Read Online One Last Scent of Jasmine (Boone's File Book 3) by Dale Amidei - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Dale Amidei
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starts. He recognized the need to get through this meeting. And then I will need to act as quickly as I am able.
Almost an hour later, Lyubov—the man who directed the most significant remnant of his country's post-KGB intelligence infrastructure—was back in his own car. He traveled the reverse of the route which had brought him to the seat of power in the Russian Federation. In the best of times, the scope of his influence demanded he exercise care in how he approached his superiors. And these circumstances have transitioned far from those.
He passed the historic headquarters of Lubyanka Square en route to his own domain in a more advanced command facility some distance farther across the city. Dmitry Lyubov was not so proud as to delude himself against the feelings assaulting him. He was shaken by the implications of what he had just observed.
It was more than personal ambition . Such a trait certainly was no surprise in a man such as the President, who had wrested control of Russia away from an irresolute citizenry. The people were, undeniably, either unwilling or unable to hold onto the responsibility to direct their own lives after the fall of communism under Gorbachev.
The country is led by those who once again hold geopolitical aspirations . How many times must a nation learn the same lesson? Lyubov knew the answer, of course. As many times as there are generations to learn and be followed by the ones who forget.
As seen through the eyes of the Director of the FSB, the duty of Russia's leaders was relatively straightforward: maintain the integrity of the borders and provide for the welfare of her citizens. Militarism feeds no one except the voracious gods of war, and the Rodina has already fattened those gluttons enough.
Lyubov, as his car entered the underground garage of his headquarters, ruminated on the enormity of his isolation in this sentiment. He trusted few enough in any event. In this matter—only his conscience would not label his thoughts as treasonous—he was utterly alone. I do not even know what is about to happen. I cannot stop what will occur. The most I can do is provide a warning … but to whom?
The Director mulled over the question as his car was secured, and his escorts prepared to accompany him back into the intelligence hub housing his offices. The American intelligence organs are controlled by the executive offices, some elements of which are obviously complicit in the effort. Any alert anonymously pointed their way would only be—in a best-case scenario—ignored. At the worst, Lyubov knew, such a betrayal would be subject to analysis, and his identity would become known. It would accomplish nothing … but to put me into the frozen ground next to the body of my former rival Grigory Sergeyevich Skripochka.
He was in his office by the time his only rational course of action became apparent. If I cannot inform the government of the United States directly, then I can confide in an American who will hold as much concern for the situation. And you know only one such man whom you can trust this much.
Reaching out to his computer keyboard, Lyubov unlocked his workstation, afterward bringing up the secure browsing options bypassing the oversight of his official Internet access. He withdrew a tiny USB drive from behind his lapel and plugged it into an available port on the side of his monitor. Once the drive was in place, a start-up routine initiated, the product of which was an English-language application in the dialogue window in front of him. Dmitry Lyubov logged into the InterLynk portal with a user name and password which had never been and would never be written down anywhere, even in code. General McAllen, I hope you are there.
Chapter 5 - Fade to Black
InterLynk Home Offices
Geneva, Switzerland
One hour behind Moscow
“Good morning, Caroline, and everyone,” General Peter McAllen greeted his lead admin assistant and her pool on the way in.
“Good
Almost an hour later, Lyubov—the man who directed the most significant remnant of his country's post-KGB intelligence infrastructure—was back in his own car. He traveled the reverse of the route which had brought him to the seat of power in the Russian Federation. In the best of times, the scope of his influence demanded he exercise care in how he approached his superiors. And these circumstances have transitioned far from those.
He passed the historic headquarters of Lubyanka Square en route to his own domain in a more advanced command facility some distance farther across the city. Dmitry Lyubov was not so proud as to delude himself against the feelings assaulting him. He was shaken by the implications of what he had just observed.
It was more than personal ambition . Such a trait certainly was no surprise in a man such as the President, who had wrested control of Russia away from an irresolute citizenry. The people were, undeniably, either unwilling or unable to hold onto the responsibility to direct their own lives after the fall of communism under Gorbachev.
The country is led by those who once again hold geopolitical aspirations . How many times must a nation learn the same lesson? Lyubov knew the answer, of course. As many times as there are generations to learn and be followed by the ones who forget.
As seen through the eyes of the Director of the FSB, the duty of Russia's leaders was relatively straightforward: maintain the integrity of the borders and provide for the welfare of her citizens. Militarism feeds no one except the voracious gods of war, and the Rodina has already fattened those gluttons enough.
Lyubov, as his car entered the underground garage of his headquarters, ruminated on the enormity of his isolation in this sentiment. He trusted few enough in any event. In this matter—only his conscience would not label his thoughts as treasonous—he was utterly alone. I do not even know what is about to happen. I cannot stop what will occur. The most I can do is provide a warning … but to whom?
The Director mulled over the question as his car was secured, and his escorts prepared to accompany him back into the intelligence hub housing his offices. The American intelligence organs are controlled by the executive offices, some elements of which are obviously complicit in the effort. Any alert anonymously pointed their way would only be—in a best-case scenario—ignored. At the worst, Lyubov knew, such a betrayal would be subject to analysis, and his identity would become known. It would accomplish nothing … but to put me into the frozen ground next to the body of my former rival Grigory Sergeyevich Skripochka.
He was in his office by the time his only rational course of action became apparent. If I cannot inform the government of the United States directly, then I can confide in an American who will hold as much concern for the situation. And you know only one such man whom you can trust this much.
Reaching out to his computer keyboard, Lyubov unlocked his workstation, afterward bringing up the secure browsing options bypassing the oversight of his official Internet access. He withdrew a tiny USB drive from behind his lapel and plugged it into an available port on the side of his monitor. Once the drive was in place, a start-up routine initiated, the product of which was an English-language application in the dialogue window in front of him. Dmitry Lyubov logged into the InterLynk portal with a user name and password which had never been and would never be written down anywhere, even in code. General McAllen, I hope you are there.
Chapter 5 - Fade to Black
InterLynk Home Offices
Geneva, Switzerland
One hour behind Moscow
“Good morning, Caroline, and everyone,” General Peter McAllen greeted his lead admin assistant and her pool on the way in.
“Good
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