Pursuit of Honor Part 8

"You are so f.u.c.king out of line right now, I don't even know where to begin."

"Why . . . because I have a conscience . . . unlike you and Stan, who pretty much do whatever the h.e.l.l you want, whenever you want, to whoever you want?"

"You're cracking up, Major," Rapp said, using Nash's Marine Corps rank. "Combat fatigue. You haven't slept, you look like s.h.i.+t, and you've lost all discipline."

"Discipline," Nash spat the word back at Rapp. "Coming from you that's just ripe. Your entire career has been one insubordinate move after another."

"You used to talk to your battalion commander like this?"

"Stop with the Marine Corps a.n.a.logies, all right. This is nothing like the Corps."

Rapp took in a deep breath. What little patience he had was gone. "I'm giving you two options. You either take two personal days . . . five days . . . I don't care how many days you need to sort this mess out, but you take 'em, and don't come back until you get your head screwed back on."

"What's my second choice?"

"You resign right now."

"And if I choose neither?" Nash asked with a forced lack of interest.

"Then I'll fire your a.s.s," Rapp responded without hesitation.

"This is bulls.h.i.+t. I'm not the one with the problems. Maybe you should be the one taking a few days off."

Rapp was on the verge of snapping. He'd seen this type of behavior before. Perfectly healthy guys who succ.u.mb to the stress of a job that can grind up and spit out the most hardened warrior. Hurley had warned him a week ago that Nash had been showing signs of fatigue.

Nash's wife had called Hurley and shared some things that she probably should have kept to herself. Rapp thought of that conversation and asked Nash, "Tell me, when was the last time you had a hard-on?"

Nash frowned. "What the h.e.l.l are you talking about?"

Rapp stared at him. "You know exactly what I'm talking about."

"f.u.c.k you."

Rapp shook his head. "You can try to make this about me and what happened down at the lake, but you know that's a lie. The only reason your plumbing doesn't work when you're thirty-eight is because you got some s.h.i.+t going on in your head."

Nash's face flushed with anger and he took a step toward Rapp and clenched his fists. "Don't make this about me. I didn't sign up for this s.h.i.+t. No one told me I'd be involved in kidnapping and murder . . . least of all of a fellow American. I don't care how much you hate-"

Rapp was already alert to the fact that Nash might take an illadvised swing at him, so when he heard him getting a little too close to divulging what had gone down the night before, he took a quick step forward, and his left hand shot out like a battering ram. The palm strike landed in the center of Nash's chest, rolling his shoulders forward and nearly breaking his sternum. The blow sent Nash backpedaling for a few feet and onto his b.u.t.t.

Rapp closed the distance and remained in a combat stance. "If you're dumb enough to get up, I swear I'll put you in the hospital."

Nash was clutching his chest and had the look of a feral animal on his face.

Rapp could tell he was calculating odds. "You're so d.a.m.n tired you look like a strung-out junkie. I don't wanna see your face for at least two days. I want you to go home and sleep . . . and spend some time with your family, and if after two days you still can't get your emotions under control . . . then I want your resignation."

"And if I don't do what I'm told," Nash said clutching his chest, "what are you going to do, kill me? Hurt my family?"

Rapp was in a state of semidisbelief. "You know d.a.m.n well I'd never touch your family."

"I'm not so sure."

"Let's be clear on one thing." Rapp stepped closer. "If you break that oath you took . . . I wouldn't dream of hurting your family." He lowered his voice and added, "But I will kill you. It won't be easy, and it'll probably haunt me for the rest of my life, but this is bigger than our friends.h.i.+p."

CHAPTER 20.

CIA HEADQUARTERS.

RAPP parked in the underground garage and proceeded to the director's private elevator. Kennedy had made arrangements for him to use it when he wanted to get into and out of the building without being seen and stopped, which was often. Rapp wasn't a big fan of headquarters and stayed away as much as possible. Due to the unique nature of his job, however, he couldn't always pick up the phone and tell Kennedy what he was up to. They had both been trained by Thomas Stansfield, a World War II icon, to never a.s.sume that a secure phone was secure just because a technician announced it was. The history of espionage was riddled with stories of great nations' a.s.suming their communications were safe only to find out after being trounced by their enemy that they had been compromised. There were times, however, when logistics, distance, and operational constraints necessitated a phone call. The key at that point was to keep things vague, but if you were in the process of doing something that might land your hide in jail, then you'd better sit down and have the talk in person. parked in the underground garage and proceeded to the director's private elevator. Kennedy had made arrangements for him to use it when he wanted to get into and out of the building without being seen and stopped, which was often. Rapp wasn't a big fan of headquarters and stayed away as much as possible. Due to the unique nature of his job, however, he couldn't always pick up the phone and tell Kennedy what he was up to. They had both been trained by Thomas Stansfield, a World War II icon, to never a.s.sume that a secure phone was secure just because a technician announced it was. The history of espionage was riddled with stories of great nations' a.s.suming their communications were safe only to find out after being trounced by their enemy that they had been compromised. There were times, however, when logistics, distance, and operational constraints necessitated a phone call. The key at that point was to keep things vague, but if you were in the process of doing something that might land your hide in jail, then you'd better sit down and have the talk in person.

Rapp entered the elevator, pressed the top b.u.t.ton, and as the doors began to close, he thought of Nash. Decking him hadn't bothered Rapp a bit. They were not a.n.a.lysts; they were front-line operatives who lived in a physical world of sparring and training. Judo, karate, wrestling, kickboxing, they practiced it all. Rapp himself was a devotee of the Gracie style of jujitsu and Nash, having been a state high school wrestling champ, was no pushover. Rapp knew more tricks and had never been bested by the slightly younger Nash, but the fact that Rapp had been able to knock him on his a.s.s with one well-delivered palm strike said more about Nash's mental state than one might imagine. If Nash ever came to his senses, he'd probably thank Rapp for knocking him on his a.s.s. That's the way Marines were wired. They could get p.i.s.sed as all h.e.l.l in the middle of a fight, but after things had calmed down, they would laugh at their own stupidity. They weren't the type to be obsessed with the past. What was eating away at Rapp was the fact that he never saw it coming. Nash had been his recruit. The guy was a natural. Tough as nails, yet relaxed enough that he wouldn't look like a robot the way a lot of the military guys did when they tried to transition into other careers.

Not more than two weeks ago Nash would have been the first guy in line to punch Adams's ticket, and now he was wringing his hands like one of those blowing-in-the-wind politicians on the Hill. Rapp had seen a few guys burn out and crash land. Their line of work wasn't exactly stress-free. More often than not they would bounce back after a little R&R, but occasionally a guy would end up in a free fall like some druggy who'd taken a bad acid trip. Rapp could only think of one time when that had happened and the guy had to be put down like a rabid dog. He didn't even want to think they might end up there with Nash. Rapp knew his wife and kids well. Nash was a good family man and a friend, and unfortunately he also knew too much.

The elevator stopped and the second the doors opened, Rapp sensed something was up. Two of the director's bodyguards were standing post, both of her a.s.sistants were on the phone, and there wasn't a single Secret Service agent in sight. Even if the president were running late, a couple of the advance guys should already be here keeping an eye on things. Rapp was about to ask Steven, one of Kennedy's personal a.s.sistants, what was going on when the young man pointed toward the office door and gave Rapp the signal to go in. Rapp banged his fist on it a few times and then entered.

The corner suite ran from right to left, with a sitting area straight ahead, then the director's desk, and beyond that a large conference table. To the right were the director's private bathroom and the door to the deputy director's office. Instead of the six to eight people Rapp expected, there were only two-his boss and a man he had never met but knew by reputation. He was handsome as h.e.l.l. Short-cropped hair that was equal parts black and white and walnut-colored skin that didn't have a blemish or wrinkle.

Rapp had never much cared for the seventh floor at Langley. In fact he couldn't think of a single time where he had looked forward to making the trip up to the rarified top floor of the Old Headquarters Building. It wasn't that he disliked the people. Irene Kennedy was like family, and her predecessor, Thomas Stansfield, was one of the finest men he'd ever known. The clandestine guys were all good and the intel people were sharp as h.e.l.l, but this floor more than any other in the business served as a portal to politics, and a whole host of issues that had nothing to do with running an effective intelligence agency.

The man sitting in Kennedy's office was proof of that. Gabriel d.i.c.kerson placed his coffee cup on the saucer that was sitting on the gla.s.s table and stood. He extended his right hand and with a warm smile said, "Young man, it is an honor to finally meet you."

Rapp could not match the sentiment, so he simply nodded. His first impression was that d.i.c.kerson was taller than he would have thought, especially since he had to be close to eighty. Rapp was six feet tall and d.i.c.kerson was every bit that plus a couple of inches. The second thing Rapp noticed wasn't the least bit surprising. d.i.c.kerson had a smile and charisma that could charm the lollypop out of the sticky mitts of a five-year-old. Whether he'd been born with all this charisma or had learned it on a used-car lot, Rapp didn't know and didn't really care, but he knew he'd better d.a.m.n well be careful, because Gabe d.i.c.kerson was to politics what Rapp was to the intelligence business. Their tools were different, of course, but they were both experts at getting things done behind the scenes. While Rapp dealt with problems in an often unpleasant and violent way, d.i.c.kerson was known to be every bit as ruthless. The big difference was that while Rapp used his fists and a gun, d.i.c.kerson used his Rolodex and a small cadre of litigators, publicists, and political operatives to destroy his enemies or curry favor for his clients.

"Where is Mr. Nash?" d.i.c.kerson asked.

"He couldn't make it," Rapp said as he glanced at Kennedy, who was still sitting on the couch.

"That's a shame," d.i.c.kerson continued in his deep ba.s.so voice, "I was very much looking forward to meeting both of you. I heard about what you did last week and wanted to thank you personally."

Rapp's right eyebrow shot up a notch. "Last week?"

"The attack on the Counterterrorism Center. I heard if it weren't for the quick thinking and heroics of you and Mr. Nash, things would have been significantly worse."

It's already starting, Rapp thought to himself. Rapp thought to himself. No one in this d.a.m.n town can keep a secret. No one in this d.a.m.n town can keep a secret. "Don't believe everything you hear, sir. You know how rumors get rolling around here . . . take a little truth, exaggerate it to suit your needs, and then spin the h.e.l.l out of it." "Don't believe everything you hear, sir. You know how rumors get rolling around here . . . take a little truth, exaggerate it to suit your needs, and then spin the h.e.l.l out of it."

d.i.c.kerson let loose a deep, infectious laugh. "You have it all figured out. You could work for me."

Before Rapp knew it he was smiling and he thought to himself, d.a.m.n, this guy is good. d.a.m.n, this guy is good.

"You're a brave man, Mr. Rapp . . . charging a group of men like that." d.i.c.kerson shook his head in semidisbelief, "I don't think too many men could have pulled that off."

"Like I said, you can't believe everything you hear in this town." Rapp's desire to keep his name out of the press was paramount, and a guy like d.i.c.kerson got a great deal of his power and influence by whispering juicy secrets in people's ears.

"I didn't hear anything," d.i.c.kerson said in defense. "I read it in the FBI's official report. Six terrorists entered the Operations Center in a single-file line and began systematically executing personnel. Mr. Nash engaged the terrorists from a balcony that overlooks the Ops Center, striking the first man in the line once in the helmet and three more times in the side . . . all .40 caliber rounds. You then proceeded to charge the line of men while Mr. Nash kept the first man distracted. You shot the second man in the throat, the third man in the nose, the fourth man twice in the neck, the fifth man once in the face, and then the last man twice in the small of his back . . . all with a 9mm Glock.

"Then you discovered they were all wearing suicide vests and you had the presence of mind not to flee." d.i.c.kerson shook his head in a manner that said this was the part that most impressed him. "You and Mr. Nash, with the aid of several agents, then proceeded to throw all six terrorists out a window, where they landed at the base of the concrete ramp that led to the underground parking structure. Each vest then exploded and caused severe damage to the parking garage, but not another person was lost."

It had all gone down pretty fast, but from what Rapp could recall, the man had pretty much nailed the high points.

d.i.c.kerson continued, "Now, there's a fair number of people who would consider what you did to be either stupid or crazy, but I see things a little differently. You see, Mr. Rapp, much of my job depends on sizing people up. Not all that different from a good tailor who has the ability to look at a man from across the room and know exactly what jacket size the man wears. Although I'm not worried about jacket size." d.i.c.kerson tapped his temple with one of his long, manicured fingers and then patted his chest. "I'm worried about what's up here and what's in a man's heart. I can usually size up a prospective client in thirty seconds." d.i.c.kerson looked Rapp over from head to toe and said, "There was nothing stupid or crazy about what you did last week. You are at your best when things are most chaotic. While others panic and react without thought, things slow down for you. You tune out all the noise . . . your brain begins looking for avenues of action first and avenues of retreat second. You size up an enemy the way a lumberjack surveys a tree and then you move efficiently and effectively." d.i.c.kerson shook his head. "Nothing crazy or stupid about it."

CHAPTER 21.

RAPP didn't like any of this. Didn't like the fact that the d.a.m.n FBI had to put everything in writing, or triplicate or whatever in h.e.l.l it was that they did now with all the d.a.m.n forms they had to fill out. It was one of his big b.i.t.c.hes about this war on terror-too many lawyers created too many cover-your-a.s.s bureaucrats who in turn demanded that everything be put in writing. a.s.suming it took a few days to put the report together, it couldn't have been in circulation for more than three or four days, yet here was a private citizen who had already read it. Rapp was p.i.s.sed, not because of d.i.c.kerson really, but because he had failed to have the d.a.m.n report sanitized, or at least have his role in the affair minimized to a footnote and have someone else given the credit. Things were happening too fast, and he was making mistakes. didn't like any of this. Didn't like the fact that the d.a.m.n FBI had to put everything in writing, or triplicate or whatever in h.e.l.l it was that they did now with all the d.a.m.n forms they had to fill out. It was one of his big b.i.t.c.hes about this war on terror-too many lawyers created too many cover-your-a.s.s bureaucrats who in turn demanded that everything be put in writing. a.s.suming it took a few days to put the report together, it couldn't have been in circulation for more than three or four days, yet here was a private citizen who had already read it. Rapp was p.i.s.sed, not because of d.i.c.kerson really, but because he had failed to have the d.a.m.n report sanitized, or at least have his role in the affair minimized to a footnote and have someone else given the credit. Things were happening too fast, and he was making mistakes.

Everyone took a seat and then d.i.c.kerson said, "You don't look too pleased."

"I'm not used to discussing cla.s.sified information with civilians."

"Ah . . . I see. You're bothered that a man like me, who does not work for the federal government, and has no security clearance that you know of . . . ended up with the official FBI report of what happened at the National Counterterrorism Center last week."

"That's a pretty accurate a.s.sessment."

d.i.c.kerson nodded in a thoughtful manner and said, "The president showed me the report this morning."

Rapp looked at Kennedy, who appeared to be taking the news much better than he was. "And why would he do that?" Rapp asked d.i.c.kerson.

"He trusts me, Mr. Rapp."

Rapp looked around the room. "I a.s.sume he's not showing up?"

"That would be correct."

Rapp looked to Kennedy.

The CIA director said, "It's politics, Mitch."

"What does this have to do with politics?" Rapp knew it was a stupid question the second it left his lips. The factions in D.C. could turn anything into a partisan issue. Much of it he ignored, but when it came to National Security it really got his blood boiling.

Kennedy said, "That FBI report that Gabe is referring to contained mention of an incident between you and Mr. Abad bin Baaz."

"You're talking about the Saudi terrorists that I apprehended the day of the attacks?"

"Yes," Kennedy replied.

"So?"

d.i.c.kerson answered, "He has dual citizens.h.i.+p."

Rapp was afraid some Dudley Do-Right would make an issue of this. "He's a Saudi terrorist who applied for dual citizens.h.i.+p so we couldn't put the screws to him. If we had any common sense left in this town, you'd take his citizens.h.i.+p away and hand him over to me so I can finish interrogating him."

"The president," d.i.c.kerson sighed, "actually agrees with you, but there is a rather vocal group in his party that, to put it mildly, disagrees with him."

"Don't tell me they're going to come after me for this?" Rapp asked Kennedy. "There is too much going on right now. Too many things that I need to take care of. I can't be dealing with these idiots right now."

Kennedy said, "Fortunately, it looks like they have run into an obstacle."

"What kind of obstacle?"

d.i.c.kerson said, "A fellow senator who has vouched for you."

"Lonsdale?"

"Yes. The FBI report has a section that outlines Mr. bin Baaz's claim that you dislocated his shoulder and a doctor's report that backs up his claim that the injury was caused by you while he was in your custody. Before he was turned over to the feds."

Rapp knew it had been caused while in his custody. He remembered vividly dislocating the little p.e.c.k.e.r's arm and twisting it to the point where he thought he might actually rip it off. "And Lonsdale?"

"She has filed an affidavit stating that Mr. bin Baaz was in perfectly good condition when she arrived at the National Counterterrorism Center and that he was hurt during the attack when he was thrown to the floor by none other than herself."

Rapp concealed his surprise. The fact that the senator had lied for him was an interesting development, to say the least. Rapp kept a straight face and asked, "So what's the problem?"

"Things in Was.h.i.+ngton are very rarely open and shut. This group of senators and representatives has retreated for the moment, but they have very powerful lobbying groups that give them piles of cash, and in return they expect them to take the fight to the enemy. Those groups will demand that they open a new front."

With evident sarcasm Rapp said, "I thought we were all on the same team."

"They despise you, Mr. Rapp." d.i.c.kerson looked around the office. "They despise this entire Agency."

Rapp was somewhat alarmed to hear he was on their radar screen, but he wasn't about to let on. "I would imagine some of those powerful lobbying groups are clients of yours."

"They are."

"And you make a lot of money from them."

"I do."

"So why do I get the feeling you're not here on their behalf this morning?"

d.i.c.kerson smiled, "You are a quick study, Mr. Rapp. I am not here on their behalf."

"Conflict of interest?"

"Don't confuse lobbying with the legal system. It's the first thing I tell my new a.s.sociates, who are almost always fresh out of law school and full of ideals. I'm a pragmatic man, Mr. Rapp. I've been a lot of places . . . seen a lot of things, and if I'm lucky I've got another ten years before I meet my maker. I take money from these groups because I'm a capitalist, and I earn every penny of it trying to moderate their crazy demands. I know who they are, and I don't particularly sympathize with their view of the world, but they are a force to be reckoned with."

"So whose meter are you on right now?"