starts with a shot (of absinthe, that is) and doesn't let up as intrigue leads the characters from Geneva to the Iraq to New York City to Moscow. In addition to the welcome return of familiar characters from 'Jon's Trilogy' and 'Sean's Cycle', Sean Ritter and General McAllen's intelligence apparatus, we meet a new super-duper secret agent, Rebecca Hildebrand Boone, a fiery red-headed secret agent who has the martial arts skills of Black Widow crossed with the suave manner of James Bond. While there are no 'superheroes' here, this book deals with the purely realistic machinations of the global intelligence commuity, this book kept me turning pages and I read it in a single day (warning, don't start this book right before bedtime!!!).

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Absinthe and Chocolate - Dale Amidei

Chapter 1 - The Green Faerie

Moscow

The Russian Federation

Day 42

It was almost possible to fool herself into believing she was just another tourist. Sitting on the edge of the hotel’s luxurious pillow top mattress, the woman used her left hand to zip up the side on the second of her fashionable Tessa hiking boots. She then adjusted the tensioning straps to a perfect fit. The footwear completed her ensemble if not her load-out, and the basic black theme matched her mood. Subdued midnight’s raven clothing set off the tone of her pale skin and fiery shock of bobbed, auburn hair. She was ready, except for her final show prep. Even her lipstick, as red as her coiffure, was managed to perfection.

Rebecca Boone Hildebrandt moved her lithe, small-statured but athletic frame to her largest suitcase. Inside was a small wooden box with a sliding cover. Its artisan—a craftsman in Paris—had carved her initials in his flawless and flowing script to match the embellishment found elsewhere on the lacquered wood.

For years without fail, she had performed the same ritual before each mission like the one facing her this day. Picking the receptacle up with both hands and a set in her jaw, she carried it to the hotel’s table in the sitting area of her suite.

Once the container was oriented toward her chair, she sat down. Boone hesitated, pushing the decorative box back to almost the middle of the space. Her elbows then her hands came to rest on the surface with her forehead atop them.

After a moment of silent contemplation and a heavy, calming sigh, Boone clenched her fist and raised her head. Her right hand reached out and slid the cover back.

It was her travel kit. Neither the proper glass nor its antique, silver-plated spoon came with her into the field. Likewise, the rice milk she preferred as a mix did not travel well. Included instead were only the bare necessities of the tonic she now knew to be part of what had helped to keep her going for so long.

A small bar of Godiva chocolate, unopened, lay alongside an unadorned shot glass. Next was the engraved, silver hip flask from a little shop she had frequented in Saarbrücken. Nestled in the box as well, a square of green silk padded the contents. She straightened, adjusted her posture, then spread and smoothed the cloth before her. Afterward, each component could position for what had almost become a ceremony.

Unwrapped only to the first square, the Belgian confection was now ready. Boone then held the small glass up to the morning light of the window. Drapery and sheers there spread wide to let in the sunshine reflecting from the fresh mantle of springtime snow. Its crystalline refraction helped illuminate—almost beautify—the Moscow morning. The one-ounce tumbler was nearly perfect, without spot or print. After blowing an errant speck of dust from its surface and performing a final inspection, she set it in the middle of the tightly woven square of green.

Next came the cap of the flask, and the woman could indulge in the bouquet of the contents. Closing her eyes, Boone could sense the fennel and Artemisia Absinthium—Grand Wormwood—mixed with the green anise. The herbs gave this blend its distinctive verdant hue.

The words of the English writer, literary historian, scholar, critic and wine connoisseur George Saintsbury, particularly applicable this day, returned to her from her college studies. A person who drinks absinthe neat deserves his fate whatever it may be, for the flavor is concentrated to repulsiveness, and the spirit burns like a torch-light procession. She whispered the words through a grudging grimace. So be it.

She poured the measure to what she knew would be the exact level of one ounce avoirdupois. Lifting the glass again, Boone took advantage of the rays of the morning sun. She could almost see the Green Faerie dancing there and longed for the onset of the effects of the oily, fragrant thujone mixing with the warm comfort of the alcohol content. The latter would settle the case of nerves already building in her. The former would restore her mental acuity to the level she would need on a day such as this:  another promising once more to stain her soul with the blood of her fellow man.

Boone stared into the shot of absinthe, seeking answers evading even her deepest introspection. In all the travels of her body and her mind, she was yet unable to settle some of those she knew in her heart to be the most basic.

Before leaving Paris she had written as much into her journal: What have I become? Did I ever have a choice? A new day is soon upon me, dawning, as it will on every man and every woman across the face of this world. Lives begin each day, and they certainly end. Each story has its first and last page. Is it I am to write only endings? Whose pen, afterward, will write my own? Is the quill yet in the inkwell, or is it brushing the rim, readying for the scribe’s perfect stroke? Is it poised now above a parchment of which I will never know before it is far too late?

Her rational side knew she would eventually need to act on an opportunity to alter the course of her life. If she was to remake herself, there was yet time. Life could transform as it moved forward, and hers was moving still. Change could occur moment to moment, and the promise of magic always in the times ahead—even if it was as close as the next second.

A glint of sunshine, filtered through the glass and liquor, made the measure of Century in her hand look like an emerald. The drink she had poured appeared now to Boone as both beautiful and terrifying. She knew some, if asked, would give the very same description of her.

Liberty Crossing

McLean, Virginia

Day 1

The morning was still cool and wet enough for Terrence Bain Bradley to use the climate-controlled and carpeted halls of the campus subway. He would in any case do better to arrive looking presentable at the morning meeting.

The man did not mind the mild Virginia winters or the bluster of spring. However, the wool coat he had worn into the office this morning would not have helped make what in some cases would be his vital first impression. Neither would the snow melting outside do any favors for his wing tips, now without the protection of the galoshes waiting below the overcoat back in his office.

Bradley managed his appearance not to satisfy his own ego but to maintain effectiveness in his role. As the Director of National Intelligence, he was the current occupant of a rectangle at the apex of an organizational chart defining the branches of the United States Intelligence Community.

Though the IC had existed since Ronald Reagan’s executive order created the body in 1981, few even today knew the scope of its oversight. Being a stand-alone executive agency, CIA was the only independent element of the IC. The other fifteen associated, federal organizations were actually offices or bureaus within other civilian or military departments. Together they comprised the totality of United States intelligence operations.

These naturally divided into two subsets within the Community:  the National and the Military Intelligence Programs. With each passing year, the boundaries of responsibility between NIP and MIP blurred to a greater extent. Determining the distinction in a given situation often fell to Bradley, and the responsibilities involved with defining the focus in such disputes made his significant salary seem to him an entirely appropriate level of compensation.

Each step now took him farther away from his usual turf in the complex of offices housed here in Liberty Crossing’s administrative headquarters for the USIC. The campus was a secure, very well-guarded compound in McLean, an unincorporated portion of Fairfax County. Casual visitors would never get close to the facility without encountering the brusque interdiction of armed men. Invited guests, however, were currently arriving in the contracted fleet of limousines driving the circuit between the visitor center’s receiving zone and Washington Dulles International Airport. It’s good to get out of the Admin Cave, Bradley thought. He realized he needed the switch in scenery.

Most of the time, Bradley worked within the innermost spaces of the Office of the Director of National Intelligence, or ODNI, to fulfill his responsibilities. Today’s meeting was different, though. Decorum, as well as the security protocols that were his to enforce, demanded a separate venue. It was fitting, therefore, the theme of this conference would embrace the effects of situational evolution.

Change is a constant in any case, he mused. It was particularly true in an organization such as his. The elements of the USIC specialized in tracking and categorizing the many daily conditions and occurrences able to affect the security or interests of the United States of America. The DNI resolved in the future to embrace variety more fully than his daily itinerary had allowed in the past. Indulgence in the stimulation of environmental anomalies would help keep him at the top of his game.

Still reflecting as he walked, Bradley acknowledged the fact his field was experiencing a continually rising tide. Current efforts began with the 1940s-era Office of Strategic Services. It included the Central Intelligence Agency’s dominance during the briskest years of the Cold War. Optimistic but debilitating drawdowns followed the collapse of Communism in Europe and the false hopes of a short-lived Peace Dividend.

U.S. intelligence operations were never as widespread, as technologically capable, or as all-encompassing as they were today. September 11, 2001, had reinvigorated funding. As a result, he knew, his government was doing what it did best:  needlessly replicating functionality and further confusing what had already been a maddeningly intricate environment.

Bradley recalled the Washington Post article he had read on his secret world growing beyond all control with amusement, not at the attention but at the panic. It was a limited view of the actual scope of the United States Intelligence Community, yet it instilled extreme fear in the reporters who wrote the piece. At the time he was almost tempted to invite them to his interagency liaison meeting. There, he was certain, most of the participants only wished for a life as simple as the brooding presentation produced by the Post as a special investigation. The Community had grown even more extensive since then.

Change, of course, refused to halt its progress for morning, noon or night. The new state of the world at the beginning of each successive shift was not necessarily optimal nor welcomed by those subject to the whims of reality. Plenty of his colleagues in the realm of international intelligence, for instance, were upset at the moment. Their angst was due to circumstances resulting from—initially at least—Bradley’s decision to implement a new paradigm.

It had started with an innovative request from an Army Intelligence three-star nearing the regulated end of his military career. The idea leveraged top-tier data storage and retrieval technology. The quality of his extensive proposal reflected the depth and breadth of his service—experience any MIP asset would envy. The real key to its success, however, was the psychological element of intermittent reward. Upon this foundation, Lieutenant General Peter Wallace McAllen, U.S.A., Retired, built a business. Afterward it generated a considerable fortune.

McAllen had named the firm InterLynk after his core concept, and a relatively simple one. The General’s Web-based system allowed anyone who could pass his vetting process—intelligence professionals, military personnel or government employees—to forward snippets via the Internet. The cheeky term for an InterLynk submission was infonugget.

Such confidential reports concerned unclassified items of interest to the intelligence community. Now, every day, participants did so by the hundreds, on the hopes of gaining a slice of the dynamic profit sharing built into InterLynk’s service fee structure.

Worldwide, agencies subscribed to McAllen’s data plans, and each page view of a given submission resulted in an incremental profit share forwarded to the contributor. Even more alluring was a contributor’s eligibility to tap the profit sharing from lucrative field services originating out of the Geneva-based headquarters.

People on McAllen’s ground crew, handpicked by their president himself, were the equal of any special operator in the world. InterLynk agents drew assignments a given country’s own personnel could not or dared not undertake, for any of a host of reasons. Those bonus pools, Bradley knew, made the residuals from a data subscription’s few page views seem like chump change.

As the DNI, Bradley had signed off on the concept when CIA presented it to him. Everyone recognized the potential even before McAllen sweetened the proposal by promising the agencies of his own nation unlimited access to the potential data store. The General’s every operating principle had been spot-on. The resulting windfall of contributions now made the man the envy of state-sponsored intelligence efforts around the globe. Some of the unhappy campers included regional dominants and former superpowers.

But, change being what it was, the nations of the world presently felt compelled to play McAllen’s game. They subscribed to the level of access he doled out on a case-by-case basis; always InterLynk's president took first into consideration the best interest of the nation he had served over the span of a very long, extremely impressive career in military intelligence.

The nations of the world patronized his firm because McAllen’s databases were, in some cases, more complete than their own. As an additional precaution, they sat at InterLynk’s table to monitor the possibility of their own state secrets uploading without official consent.

The latter was the reason so many foreign agencies answered in the affirmative to Bradley's inquiry regarding their interest in attending this quarter’s meeting of multinational liaisons. The field had changed and with it the rules observed for decades by the league of international intel. Advantage had shifted toward InterLynk’s headquarters and therefore in favor of the West. In particular, resultant circumstances mostly benefited the United States.

Reaching the end of the hallways, Bradley stopped at the security station for this building and his destination. His face was a familiar one here, of course. His own rules, though, demanded even he would show and have scanned adequate identification in order to pass between general- and limited-access areas. One such zone waited beyond the armed security man and the magnetic locks of the double fire doors here.

All in order, of course, sir. Have a good meeting, the uniformed guard said. He handed the Director’s ID back to him, returning the bar-code scanner to its Lexan stand.

Not much chance, Zed, but I appreciate your sentiment, Bradley answered; for once, he would give the opening address to the assembly.

Grinning, the sentry stepped on his treadle to unlock the entrance to Building Five. The Director of National Intelligence opened the door himself. He then took a single flight of stairs to the ground level and a card-access elevator just off the main lobby. Bradley could see he had plenty of time before the call to order. He was a natural manager, and his own schedule was no exception.

The conference room was a large one. Interior designers had arranged it for the physical and psychological comfort of guests, with the presentation podium at the end farthest from the doors. The IC budget allowing him to be a gracious host was evident to all. Some of the earliest arrivals had helped themselves to the bottles of water and selection of finger food provided by the cafeteria per Bradley’s request. More than fifty representatives from various foreign governments were already present. He would not need to give any late arrivals more time on the clock.

Sir Chauncey, it’s good to see you again, Bradley said on his way forward, winking to the Brit. The Thai rep got the DNI’s usual "Angchuan, sawa dee! Sabbi dee may?" and answered with a thumbs-up. Bradley had a smile or a nod for everyone he recognized, his demeanor reinforced the idea this was his room.

Gentlemen, he requested as he neared the head of the U-shaped arrangement of tables, if you can take your seats, please, we will be considerate of your time. They all spoke and understood English well enough, he knew. The meeting would be unencumbered by any language gap. He had reviewed their files once more over the course of the previous week, even those of the familiar faces. Settling in now, the attendees arranged themselves roughly by geography. Some things never change, Bradley thought.

Thank you all for being here today, the Director of National Intelligence began, standing at the podium now the focus of the conference area. There has been, as I know you are every one aware, a great deal of concern with the trends recently toward the acceleration of information flow in our business to the private sector. Frankly, my staff has been dealing so often with your inquiries we thought it prudent to air everyone’s concerns in this forum. Would anyone like to begin the discussion?

I’d be happy to, Terrence, Sir Chauncey volunteered. This start-up of yours, InterLynk—

Bradley corrected his friend. "Sorry to interrupt, sir, but it’s not technically mine. InterLynk is funded and operated entirely in the private sector."

I’m very sure it’s true, sir, but at once you must admit to your organizations reaping the primary benefit.

DNI nodded. "Peter McAllen is first and foremost a patriot, sir. It is inconceivable the man would take an action or allow an omission against the best interest of his homeland. But, I emphasize again, InterLynk is his company, and based on foreign soil for the benefit of all Allied powers."

"Ah, but also for mostly his benefit, a South Korean unit manager added. This scheme of his … it has taken hold of the world, Mister Bradley. We subscribe to his system, of course. We have no choice but to do so or take the chance of missing some vital element of information posted there. We do not like having no choice. I would say the others here feel the same."

As noises of general agreement sounded across the room, Bradley shifted to his right. Technology changes many things, sir, the DNI countered, as it has since the rise of information management. This transition is no different.

"It is different!" the older of two representatives from the Saudi Al Mukhabarat Al A'amah protested. "Our business is no longer our own! Faceless contributors upload it daily without permission into a data store we access only on the whims of its gatekeeper. We know he is your General Peter McAllen."

McAllen sets the terms of each subscriber’s access. We have no control over this. In each case it is a private contract. An inaudible sigh followed Bradley’s defense.

"If only we yet had our privacy of information, Terrence, Chauncey complained. There are now an infinite number of Internet connections, and no reliable method to police the ones uploading InterLynk reports at any given moment. Web technology by design allows too many proxies and safeguards to interfere with the process. The lure of McAllen’s reward structure is too great."

How great? the Thai representative asked.

The answer came from the younger Saudi. A contributor may be paid a small sum for hundreds, or thousands, of page views, depending on the interest in his information. Real money comes from inclusion in the bonus pool of the field operations. His boss nodded in agreement, looking unhappy.

Yet another troubling aspect of your pet project, Terrence. The man has built a private army of mercenaries, the Brit chided.

I’d hardly call it an ‘army,’ Bradley bristled. "Certainly his people are capable, but his field operations are not nearly as extensive as Academi, he said, referring to the current corporate provider of services once supplied by Blackwater USA. The General is not a security contractor."

"No, my friend, he is an insecurity contractor. You can see his results in the concerns being presented here, Sir Chauncey asserted. Whatever you call his field operators, they are assassins for hire, and it is a dangerous role to allow for a private sector firm."

I can attest to this. I will say no more, the older Saudi concurred, glancing at his aide.

Doing his best to project empathy, Bradley nodded. I understand your anxieties completely, gentlemen, and I assure everyone we hold identical concerns.

"Not quite identical, sir, observed the Director of the Italian AISE. Your secrets are safe, even should they make their way into McAllen’s system. He would never allow access to such information."

The South Korean agreed. Excellent point. We will have no secrets soon enough, Mister Bradley. They will all, eventually, become only another of InterLynk’s infonuggets for him to put up for sale.

"McAllen specifically filters for any information possibly holding a classified rating from any Allied power. He is not in the business of deliberately breaching confidentiality." Bradley sounded almost angry.

So you say, sir. How can we be sure without the full access to the scope of the information the man holds, as you do? a voice in the back asked.

I advise you to trust in the integrity of Peter McAllen. This is as much as I can offer in assurance, Bradley attempted. It was his best effort, and it fell short for some, he knew. "Admittedly, at the advent of InterLynk’s venture, we had as little idea as did anyone how the man’s vision would pan out. We regret any feeling of distrust or discomfort arising since then. Please allow me to assure you nothing has changed in the commitment the United States Intelligence Community holds toward supporting any friendly power. Our revelations will be passed along very shortly after determining we might possess an item your organizations could interpret as being need-to-know information."

Sir Chauncey groused, All good to hear, Terrence. The only better news would be to wake up one morning and find that we no longer had the worry at all.

Trust in this business is the most precious of commodities, Bradley reassured the occupants of the room. Each year, we see more of our world having learned the benefits of peaceful coexistence. It is this spirit which will continually smooth the fabric of the international scene, Bradley posited. I have every confidence in this. Neither we nor InterLynk have any history of or interest in violating the integrity of your state secrets.

Terry, you lying sack of shit. Blink. You have to blink when you say that. Bradley blinked, avoiding the betrayal of body language flagging his lie. Wrap it up, man. You can’t maintain composure forever.

With that, gentlemen, I can see the time my organizers gave me to address you has expired. Our main presentations will begin in only a moment. I very much appreciate each of you being here. Do feel free to catch me if you have additional concerns. There will be some lunch coming by after the presentations if your schedules allow you the luxury. In any event, let me wish you all a successful Leap Day tomorrow. For now, though, I will move out of the way of today’s remaining business.

Thank you, Terrence, Sir Chauncey responded for them all. Wry wrinkles on the Brit’s face made Bradley wonder how transparent his own facade actually appeared.

If they only knew what McAllen has pouring in around the clock, the DNI thought. His servers are becoming a mirror for every damned intelligence database in the industrialized world. The windfall was Peter McAllen's primary reason for maintaining the level of support he did from every agency in the IC. The man is a master … leveraging his politics as well as everything else he does.

The younger of the two Saudis in attendance—Yameen Amjad al-Khobar—sat in silence beside his boss, the Director of the General Intelligence Presidency. For the remainder of the hours-long meeting, Yameen rose only to refresh his coffee or to gather a few more calorie-laden snacks in order to maintain his blood sugar and alertness. You should not have opened your mouth, he reprimanded himself. You are lucky your business with InterLynk only altered the course of your career. It should have ended it.

When the time came, his Director decided they should stay for the luncheon. A fine meal followed the updates on the state of affairs on the international intelligence scene, at least those of which the USIC wished them to be aware. Al-Khobar’s superior had little enough to say while they ate. Yameen himself did not feel the need to display any levity. For the younger Saudi, the emotions concerning the subject of private intelligence remained tender, even now … a year and a half after the fact.

Once tables began clearing, staff of the Director of National Intelligence

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