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A Garden in Russia: Boone's File, #5
A Garden in Russia: Boone's File, #5
A Garden in Russia: Boone's File, #5
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A Garden in Russia: Boone's File, #5

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Spring brings changes: for Boone, the joy of an expectant mother. Both the U.S. and the Russian Federation see tumultuous presidencies reach unexpected ends; in Moscow, the cause is death at the hands of an InterLynk associate.

Washington political operatives seek to shore up a legacy of failure in order to preserve their party's viability. In Russia, a resurgent movement exploits political turmoil to propose governance in the style of the last century's Cold War. To those ends, all pursue a family on the run in the Mediterranean: loved ones whose safety is critical to ensure an assassin's testimony.

Thrust into an international, unavoidable contest of deadly professionals, Boone's challenge is to summon her faith and overcome fears inhibiting decisive action. Justice, integrity of governance, and the narrative of history in two countries await the outcome.

Approx. 91,500 words / 329 pp. print length

LanguageEnglish
Release dateAug 30, 2018
ISBN9781386995890
A Garden in Russia: Boone's File, #5
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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    A Garden in Russia - Dale Amidei

    Chapter 1 - News of the Day

    The Kremlin

    Moscow, Russian Federation

    The last Monday in April

    Dmitry Gennadyevich Lyubov was, technically, moving under his own power though direction and speed were completely out of his control. The burly presidential bodyguards propelling his march down the ornate halls, here in the center of Russian government, could just as easily have been carrying him. The current sensation of lost circulation in both arms was unavoidable in either option.

    What do we do with this man? the less experienced one wondered, drawing a heavy breath borne out of his adrenaline rush if not their exertion.

    First we get him out of sight. Who knows what else will happen if he remains visible? The senior guard sounded tense and agitated as he directed his befuddled colleague. Already, footfalls could be heard coming toward the presidential offices as the news spread. Soon, photographers and camera crews would begin to appear, even here.

    You will take me before the Chair of the Federation Council. Any other destination is only a waste of your time, Lyubov, his voice calm, informed the pair of much larger men who had detained him.

    Unmoved by the Director's advice, the older bodyguard replied, Shut your mouth, traitor. Anything you say can only make matters worse for you at this point.

    Seconds later, a radio crackled on the man's belt. Unit One, where in hell are you?

    Seizing the portable, Lyubov’s escort answered. I am with the prisoner. We are getting him out of sight.

    The voice at the other end of the radio link responded immediately. "You are to deliver him to Ulyana Iliyainichna Zhirinovsky at once per the order of the Interim President."

    They changed direction to the bearing Lyubov had originally suggested. Had it not been locked into a scowl, Dmitry's expression might have transitioned into a smirk. Did I not tell you as much? The man heading Federal'naya sluzhba bezopasnosti Rossiyskoy Federatsii—the Federal Security Service of the Russian Federation, or FSB—commented in a tone deliberately couched in condescension.

    "And did I not tell you to shut your trap? was the agitated answer, one accompanied by a tighter grip on Lyubov's arm and a cautionary shake. This is not a day for you to test my patience, comrade."

    After rushing through a hundred more meters of Kremlin corridors, Lyubov spied the woman who had chaired the Federation Council a few minutes previously. I have elevated her station in the government somewhat. He watched Ulyana Iliyainichna Zhirinovsky, now surrounded by a presidential protective detail of her own, rush into her offices with a backward glance at their approach. Yes, Iliyainichna, I will be there shortly.

    Lyubov and company halted at the double door which had closed behind the newly ascended chief executive and her retinue. The guard lifted his radio again. We have arrived at the office of the acting president.

    Get him inside, you fool. You are expected, was the brusque reply.

    Sensing his own amusement was apparent already, Lyubov said nothing. The detaining escorts merely handled the door and shoved him inside with a rough motion of their arms. The trio then marched across the reception area and through another opened door to the windowed interior.

    "Madame." His manners were greeted with her incredulous expression as he straightened the rumpled sleeves of his suit jacket.

    Ulyana Zhirinovsky was his age and less plump than the typical Russian woman at her stage in life. Already, a practiced authority made itself evident in her stance and visage. "Dmitry, she answered with a sigh and shake of her head. Her attention snapped to the guards who had delivered him to the office and then to the others who stood behind, waiting for her instructions. All of you … leave us."

    "Madame President, it is impossible! This man is an assassin and dangerous!" her own lead agent protested.

    "He is no danger to me, she insisted, assessing in a glance an inadequate response from the people she now commanded. Do not defy me, Captain, I warn you. I am in no mood. Her determination had already swayed them. Out!" she shouted, and her order finally produced the desired if undeniably reluctant movement of the Kremlin security men back to the front office.

    Zhirinovsky waited until the door closed behind the last of them. None of the Federation men could be expected to move but a few inches from the double door to her sumptuous office where she and her old friend now stood. She moved behind her Romanov-era desk to her chair, and as she prepared to sit, the woman motioned to him that he should do the same. "Dmitry Gennadyevich, what have you done? They tell me both Vova and Mit’ka are dead."

    Lyubov sat, formally, with his feet held close together and his hands motionless on the armchair. Madame President, my duties forced me to place the President and Prime Minister under arrest for violations of international and federal law of the highest magnitude. In defying my constitutional authority and resisting arrest, they left me without a choice.

    "Other than to kill them? I cannot believe this. The woman he had known for years searched for words. Regardless of the excesses of the executive branch of late, this remains a federation of laws. You should have pursued—"

    Shaking his head, Lyubov waved his hand to reject her argument. "You know as well as I the hold on the judiciary these men possessed. If it was a viable course of action, what is the reason no one had filed any motion of impeachment or recall in the Duma or Federation Council already? Why did you not do this, Iliyainichna?"

    No evidence was presented to me.

    Smiling, Lyubov cocked his head. No, she would not meet his gaze for long. And do you think, he asked, it would have been by anyone who valued life over death? You should be able to tally the body count in the newspapers alone.

    She shook her head. "And was it evidence rather than ambition or anger which prompted you to take matters into your own hands, Gennadyevich?"

    "A plethora of evidence, madame. I will present it to the Federal Assembly."

    The newly elevated head of their government tapped her desk blotter in a momentary display of anger. There will be no such show under my tenure. God knows you have given me enough to do in stabilizing the state of the Federation and calming the concerns overseas your action will precipitate. She inhaled and blew a breath. My duty requires me to treat you as any other criminal suspect, my friend. Where is the body of this evidence you possess?

    Relaxing somewhat, Lyubov explained, In safekeeping, outside of the country, should some unfortunate technical condition be overtaking my data store as we speak.

    It was apparent she found the possibilities he had anticipated to be plausible as well. The Interim President of the Russian Federation placed both of her hands on her desk. "Should you be correct, I will have no choice but to bind you over for trial, Dima. Present your case then. Zhirinovsky paused. I can fathom no means of providing for your safety in any case other than protective custody."

    Lyubov felt his expression grow even more serious. I beg your consideration in this regard, madame.

    You are presumed innocent to the conclusion of your court. My people will take it on their honor to deliver you there intact, and your own may oversee your well-being. Another realization then seemed to dawn for his friend. "But your family … what can we do for them?"

    The man who until this morning had headed FSB plucked out the cuffs of his starched dress shirt from inside the sleeves of his tailored jacket. "Those arrangements, Madame President, have been put in place already, I assure you."

    Patryos

    Greek Cyclades

    It was a small island, one which had been the abode of pleasure seekers for centuries. And before that, the Greek fisherfolk who plied the waters of the Aegean had called it home, just as they did yet today. Those families were established on the other side of the island, on the shores opposite this one. Here the beach fronted the whitewashed magnificence of a grand villa, where the opulent structures faced spectacular sunsets. Each evening the estate's buildings framed the distant mainland of Greece, barely visible on the horizon. Between here and there, other islands and pleasure craft dotted the water, sharing lanes with the shipping traffic traveling the sea as it had for millennia.

    Her name was Anastasia Feodorovna Lyubov—Ana to those who loved her and Feodorovna to many more. Following a day of travel to Athens and then a delightful trip via private yacht to this charming island, her family was settling into their first evening here. Already, her grandchildren played in the surf on the white sand beach with their parents—her daughters Lidiya and Marina and sons-in-law Kazimir and Boris—very nearby. It is good for us all to have such a time together at last, she thought. All but one, her inner voice corrected in longing.

    Her dark, auburn hair framed a pale complexion and petite stature. In manner and appearance she was, it was whispered, a manifestation of her Romanov bloodline. The life she now watched frolic on the Patryos beach was the fruition of more than thirty years as the dedicated wife of her husband Dmitry. And those years passed so quickly, she thought again. Her children played in the surf with their own as once did she and her own young man. I miss you, my love.

    Though they had not traveled with the family, Dima's people met them on the ground at Athens International. Their concern for the Lyubov brood was apparent and immediate, and a shuttle to the coast was arranged as soon as the family cleared through Greek customs. Her husband’s business, for reasons she had always accepted, necessarily stayed outside the door of their home in Moscow’s Barrikadnaya District. Here, Ana accepted his prudent dictate that they would be watched. No, not watched. Guarded. My love protects us all, even though he is not here.

    One of their defenders presently approached. He was a newcomer as were most of those who had met the family in Athens. His name was Sidorov, she remembered. Standing barely less than two meters, he must have carried a full ninety kilos of athletic muscle. He had blond hair graying at the temples and pale blue eyes with what so far seemed a perpetually serious expression. His countenance now burned with emotion, she saw in the set of his face … one impossibly tanned for a Muscovite.

    Madame, he greeted her with a disciplined, deferential movement of his head.

    His gesture testified to what must have been a military background of the kind she sensed in so many of her husband’s confidants. Sir, you look positively afire. When he swallowed, nodding, a small sense of concern welled up in Ana’s chest. Will you join me?

    "For a moment only, madame. Sidorov accommodated her as she sat composed. There is news from Moscow, as I have just been made aware."

    News? Ana’s apprehension grew. This will not be good news. What has happened?

    Your husband, madame— Sidorov’s grave expression deepened in a manner Ana Feodorovna would not have thought possible. —he is under arrest on the orders of Interim President Zhirinovsky.

    "Interim President who?" Ana felt her mind turn numb.

    Ulyana Iliyainichna Zhirinovsky, formerly the Chair of the Federation Council, and third in succession to the presidency of the Federation.

    Ana sat up. "What has happened there? With what have they charged Dmitry?"

    Sidorov swallowed again. He is charged with the assassination of the President and Prime Minister just hours ago, madame.

    It cannot be true, she whispered. Her heart, contrary to her tongue, said otherwise as her mind struggled to grasp the situation. Yet … he made provision for us … for all of us … to get us out of Russia in time.

    He has, my lady. Sidorov straightened. His people here, madame ... they are loyal to your husband. I know these men, these women. There is not one who would betray you.

    "I fear not. My husband knows his business, Comrade Sidorov." And it was business delaying him from joining us, as he told me at Sheremetyevo. Ana folded her hands. This was no longer a vacation; the duties of a wife beckoned. Do not tell my children unless we must. She drew a contemplative breath. What, comrade, might we do for him?

    For a moment at a loss for words, Sidorov shook his head. I have every confidence Director Lyubov has everything well in hand, my lady. Our communications are intact with his people in Moscow. When his direction is given, I can assure you we will hear.

    Nodding, Ana smiled. Comrade, may I have your given name, please?

    I am Kirill Sidorov, late a colonel of your husband’s Special Purpose Centre, madame.

    Ana nodded again, gracious with her respect. Thank you on behalf of my husband and my family, Kirill Sidorov. Do please keep me informed.

    Moment by moment, madame, he promised her as he rose. If you will forgive me, I must inform the staff our circumstances have … evolved.

    "Spasiba," she thanked him. As he made a beeline for the nearest of Dmitry’s security officers, Ana reached for her tea, iced in deference to the warm evening. She gathered what confidence she could for the sake of her children. For thirty years, you have believed in him, she determined. You will not fail your man now … or ever.

    Auberon

    Fairfax County, Virginia

    Boone Bradley slithered under the comfortable cotton of the premium sheets on her marriage bed from his side, the sky now lightening in the east. Terry groused and made room for her. His arm accommodated her favored position, under her fiery, auburn locks with her head resting on his strong shoulder. He wore his usual sleeping pants and T-shirt. It did not take him long to realize she wore nothing.

    Mmm, he vocalized. Could it be you … are turning into a morning person?

    With a smile, Boone traced a finger along his unshaven jaw, a sensation she adored. Her face was refreshed from her bout of quiet joy, the tears erased by a dash of cold water. It was not a day for him to ask why she had been crying before sunrise. "This morning I cannot be anything else, mon amour."

    His interest awoke under her hand with all the vigor of a man’s circadian hormones as he stripped off his nightshirt. A few moments later, his bottoms joined it out of sight somewhere in the far corner of the master bedroom.

    Yes, she thought with delight as her own passion, restrained no longer by her patience, was free to build. She kissed his bare chest as his hand found the nape of her neck. A little something before my news.

    It was half an hour before she gave him his respite. When she returned from tending her womanly necessities to the warmed comfort of their bed, naked as before, he was fully awake and appreciating every movement of her toned body.

    "Boone, you are glowing," he observed.

    It’s what they say happens, she answered. Her mind toyed with her presentation.

    Terrence Bain Bradley, her husband and the Director of National Intelligence, propped himself up on the California King’s overstuffed pillows and beckoned her to rejoin him for some recuperative morning closeness. Boone did so gladly.

    I so love the touch of this man … the one who’s given me what I’ve wanted most. Terry, I’ve wonderful news. Under her cheek, she felt his shoulder flex as he lifted his head to glance downward. His gaze caught hers, and she could not help but grin.

    I didn’t hear the radio go off, he said.

    She raised herself to face him. No radio today. Her finger traveled across the muscles of his chest. It’s not a workday. This is something rather more wonderful.

    Boone? His tone grew as suspicious as her grin would allow. "What have you done?"

    "It’s not what I did, Terrence dear. Rather, it’s what you did." At this moment, I love you as much as I can.

    And what did I do? he asked in his Man tone.

    His wonderful, clueless pre-coffee confusion. She kissed him again for the pure joy found in the sensation of his lips on hers. Terrence, you will be the father to my child. Boom. Shock. Joy.

    His face recovered, and then he smiled. "Oh … Boone." As if he could ply from her any more emotion than she had already shed this early Virginia morning, the welling of his eyes created a sympathetic response in her own.

    She clutched him, and he held her, and the moment which Boone Bradley had long held as a dream settled into their life as a reality. Thank God, Thank God for this, she thought again, for this time in the arms of the man I love.

    His hand traveled to her abdomen, just as her own had done in the solitude of the bathroom earlier in the morning I wish you’d told me … before ….

    Her hand joined his. "No worries, my darling man. This mission will screw up our sex life for a while eventually … but for now, at least, I can show you my … full appreciation."

    "Mmph. Rowr," he growled into her ear.

    Round Two, Boone thought with a mischievous curl of her lip. Why not? Whatever his future holds in the world of intelligence, it can wait for him for a little longer.

    Even as she turned, Boone could feel her professional’s performance anxiety building in anticipation of her new assignment:  Agent Mom. I’ll give them both everything I have. You, Terry, and you … whom we do not yet know. My precious little one. My life’s work and my woman’s act of contrition, so help me God.

    Ninety minutes later, the stainless steel-and-granite kitchen smelled of sautéed peppers and mushrooms and rattled with the bustle of breakfast. Boone, able to indulge the culinary arts her duties often precluded, came to the table with her interpretation of a grand breakfast omelet for which neither of them usually had time. We have time enough at this point.

    So this is administrative leave, Terry observed with approval as she placed his wide plate in front of him. He picked up the napkin wrapped around his flatware. Not bad so far, in my opinion.

    Boone settled into her own seat to his right. "If I must say so. She, likewise, prepared to eat. Your first time?"

    In a spotless career, he said with a sigh.

    Sensing a dip in his emotions, Boone encouraged, "Terry, the President has our report … our full report, just as he requested. By his own word, a pardon should be forthcoming."

    If the man follows through. If political pressures don’t force him to rescind. If—

    She reached out and touched his hand, forcing a smile. "Believe, Terrence dear. Boone returned to her breakfast and leveled a portion of salsa across her creation. What we’ve done, what we will do, is not for nothing. She dealt with her first forkful of egg and accompaniment, following up with a sip of juice now standing in for her usual hazelnut coffee. I’ve learned this much, at least."

    Terry ate as she did, without conversation for a while, seeming to Boone as distant … almost fidgety. Detachment syndrome. She lowered her insulated tumbler of vegetable and fruit juices. Missing your Global SITREP, aren’t you?

    Bingo, he admitted with a flash of guilt, shoving his end-game portion around with his fork. Access denied.

    There’s Daddy’s portal if you need a fix, she suggested.

    I can cope. Bradley caught her skeptical expression. "I can, Boone. I can let it go. He lifted his coffee cup. Who knows? I might not have another choice."

    Yes, I know the feeling. My continuing on at State, after being outed to the President as the agent who took down his predecessor’s chief advisor, is going to be challenging at best. Boone considered her response carefully. "It’s just another life task, Terry. Civil matters notwithstanding, we were just and legal. It won’t matter how aesthetically unpalatable our zeroing an out-of-control politico is to the Monday-morning crowd in D.C. She stabbed at the very last of her omelet with her fork. If the President doesn’t like the Level Zero protocol, he can erase it from the books with a stroke of his pen. You and I will be okay regardless of his decision. She smiled at his doubting countenance. Besides, you married well, Terrence dear. You hardly need the work." He’s unconvinced.

    "What I need, Boone, is my reputation … and my pride."

    She cocked her head as he beat her to the finish line. His appetite—all of his appetites—are strong, at least. What you need more should be out by now, dear. You might not have Global SITREP, but you have your iPad.

    Her idea registered with him, and her current-events junkie of a husband took up her suggestion as she finished her food. Terry padded back from the den within a minute, activating his tablet where subscriptions to various news outlet feeds would be waiting.

    Indulge yourself while we have no choice but to wait, you lovely man.

    Over-under on their asking for my resignation?

    Boone sipped her beverage to buy time. I don’t play the odds, was what she finally said. He’s more of a political appointee now than the career intelligence professional who spent the last twenty years keeping this country safe. Odds? The odds of her husband remaining Director of National Intelligence were even at best, and the estimate, Boone admitted to herself, could be only the influence of her newfound optimism. We’ll see, won’t we?

    Pushing her plate away, Boone stated, Whatever will be, Terrence, we will face together. He smiled at the thought, at least. She took up her juice once more and leaned into the table. "Do you want some advice, mon amour?"

    Always, Boone.

    Sipping again, she took her time. Stop wanting it to be over. Situations merge from one to the next. Sometimes better, sometimes worse, but seldom do they have the closure we always crave … particularly in intelligence operations. Boone Bradley grimaced. Besides, it is dangerous to consider anything concluded with the number of actors still in play. Her jaw clenched. "Complete victory is often … elusive."

    It still seems surreal to me, now after I’m in deep, Terry admitted, glancing up at her. How is it you managed to live here so long?

    Her juice was getting low, and Boone tipped her glass to stare down into the last of it. Asking good questions has been the man’s business for years. "It’s something I can’t answer for you, I’m afraid."

    She watched as Terry accessed his news feeds. It was not long until she saw an item gain his complete attention.

    Oh, dear God, he whispered with the blood draining from his face.

    Bloody hell, what is it? Terrence?

    Her husband had no words. He flipped the Apple device around to show her the sensationalized headlines:

    "RUSSIAN GOVERNMENT DECAPITATED

    Head of Federal Security Service Detained

    Constitutional Crisis of Succession Grips Moscow"

    Boone's hand went to her suddenly throbbing skull. Oh, dear God is right! Dmitry, what did you do? Her own tablet, also in the den, had surely finished charging by now. So much for our quiet morning at home.

    Thirty minutes later, the Bradleys’ hunger for information was sated ... if not their compulsive urges for involvement. Terry swiped one last electronic page. Consensus says none of the surviving players have amassed enough political juice to declare themselves the definitive successor.

    My assessment as well, Boone snorted. The mighty have fallen, and their ruthless, ego-driven pursuit of power precluded any thought of grooming the next generation of leadership. Did Dmitry know what he was doing? Unlimited power, it seems, does not equal immortality. Who knew?

    "Sarcasm, Boone."

    A comment on the contrast to our own system, only.

    In Washington, one administration had transitioned to the next relatively smoothly … aided by the bipartisan contrition of the ascended chief executive and the motivation of genuine statesmen, Boone knew.

    Now we’ll find out whether the public will discover how closely the states of flux in Moscow and D.C. are connected, Terry observed.

    Boone nodded, her mind whirling as she continued to digest the news of the day. And how intimately Terry and I and Daddy’s InterLynk operations are intertwined in the situation, as well. Dmitry, Dmitry … whatever have you done to us all?

    Chapter 2 - Crossroads

    The Confidential

    Washington, D.C.

    Three hours later

    She was lunching alone at one of the capital’s most upscale restaurants, just as the anonymous e-mail had informed him she would be. Joshua Auden Hallet strode casually, as if he was about to pass the woman by, while his hostess was leading him to a nearby table. Their privacy was enhanced here above the hubbub of the more frenetic bar taking up the ground floor of the exclusive establishment. Chelsea? he stopped and exclaimed with a grin. Hey! How good to see you!

    The Representative from Florida and Chair of her party’s National Committee, Chelsea Downing, smiled as well. She extended a delicate hand which Hallet took while The Confidential’s hostess waited in polite attendance. Josh! You’re doing lunch?

    Indeed.

    "You must join me."

    The restaurant’s staffer smiled at the two of them. I will have your server bring a menu, sir. Enjoy your meal.

    Thanks so much. Hallet was handsome enough for Washington in his closely cropped beard and full head of hair. Otherwise, he was unremarkable both physically and in stature. He nodded at the departing woman in taking his seat. Once they were restored to the relative seclusion Downing's status afforded her, his attention returned to the power player enjoying a plate of what appeared to be the midday menu’s duck curry.

    Chelsea's eyes diverted to his, and her playacting for the sake of the restaurant’s people dropped its temperature a degree or two. So, tell me, Joshua ... how are you settling in at the Shop?

    It was a good question. Just south of the Capitol building, with its easy access to the halls of power, was the National Committee headquarters. Inside the modern, concrete office building, swirls and eddies of political juice swept in and sometimes submerged the unready. As he was the newest aide to the Committee Chair in fact if not documentation, plenty of other up-and-coming graduates from Harvard and Yale were watching and waiting to see if Hallet would sink or swim in his new environment.

    And if nothing else, my background made me well able to tread water. Everyone has been very supportive so far, he lied. The silverware on his side of the table, bundled in a napkin, was canted slightly away from the edge of their table. He reached for it and straightened the oversight.

    His response seemed to be what Chelsea—as she had insisted he call her since his first interview—wanted to hear. "I’m

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