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

morning, General,” was the chorus as usual.
    He waved his access card at the reader near the discreet weapons lockbox now mounted next to his office doors. They released immediately. He turned the handle, holding the panel open as his foot flipped the door stop down. Settling into place, Caroline’s assistants were themselves preparing for the opening of business at 0800. Their boss and the president of the firm sipped from the travel mug he brought with him on a chauffeured ride from his lakeside home. His Jamaican blend, now cooled enough to consume, evoked a satisfied sound from him as Caroline started another pot of the brew proving every bit as good once he got around to it.
    “Everybody ready for a weekend?” he inquired of the troops. The noises indicating consensual agreement were his reward. Thereby satisfied his people felt attended and appreciated, McAllen took a step to the conference table as the overhead lighting in his office activated. Setting down his mug, he removed his winter coat and hung it on the back of his office door. Let’s see what the world has been up to overnight. It can’t be anything too damn bad if it didn’t wake anyone up.
    He logged in, and his computer responded with only enough of a delay to allow another swallow of brain rations. His working windows automatically populated a quad-array of multiple LCD panels a short time afterward. Habitually, McAllen scrolled down the list of messages in his Inbox. Once the highlighted items ceased to appear, he moved back up the subject lines almost as quickly, scanning for any item he felt might have been inappropriately prioritized.
    The excitement in Egypt had generated a number of submissions, but as McAllen had heard from the morning news reports on the way in, the situation in Cairo resolved in a positive manner. There’s always another chance tonight. And the night after. The necessity of the intelligence sector’s vigilance never diminished, and McAllen was familiar enough with human nature to accept such as his permanent reality.
    Finally returning to the top of the stack, McAllen noticed the lead item, its significance initially missed. This line featured a flag icon bearing a different color than usual, signifying it had not passed through the usual InterLynk screening process. The missive had been delivered, per his electronic instruction, directly to his Inbox. The account name was a blind as were all the usual identifiers associated with this particular InterLynk user. There was Top Secret, and then there was Black, and then there was whatever classification was appropriate to the arrangement between Peter McAllen and Dmitry Gennadyevich Lyubov.
    “Well, hullo, comrade,” McAllen murmured in a tone so low someone standing beside his desk would have had trouble hearing him. He clicked on the submission, noting via the time stamp his missed opportunity to have observed the item pop in, had he been running only a couple minutes ahead of his morning routine. What’s got you choking on your tea this frosty morning, Dmitry? McAllen sipped his own preferred brew as he began to read.
    “Comrade General McAllen:  I trust this message will find you well after your country’s recent election, and earnestly hope for the mutual sake of your country and my own it arrives without any interception.”
    “So far, so good, Comrade Director,” the General muttered to his diminishing beverage.
    “I regret being forced to inform you of an extremely disturbing development, of which I was made aware only this morning through our highest authority. You are doubtless mindful of the politicization early this year of the subject of missile defense technology by your President, highlighted by his failure to anticipate monitoring by the press. I can confirm an unfortunate circumstance; following the outcome of your election process, plans to balance the level of capability between our two nations are apparently coming to fruition. Unfortunately,