by Vince Flynn
Rapp thought of their next meeting. “You should ask him when we get to the White House. I jumped on the grenade in there,” Rapp jerked his head back toward the committee room, “you handle the next one.”
Nash thought about it for a while and said, “Maybe I will.”
“Don’t hold your breath. I’ve been waiting to get one for years.”
Kennedy joined them in the hallway, and as she pulled up, she shot Rapp a look and said, “That was interesting.”
“Sure was,” Nash said.
“I think we can count on the committee dropping the issue.”
“What about Ogden?” Rapp asked. “Who cares,” Nash said. “You destroyed her.”
“She can still make trouble for us,” Kennedy warned.
“Yeah . . . she’ll be back to fight another day,” Rapp said. “She has to. Either that or admit she’s wrong, and she’s been drinking the Kool-Aid for way too long to admit that.”
“You were lucky in there,” Kennedy said.
“Lucky?” Nash scoffed.
“I know,” Rapp said.
“I don’t think luck had anything to do with it. If it was a prize fight they would have called it after the first round.”
“What Irene means is that under normal circumstances, they would have never let me get away with that. They would have shouted me down, and if it wasn’t for Lonsdale’s conversion there’s no way in hell I would have gotten away with it.”
Kennedy looked at Rapp and said, “I’ve never seen anything like it in my nearly twenty-five years. They’re scared to death.” She looked back down the hall at the doors to the committee room and in near-disbelief said, “Your friend from Illinois.”
“The one who likes to call us Nazis.”
“Yes. He just pulled me aside and told me whatever I want, just ask for it. He told me to take your leash off and turn you loose.”
“Unbelievable. The guy’s been busting my balls for two years. Thousands of people die in the Towers and the Pentagon, and planes fall out of the sky, and he wants me to Mirandize every piece of crap I come across. Now it hits a little closer to home and all of a sudden we need to take the gloves off and throw away the rule book. God . . . they’re the most egocentric fuckers on the planet.”
“Yeah . . . well, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth,” Kennedy said. “Isn’t this what you wanted?”
“Yeah,” Rapp snarled. “It’d just be nice if they did it for a reason other than self- preservation.”
“Well,” Kennedy said, “sometimes you have to take what you can get. Just be happy they didn’t launch an investigation. You could spend the next year sitting in conference rooms drinking weak coffee and eating stale doughnuts talking to lawyers.”
“You’re right.”
“All right,” Kennedy said while checking her watch, “we can’t keep the president waiting.”
The three of them walked down the hallway. Two of Kennedy’s bodyguards fell in, one in front and one in back. Nash asked his boss, “What does the president want?”
Kennedy stole a quick glance at Rapp and then said to Nash, “I have no idea. We’ll find out when we get there.”
Rapp and Nash parted ways with their boss and went down the back stairs to where Rapp’s car was parked. C Street was closed on this side of the building and his car was parked in one of the diagonal spots. He paused at his door with his keys in hand and looked across the boulevard at the teams of special agents combing through the debris of what had been one of Washington’s most famous restaurants. The place looked more like an archeological dig than a crime scene. The big parking lot had been divided into more than a dozen sections separated by crime scene tape and orange cones. Agents were sifting through the debris with shovels and by hand. A crane was parked off to the side, just in case, but most of the heavy stuff had already been removed from the pile.
The FBI was looking for clues. Sifting through every pile of debris. This was where they excelled—gathering evidence and building a case. Finding a latent fingerprint on a detonator, tracing the detonator back to the manufacturer, and then following it every step of the way right back to who used it to commit murder. They would spend years building their case, and then as much as a decade trying to convince some foreign government to turn the individuals over. It would be a slow, tedious process.
Rapp shook his head and realized why the president wanted him to expedite things. In this particular situation he wouldn’t play the role of judge and jury, but he would gladly play the role of executioner. He got into the car, started it up and backed out. As they drove over the pop-up security barricade and took a right onto Second Street Rapp listened to a voicemail Coleman had left him. At Constitution he took another right.
A block and a half later Rapp was thinking of Coleman’s voicemail when he asked Nash, “You ever seen a shrink?” He knew Nash would think the question was a little out of bounds so he quickly added, “Irene’s been trying to get me to see one.”
“You probably should,” Nash answered without giving anything away.
“I did right after Anna was murdered. Didn’t go so well.”
Nash gave him a sideways glance. “No . . . I imagine it didn’t.”
“What in the hell is that supposed to mean?” Rapp said with a self-deprecating laugh.
“Guys like us aren’t very good at discussing our feelings. I don’t have anything against it. I think therapy can do a lot of good, but I also think a lot of people use it as a crutch.”
“Yeah . . . I suppose Maggie thinks it’s good. Anna used to try to get me to do it. Said it would be a fair way for us to resolve some of our issues.”
“Maggie says the same thing. I know she has someone she goes to from time to time. She doesn’t say much about it other than she thinks it would be good for me to sit down and talk to someone.”
Rapp turned onto Pennsylvania Avenue and added, “Our security clearance doesn’t exactly allow us to do that.”
“That’s what I keep telling her.”
Rapp was half tempted to tell him about Coleman’s message. Apparently Doc Lewis wasn’t the only shrink they had put under surveillance. Max Johnson had told Coleman that Adams had directed him to follow Maggie Nash and see what he could dig up. When he found out she was seeing a therapist twice a month, he ordered Johnson to bug the office. Mitch knew he couldn’t tell Nash, though. At least not today. He needed to get him to the White House and let him have his moment. Afterward, he would be sure to tell Nash all the sordid details before he made his decision on Adams’s fate.
They entered the White House grounds via the southwest gate and pulled into one of the visitor spots on West Executive Avenue. They handed their guns to the uniformed Secret Service officer who checked them in on the ground floor just around the corner from the Situation Room. He placed them in a locked drawer and handed them claim tickets. Rapp looked at the sign-in sheet and was pleased to see Kennedy was already here. Her security detail would have buzzed over from Capitol Hill without stopping for lights.
They walked down the short hallway and when Nash turned to the right to go to the Situation Room, Rapp grabbed his arm and said, “We’re upstairs today.”
“Where?” Nash asked in surprise. He didn’t do a lot of briefings at the White House, and none so far with this president, but when he did they were always down in the Situation Room.
“Not sure,” Rapp lied. He started up the stairs and hoped no one was loitering in the halls. This was all a bit like delivering the honoree to a surprise party. When they got to the main floor they took a U-turn and headed down the hall past the Cabinet Room. Straight ahead two big Secret Service agents in dark suits stood post outside the main door to the Oval Office. Each agent widened his stance a bit and tracked the two visitors with unblinking eyes.
Rapp knew having a couple of guys like him and Nash in the building always put these guys on edge. He locked eyes with the one on the left and said, “Gentlemen.”
They nodded, but said nothing. Rapp hung a left just before he got to them and ducked into an outer office where the president’s administrative assistant sat. He looked at the woman behind the desk and said, “Good morning, Teresa. I have Mr. Nash here to see the president.”
“He’s expecting you. Go right in.”
“Thanks.” Rapp moved to his right and stopped at the door. He stuck his left eye up against the peephole and took in the scene. They were all there—Maggie, Shannon, Rory, Jack, and Charlie, as well as most, if not all, of the president’s National Security team and the requisite pool reporters. Rapp smiled to himself, opened the door, motioned for Nash to go in first, and then as soon as Nash had crossed the threshold, Rapp closed the door behind him and put his eye back to the peephole.
CHAPTER 52
MIKE Nash stopped as if he’d just stepped into a foot of thick wet cement and looked at the smiling faces staring back at him. Some he’d never met, but recognized, and a few he knew intimately. He heard the door behind him click shut and he whipped his head around, expecting to share his surprise with Rapp. Instead, he found himself alone, staring at the door, and in that split second he realized he’d been set up. He felt his face flush with embarrassment and for a brief moment considered leaving, but knew he couldn’t. As badly as he wanted to, it would be against everything the Marine Corps had taught him about being an officer. Leaders gritted their teeth and took it, while cowards ran. As he slowly turned around, he felt he would rather have taken on an enemy platoon than this crowd.
They were all smiling, and some of them weren’t exactly known for having a happy-go-lucky demeanor. There was the secretary of defense, secretary of state, national security advisor, director of national intelligence, FBI director, chairman of the Joint Chiefs, a few people he didn’t recognize but was sure were important, his boss, and the biggest surprise of all, his family. They were all assembled in perhaps the world’s most famous office, all eyes on him, his wife holding Charlie and blushing almost as much as her husband.
It all started to fall into place. Maggie picking out his suit, shirt, and tie, which she rarely did, making sure the kids were all bathed and in clean uniforms, and Rapp—that Judas—distracting and then delivering him like some suburban Joe to his surprise fortieth birthday party. Despite his discomfort and the bad thoughts coursing through his brain about what he’d like to do to Rapp, Nash was still smiling from ear to ear. He had no idea why, but he felt like a jackass. Everyone else was grinning back at him, nodding to each other in recognition that the surprise had worked. Nash made a promise to himself right on the spot that however long it took he would get even with Rapp.
“Mr. Nash,” the president said as he walked across his own office. “I was just informed that this is a bit of a surprise to you.”
Nash tried to speak but his mouth was too dry, so he just nodded and took the president’s extended hand. Irene Kennedy was suddenly at President Alexander’s side.
“I’m sorry, Mike, but we knew you would never have gone along with this if you’d known in advance.”
Nash licked his lips and croaked, “What exactly am I going along with?”
“This,” the president said, “is a medal ceremony. For your bravery under fire last week.”
Nash looked past his boss and the president and smiled awkwardly at his wife and kids. Off to his right someone began snapping photos, which for an intelligence officer was a close second to someone shooting at you with a large- caliber gun. “Is that a reporter?” he asked nervously.
“Yes,” the president said.
“But I’m Non-Official Cover,” Nash protested. “I can’t have my photo taken.”
“Don’t worry about it,” the president continued casually, “you’re being promoted.”
“Enjoy it, Mike,” Kennedy said, “Very few of us get this chance.”
“What chance?” Nash asked out of the side of his mouth.
“Receiving an award in the Oval Office.” The president stepped aside and placed a hand on Nash’s elbow. “Usually, you guys have to die to get something like this. Relax and enjoy it.”
“I’m not sure I want it,” Nash muttered.
“Nonsense. The CIA could use a little boost in morale . . . Hell after last week, we all could.” The president started walking Nash toward his family. “Your wife is lovely, and so are your kids. They’re very proud of you.”
Kennedy grabbed his other arm. “We’re all proud of you, Mike. You deserve a little recognition.”
Nash turned to Kennedy and snarled, “What about Mitch?”
Kennedy looked straight ahead and said, “We’ll talk about that later. Just try to relax and enjoy.”
Nash wanted to talk about it now, but his wife was already moving toward him with the kids. Nash was still trying to figure out how Rapp had gotten out of this when he noticed the tears in his wife’s eyes. His anger toward Rapp was shoved aside as Maggie reached up and planted one on his lips. Charlie, the cussed little towhead, managed to wiggle out of his mother’s arms and latch on to his dad. The other three kids all came up for a hug, and then it was on to the individual members of the president’s National Security team. It took a good five minutes to get through all the handshakes and backslapping. By the time the rounds were done Nash was feeling considerably better.
When they got down to the actual medal ceremony, Nash handed Charlie back to Shannon, his fifteen-year-old, and Maggie took her position on his right side in front of the celebrated fireplace. Things turned serious when Kennedy handed the president the citation and opened the blue velvet box. As the president read the words aloud, Nash felt as if he were having an out-of-body experience.
“On behalf of a grateful nation it is my honor to present to you the highest award achievable by a member of the intelligence community, the Distinguished Intelligence Cross, for a voluntary act of extraordinary heroism involving the acceptance of existing dangers with conspicuous fortitude and exemplary courage.” The president paused and looked at Nash and Maggie and smiled. “Thank you for your dedication, service, and sacrifice. Your decisive and brave actions during the terrorist attack on the National Counterterrorism Center saved the lives of countless individuals. You stand before us as a living, breathing example of honor, valor, and heroism. This great nation will forever be in your debt, and we hope that future generations of Americans will look to your actions for inspiration during turbulent times.”
Kennedy presented the medal to Maggie, who took it from the silk-lined case as if it were an ancient family heirloom. She gently looped it over her husband’s head and kissed him on the cheek. Next came photos. Lots of them. First as a group and then individual shots and then finally the Nash family. When they were all finished Nash was in for one more surprise.
The president approached him and said, “Director Kennedy thinks it would be a good idea if your family stayed in here while we step outside.”
Nash wasn’t quite following, but he got the sense it wasn’t good. “What’s outside?”
The president glanced toward the glass door just behind and to the left of his desk. “The press. They’re waiting for us.”
You would have thought the president had asked him to address the nation. “I don’t do press, sir.”
Kennedy appeared on cue along with Secretary of State Wicka and Secretary of Defense England. Wicka said, “Nonsense. You’re exactly what we need right now. A good-looking hero.”
“And a retired Marine officer,” England added. “Don’t forget that part.”
“Don’t worry,” the president said. “We’ll do all the talking. Just stand there and be yourself.”
Nash looked at Kennedy for help. Once he walked out that door there would be no turning back. “Irene?”
“Just let it go, Mike. This is bigger than just you. Think of all the people at Langley who get kicked around in the press every day. They’ll all be able to go home tonight and hold their heads a little higher knowing there’s honor in what w
e do.”
CHAPTER 53
NORTHERN ARKANSAS
WHEN he awoke in the morning, the sun was filtering in through the sheer white shades. Hakim blinked several times before he could focus. There was a DVD player on a shelf under the TV. Four small blue numbers stared back at him. If the device was right, it was nine-forty-one in the morning. Hakim looked down and saw the blood on his shirt. He opened his mouth and felt the dry, caked blood on his lips. He remembered the coughing fit and the blood and the dead man on the porch and the woman in the bedroom and knew he hadn’t dreamed any of it. Not with Karim around. He was a living breathing Angel of Death.
Hakim didn’t have the strength to get up, so he grabbed the remote sitting on the end table and pressed the power button. A moment later two anchors from a twenty-four-hour news channel were on the screen. Ahmed must have heard the TV. He entered the living room with glass of water and a washcloth.