by Vince Flynn
Rapp took the mug and turned to face Charlie, who was looking up at him with his big brown eyes. He had an expectant smile on his sloppy, food-caked lips. “Sorry, little man. I was getting to you.” Rapp bent over and kissed the top of his head. When he straightened up he looked at Rory, who was sitting on the other side of the table. The thirteen-year-old had a plate of Pop Tarts and an open book in front of him. “How’d it go last weekend?”
Rory looked up with a barely concealed grin. “We won all three matches.”
Without looking away from the TV, Jack said, “He had fourteen goals. No one could stop him.”
“Nice,” Rapp said. Rory was a phenomenal athlete. Rapp had been an All-American lacrosse star at Syracuse and took great joy in watching Rory play. The kid was a man child on the pitch and had the potential to play at the highest levels.
“We play again Saturday,” Rory said, dropping a hint.
“Great . . . I’ll try to make it.” Rapp turned his attention away from the kids to Mr. Sourpuss, who was standing on the other side of the kitchen. “Irene wanted me to pick you up.” He checked his watch. “She wants us to get there early so we can go over a few things.”
“I can drive myself,” Nash said gruffly.
“Still pouting, I see.”
Maggie cleared her throat extra-loud and said, “Come on, kids. Let’s go. It’s time to load up.” She took a washcloth to Charlie’s face and then unhooked and plucked him out of the chair. She handed him off to Rapp and said, “He needs to be dropped off at day care. Make sure Grumpy gets the car seat from the back of the van.” She kissed Charlie and Mitch and then walked over to her husband, kissed him, and said, “I love you. Be safe and have a great day. I’ll call you later.”
Thirty seconds later she was gone with the kids and Rapp was standing in the kitchen with Charlie in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other. Nash was leaning against the far counter looking at Rapp as if he was trying to figure out if he could take a swing at him and not hurt Charlie.
Nash took a sip of coffee and said, “I have a bruise on my chest.”
This wasn’t Rapp’s thing—handling people with kid gloves. He was tempted to put Charlie back in the high chair and kick his dad’s ass, but that would be a little shortsighted. The only thing that mattered today was getting Nash to the White House. Rapp swallowed his pride, ignored every code he’d ever learned about leading warriors, and said, “I’m sorry. I wish it hadn’t come to that.”
“Come to that . . . that’s your apology.”
Rapp sighed. “Listen . . . let’s talk in the car. There are some things I need to say to you, and . . .”
“And what?”
“When was the last time your house was swept?”
“Probably a month ago.”
“We’ll talk in the car.” Rapp’s word was final.
They left through the side door. Nash handed Rapp a diaper bag and walked over to the two-car detached garage to grab the car seat. Charlie saw the neighbor’s cat and about jumped out of Rapp’s arms. He pointed and bounced and yelled and when none of that worked he grabbed a fist full of Rapp’s hair and gave it a good yank. Rapp was so amused by the kid’s determination that he just laughed.
Once Nash had finished wrestling with the car seat, they strapped Charlie in and were off. Nash didn’t speak for the first minute. When they got to Glebe Road, Rapp said, “I know you’re mad at me, but you have to tell me where we’re going.”
“We’re going to the Dirksen Senate Office Building. You know where it is.”
Rapp thought, Holy cow, he really is losing his mind. Then he jerked his head toward the backseat and said, “Charlie’s day care.”
“Oh, take a left.”
Rapp pulled onto Glebe and said, “Listen . . . I’m not the easiest guy to work with, and neither is Stan, but you have to take a little ownership in this.”
“In what?” Nash asked, obviously irritated.
“You think I knocked you on your ass yesterday because I’m frustrated with my job?”
“Maybe.”
Rapp shook his head. “I’ve known you for how long . . . and I haven’t once laid a hand you . . . other than that time in the Kush when I dragged your shot-up ass out of the line of fire.” Rapp looked sideways at Nash. “It’d be nice if you kept that one in mind before you condemned me to hell.”
Nash shook his head and looked out the passenger-side window.
Rapp scoffed. “That’s it. You’ve got no reply to that one. I risked my ass to save your ungrateful ass and you’ve got nothing to say.”
“I knew you were going to hold that one over my head for the rest of my life.”
“That’s usually the way it works when you save someone’s life, Mike. To tell you the truth I didn’t think about it until yesterday. When you were being so unreasonable.”
“Unreasonable . . . me?”
“That’s right, Mike. You’re a professional. You know better than anyone that in this day and age you can’t say shit, because it might get recorded. But that didn’t stop you from coming unhinged yesterday. I warned you twice, but you just kept on.”
“And then you hit me.”
“You’re damn right I did, and I’d do it again. This shit is bigger than you and me, and you knew that when you signed up. You were the one who came to me and said you were sick of fighting a war with one hand tied behind your back.”
Nash was silent for a few blocks. Charlie hummed away in the backseat and then finally Nash said, “I’m not ungrateful, but I’m not going to throw my conscience out the window. You have no right . . . Stan has no right to—”
“Easy,” Rapp said, cutting him off. “Slow down before you make a fool of yourself again. I’m not asking you to sell your soul.”
“Well it sure does seem like it.”
“Just hear me out for a minute. I spoke with Stan and filled him in on your situation.”
“Great,” Nash moaned. “I suppose you told him you knocked me on my ass.”
“I did.”
“Crap. I’m never going to hear the end of this.”
“Probably not, but that’s not what’s important.”
Nash stared straight ahead. “What did he say?”
“He said the fact that I was able to knock you on your ass with one palm strike is all the proof he needs that you need to take a sabbatical.”
Nash was a state high school wrestling champ in Pennsylvania and had boxed in the Marine Corps. His little altercation with Rapp had been the shortest fight of his life. His sternum hurt like hell, and his ego was ten times worse. “Yeah . . . well, I haven’t had a lot of sleep lately.”
Rapp could have made any one of a dozen retorts but none of them would have been helpful. This morning wasn’t about winning the argument and getting a stubborn friend to do the impossible, which was to admit he’d been wrong. It was about advancing the ball toward the goal line. “All of us have been under a lot of stress lately. You probably more than most of us. Chris was your guy. The way he was taken out really sucked, and then there was Jessica and the rest of the folks you knew in the NCTC. Stan’s never set foot in the place, and I don’t get in there very often, but you knew those people. I’m not a heartless bastard. I understand why you’re a little messed up, but in this line of work, there’s no coddling. You need to take a few weeks off . . . take ’em, but you have to honor your promises and keep your mouth shut.”
“And if I take a week off and I still disagree with you and Stan, where does that leave us? Do I just ignore my conscience and let you guys do something that I think is a mistake?”
“No,” Rapp said. “In fact, I think Stan has a solution.”
“Let me guess . . . it involves a Kimber 1911 and a wood chipper.”
“No.” Rapp shook his head and smiled at the visual. “He’s says it’s your call.”
“What’s my call?” Nash asked with a frown.
“Whether that unethical bastard ever sees daylight aga
in.”
“Bullshit.”
“Nope . . . Stan says he’s sick of doing all the heavy lifting. Says he’s sick of you bitching about the size of the hole.”
“The size of the hole?” Nash asked, not understanding what Hurley meant.
“Yep . . . he says it’s your turn to grab a shovel and start digging. He’s done. He says it’s your call.”
“My call about what?”
“On what we’re going to do with that rat bastard who leaked our operation. The one that got Chris Johnson killed and quite possibly another 187 Americans.”
Nash turned his head slowly and looked out the window. His thoughts turned to Chris Johnson. The retired Army Ranger had been Nash’s first recruit. The twenty-nine-year-old had gone completely off the grid, for nearly a year, while he infiltrated one of D.C.’s most radical mosques. He was on the verge of exposing the cell that had pulled off the attacks only a week ago, when a story appeared in the Post that accused the CIA of illegally running surveillance on a half dozen East Coast mosques. The day after the article appeared, Johnson was discovered, tortured and killed by the Lion of al Qaeda and his merry band of terrorists.
Without looking at Rapp he asked, “When do you want my decision?”
“Stan says you have a good week before we’re done with the debriefing.”
A week, Nash thought. Seven lousy days to decide a man’s fate. A man whom he hated. What in the hell had he gotten himself into?
CHAPTER 49
CAPITOL HILL
SENATOR Barbara Lonsdale walked down the broad hallway of the Dirksen Senate Office Building and stopped at a nondescript door. She tapped on it once with her dainty hand and then entered. Mitch Rapp was in the corner talking to Irene Kennedy and Mike Nash was in the other corner talking to a couple of Langley’s legal eagles. All five stopped and turned their attention to the outgoing chairman of the Judiciary Committee. In one week’s time Lonsdale’s entire bearing had changed. Rapp likened it to the conversion of a New York limousine liberal who gets mugged and then the next day tears up her ACLU card, buys a gun, and joins the neighborhood watch group.
Lonsdale looked at the two lawyers and said, “Gentlemen, would you please excuse us for a minute?”
The lawyers looked to Kennedy to see if it was okay. The CIA director gave her consent with a nod.
“Why don’t you go into the committee room,” Lonsdale advised. “We’ll be starting any minute.”
The two men picked up their briefcases and left through the door opposite the one through which Lonsdale had just entered.
Once they were gone and the door was closed Lonsdale slapped a plain white envelope against her hand and said, “Well . . . this is it.”
“Are you sure you want to go through with it?” Kennedy asked. Lonsdale had made a deal to resign her chairmanship of Judiciary in return for control of the Intelligence Committee.
Without hesitation Lonsdale said, “Yes.”
Rapp said, “It’s not too late.” He still wasn’t convinced she couldn’t do them more good staying right where she was.
“I’ll still be on the committee, so I can keep an eye on things.”
“But you won’t be in control,” Rapp said.
Lonsdale smiled. “I’ll still have my seniority. I’ll be one chair over from the gavel. I know this committee better than anyone. The staff is loyal to me. They all liked Ralph.” Her voice trailed off at the mention of her chief of staff, who had been killed in the explosion at the Monocle along with seven senators and a whole bunch of high-level staffers, lawyers, and lobbyists.
“The looneys on the far left are already beating you up,” Nash chimed in. “A couple of them have started raising money to challenge you in your next primary.”
“It’s America. They have every right to do it and I have every right to ignore them. Listening to the idiots is what got me into this mess.”
“I’m just saying this isn’t going to be easy for you,” Nash said. “We could have been a little more subtle about it. Having them think you were still their champion might not have been the worst move.”
Lonsdale dismissed his concerns with the wave of a hand. “Those people will never be happy. And besides, playing the game of double agent isn’t my style. I’m better out front drawing fire. It’s where I shine. If people want to criticize you three, they’re going to have to come through me first, or at least expect that I will come back at them fast and furious.”
This stuff was difficult to quantify for Rapp. On some level he knew it mattered, but at the end of the day it was all a bunch of words. He said so, and Lonsdale replied by saying, “Words mean a lot in this town, and don’t forget, I’m not the only senator who has undergone this conversion under fire. Others have gravitated to a similar position. I’m not alone. Besides,” she said in a more upbeat tone, “I can handle it. Missouri might be a blue state, but we’re big on defense. In light of recent developments I think my constituents will understand why I changed my position.”
“I think it’s a good move, Barb,” Kennedy said. “The press will not be able to ignore that one of the CIA’s most steadfast critics has now become a champion of the Agency. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Now,” she said as she checked her watch, “we’re due to start in two minutes. Here’s the lay of the land. I’ve spoken to twelve of the nineteen members.” She caught herself. Two of her fellow committee members had been killed in the attack on the Monocle. “Twelve of the seventeen members. Only three that I can think of are planning to make a real stink about this. Maybe five at the most.”
Rapp said, “Let me guess . . . Ogden?”
“She’s leading the charge,” Lonsdale said. Ogden was the senior senator from California. “As you know, this will be a closed meeting, but we all know how that works. This small block of dissenters will begin to selectively leak their side of the story as soon as the meeting is over, so be careful what you say in there. Don’t admit to anything that could lead to a referral to the Justice Department. I’ve already signed an affidavit that backs up your story.” With a shrug she added, “If Senator Ogden and her little cabal want to side with a terrorist . . . well that’s a fight I don’t think they will win in this climate, but we still have to be careful.”
Lonsdale covered a few more things and then said, “You should head in. I’ll follow shortly.” As the group began to move toward the door Lonsdale said, “Mitch, hang back for a second. I want to talk to you about something.”
Rapp stopped and waited as Lonsdale walked around the far side of the conference table. As she drew near she took the white envelope she’d been holding and handed it over to Rapp. He took it and asked, “What’s this?”
“Call it opposition research.”
“On who?”
“Senator Ogden.”
Rapp opened the envelope and pulled out three sheets of paper. He scanned the lines. “What’s this?”
“Her prepared remarks.”
Rapp was impressed. “How the hell did you get these?”
“Senators weren’t the only people who were killed in the attack on the Monocle. Nine staffers also died. We’re a close-knit group.”
“One of her people gave it to you?”
Lonsdale nodded. “You’ll have time to read it while we get things started. The first two sheets are her remarks. The third is something I prepared for you. It’s something that Ralph used to point out to me on a regular basis. Call it a glaring example of hypocrisy. You might find it useful in taking some of the wind out of Ogden’s sails.”
Rapp scanned the first and second pages. His name jumped out at him a few times. He had to hand it to the senator from San Francisco. She wasn’t going to back down a bit. Even in the wake of the attacks. He scanned the third page with a bit of surprise. “This is all accurate?”
“Yep.”
“Interesting.”
Lonsdale patted him on the arm. “I’m sure you will put it to good use. Now if you�
�ll excuse me, I need to get things started.”
CHAPTER 50
THE seventeen members sat behind the big horseshoe-shaped wooden bench. Since it was a closed meeting only a skeleton crew of staffers were seated behind them. Rapp thought they appeared a little more solemn than normal. Even Ogden looked somewhat mournful. She looked over the top of her reading glasses and made eye contact with Rapp. There was neither joy nor malice in her expression. Just a cold, calculated appraisal. The two had never been fond of each other, and Rapp was in no way delusional enough to think it was solely her fault. He had never given any of them the respect they were used to being accorded. He had managed to stay off the Judiciary Committee’s radar for nearly a decade and a half, but then he was involved in a series of high-profile incidents that garnered far too much interest. For the past two years it seemed that the committee had placed a bull’s-eye on his back. He had become the white-hot example of everything that was wrong with the War on Terror, at least as far as Senator Ogden was concerned.