Pursuit of Honor Part 7

Rapp resisted the urge to slice the traitor's nose clean off his face. They had a standard policy during interrogations that whenever Lewis asked anyone for a private word, they were to drop everything and leave the room. Rapp stood and left the cell with Hurley. They closed the door and found Lewis pacing nervously. Nash was back from the house, shaved and in a dark blue suit, while Maslick was sitting behind the desk keeping an eye on the monitors.

Lewis held up a couple of fingers and said, "Two things . . . the first . . . I don't think you can ever allow him to go free. There is a chance that his illegalities were driven by a lack of judgment precipitated by the onset of alcoholism, but I think the odds of it are small. It's more likely that in addition to suffering from narcissistic personality disorder, he is also a sociopath."

"And this changes things . . . how?"

"He uses rules as a weapon. He gets extremely upset when he thinks anyone has acted inappropriately, or has broken the law, yet he sees nothing wrong when he decides to break those very same laws. I'm not even sure he's aware of it. He's so narcissistic, so in love with himself, that he thinks he's privileged. Rules are for the commoner, not someone like him, who is destined to make a difference in the world."

"I could have told you that," Hurley said, "and I didn't even go to med school."

Lewis ignored Hurley and said, "The narcissistic sociopathic combination is extremely dangerous . . . almost impossible to treat and never in a situation with this much pressure. He will say and do whatever he needs to stay alive and then after you let him go, the first chance he gets he will bolt. He would turn to anyone who he thought had the power to take you down."

"Your second point?" Rapp asked.

"Normally, I would never admit this, but considering the situation, I think it would be best." Lewis hesitated, wrestling with how best to word his admission.

"Doc," Rapp said, "I don't have all day. Spit it out."

Lewis cleared his throat and nervously announced, "I am Kathy O'Brien's therapist."

CHAPTER 18.

RAPP was out of time. If he and Nash were to have any chance of making the powwow at Langley, they had to be on the road in the next few minutes, and even then they would have to drive at least eighty miles an hour to give themselves a chance. Normally, Rapp didn't concern himself with getting to meetings on time, but this was not your average run-of-the-mill bureaucratic black hole of a meeting. Kennedy had made it very clear the president had requested the presence of both her senior counterterrorism operatives, and while Rapp really didn't care much for politicians, he'd dealt with a few presidents over his career, and found them tolerable in the sense that they understood it wasn't a bad idea to have a man like Rapp around to deal with some of the stickier situations that popped up. was out of time. If he and Nash were to have any chance of making the powwow at Langley, they had to be on the road in the next few minutes, and even then they would have to drive at least eighty miles an hour to give themselves a chance. Normally, Rapp didn't concern himself with getting to meetings on time, but this was not your average run-of-the-mill bureaucratic black hole of a meeting. Kennedy had made it very clear the president had requested the presence of both her senior counterterrorism operatives, and while Rapp really didn't care much for politicians, he'd dealt with a few presidents over his career, and found them tolerable in the sense that they understood it wasn't a bad idea to have a man like Rapp around to deal with some of the stickier situations that popped up.

"Mike and I have to go." Rapp looked at Hurley and said, "I wanna know who he used to bug Doc's office. I wanna know where the originals are and I wanna know how many copies he made. And I want to move on this ASAP."

"My money's on Max Johnson," Hurley said.

"Yeah," Rapp replied. He was thinking the same thing. Max Johnson had been the second in charge of Security at Langley until he retired a few years earlier. He now had his own consulting firm, which coincidentally did a lot of work for Langley. Rapp didn't know him personally, but had heard a few things over the years that would lead him to believe the guy would have no problem stooping this low. "I want a list of everybody Adams has talked to about Kathy O'Brien."

"I want those tapes handed over to me immediately, so I can destroy them," Lewis said.

"Doc, I don't like this any more than you do, but someone is going to have to listen to those tapes." Rapp thought of Chuck O'Brien. It would kill him to know that Kathy's private sessions with her therapist had been recorded.

"I think you can trust me, Mitch."

"It has nothing to do with trust," Rapp said impatiently. "I need to listen to them so I can a.s.sess the damage."

"I don't think Kathy would approve." Lewis shook his head and added, "and I don't think Chuck will be too pleased either."

Nash entered the fray. "Well, maybe he should have thought about that before he started sharing cla.s.sified information with his wife."

"She worked in Ops for twenty-three years," Lewis said defensively. "Her record is una.s.sailable." Looking back to Rapp, he said in a very forceful manner, "I want the tapes. They are private and they belong to me."

"It ain't going to happen, Doc," Hurley said matter-of-factly. "Kathy was read in on a lot of serious s.h.i.t, but that doesn't give Charlie the right to start sharing stuff with her, and it sure as h.e.l.l doesn't give her the right to spill her guts to you. That's why we have these rules."

"But . . . I think we can all agree that you trust me." Lewis looked around the room. "I mean let's get real. What we have going on here is far more serious than anything that might be on those tapes."

Rapp was about to speak, but Hurley beat him to it. "Doc, your office isn't secure. f.u.c.k . . . the Russkies . . . the Chicoms . . . anyone could have the place bugged. In fact I bet Mossad has had it bugged for years." Hurley looked at Rapp. "You better send a team in there tonight and have them give it the once-over."

Rapp was nodding as Hurley spoke. "I was thinking the same thing. I'll make it a priority."

"I need to be there," Hurley said, in a voice that made it clear this point was nonnegotiable.

"Fine," Rapp said, knowing he was out of time. "As far as the rest of this goes . . . we'll have to sort it out later. Mike and I have to go. In the meantime, start to peel him open. I want you to wring him dry."

"I don't think it will be a problem," said Lewis, "but I would discourage ever releasing him. He would betray us the first chance he got."

"I agree," Hurley said.

Rapp simply shrugged and said, "I don't give a s.h.i.t."

"It might be useful, however, for us to make him think we are trying to turn him. Someone with an ego this fragile needs to have a carrot constantly dangled in front of him. Along those lines I think we should have him write a note to Kennedy and his wife saying that he has checked himself into a rehab clinic. It's something he needs to do . . . has been thinking about for some time. Only way to do it was to go cold turkey before he lost the courage. The important thing is to give him some hope."

"Fine," Rapp said.

"And if he proves uncooperative?" Hurley asked.

Rapp shrugged. "Do whatever it takes."

"And Chuck?" Lewis asked.

Rapp thought about Chuck O'Brien, the current director of the National Clandestine Service. "What about him?"

"He knows Kathy was seeing me. Who's going to tell him that our sessions were recorded?"

That was one conversation Rapp did not want to have. He could only imagine what had been discussed in those sessions. They'd been married for over thirty years. If Max Johnson were in fact the guy who had bugged the office, Chuck would want to kill him. And while Rapp wouldn't raise a hand to stop him, he at least needed to talk to Johnson first. "I don't want anyone saying anything to Chuck until we know who made the recordings, and I've had a chance to talk to them."

"When the time is right," Hurley announced, "I'll do it."

"Are you sure?" Rapp asked.

"It would kill him to hear it from you young pups. He's still your boss. I'll handle it."

"All right . . . it's settled." Looking to Nash, Rapp said, "Let's go."

"Mitch?"

Rapp turned and looked at Maslick, who was now standing. "Yeah?"

"I want you to promise me something."

Rapp got an ominous feeling. "What?"

"When it's time to punch his ticket," Maslick nodded toward the cell door, "I've got dibs."

Rapp understood immediately. Chris Johnson, Rapp's agent who had been killed a week earlier, had been Maslick's best friend. They'd served in the 101st Airborne Division and had done three combat tours together. "If it comes to that and you still want to do it, I won't stand in your way."

CHAPTER 19.

LANGLEY, VIRGINIA.

RAPP blew past the Georgetown Pike exit at eighty-plus miles an hour and continued north on the Beltway. As expected, traffic had been rough. Rapp had hoped to catch a little sleep on the drive up, but had given up on the idea as soon as he'd found out where Adams was getting his information. Rapp would never go as far as to say it didn't bother him that the CIA's inspector general was a colossal hypocrite. It surely did, but it was pretty small stuff compared to the other glitch they had just uncovered. blew past the Georgetown Pike exit at eighty-plus miles an hour and continued north on the Beltway. As expected, traffic had been rough. Rapp had hoped to catch a little sleep on the drive up, but had given up on the idea as soon as he'd found out where Adams was getting his information. Rapp would never go as far as to say it didn't bother him that the CIA's inspector general was a colossal hypocrite. It surely did, but it was pretty small stuff compared to the other glitch they had just uncovered.

Kathy O'Brien was not the only client of Dr. Lewis who had ties to Langley. Rapp didn't know specifics, because Lewis never talked about his clients and the CIA wasn't the kind of place where people ran around talking about their feelings, let alone divulging that they were seeing a shrink, but it was known among the professionals that Lewis was a man you could trust if you needed a little help getting your head screwed back on. Rapp wasn't sure, but he got the distinct impression CIA Director Kennedy had spent some time on Lewis's couch trying to sort through some of her personal issues. Rapp knew this because Kennedy herself had tried to get Rapp to sit down and talk with Lewis after his wife had been killed.

Even with the near-crippling pain he was experiencing after Anna's death, Rapp never considered consulting Lewis. He wasn't wired that way. Rapp knew he had to work his way through it on his own. He had nothing against therapy. He was sure that there were plenty of good docs out there who could help people get through a rough patch. And while he would never deny that he had a lot of issues, they weren't exactly the kind of things he could share. Doctor-patient privilege was a nice legal protection for the average person, who might someday end up in a courtroom, but intelligence agencies were inst.i.tuted to not play by the rules. Bugging offices and eavesdropping on important conversations were standard operating procedure.

"I can't believe we're going to be late," Nash said in a tired voice.

Rapp looked over at his friend, who was clean-shaven and dressed in a crisp white shirt, blue suit, and yellow tie. Rapp glanced at his own reflection in the mirror. He had thick black stubble on his tan face and was not wearing a tie. If he had had time he probably would have shaved, but not necessarily. This was not his first meeting with this president, or the previous one, but it occurred to him this was probably Nash's first dance. He glanced at the clock. It was three minutes past nine, and they were still a few miles out. Rapp hit the blinker, cut across two lanes of traffic, and took the George Washington Parkway exit without slowing down. By the time they cleared security and parked, they'd be about ten minutes late, and while Rapp didn't like to keep the president of the United States waiting, he knew from experience that presidents weren't exactly the most punctual people.

Staring out the side window at the pa.s.sing trees, Nash asked, "What in the h.e.l.l are we doing?"

Rapp merged onto the parkway and said, "You're going to have to be a bit more specific, sport."

"This." Nash made groping gestures with his hands, "This c.r.a.p . . . last night and this morning."

After glancing at him Rapp returned his attention to the road. They were 99 percent sure the car was clean, but they had their work phones on them, and although they were encrypted, the technology existed for an outfit like the National Security Agency to turn the phones into listening devices. Rapp chose his words carefully. "Maybe we can carve out a little time this afternoon to talk about it."

Nash wasn't so easily deterred. "I didn't sign up for this." Under his breath he mumbled, "I'm not a cold-blooded killer."

Rapp thought he'd heard him, but wasn't sure. "What was that?"

"You heard me," Nash said.

"It's hard to understand someone when he's slouched over like a teenager and mumbling to himself."

"I said," Nash spoke with exaggerated clarity, "that I'm not a cold-blooded killer."

"That's interesting . . . because I'd swear I saw you pop a few guys when we were over in the Kush." Rapp was referring to the operations they'd run in Afghanistan.

"That's different."

"How so?"

"They were the enemy."

"And what would you call this guy . . . our ally?"

"How about a fellow American?"

Rapp sighed. He did not want to talk about this right now, but he needed to figure out what in the h.e.l.l was wrong with Nash and he had to do it before he put him in the same room as the president and G.o.d only knew who else. "Threats both foreign and domestic," Rapp said, quoting the oath they'd both taken. "Everyone likes to forget about the domestic part. Just because you're an American doesn't automatically make you one of the good guys."

"Well . . . just because he disagrees with us doesn't make him an enemy."

"So he can break whatever law he wants?"

"We're not exactly angels."

Rapp's patience was fading. "I think you're tired. This conversation is over."

Nash chuckled and said, "This has nothing to do with me being tired, and everything to do with the fact that you don't want to face the truth."

"Mike, I've been doing this s.h.i.t since I was twenty-two. I've been accused of a lot of things but sticking my head in the sand is not one of them."

"Well . . . there's a first time for everything."

"Is this how you ran your command in Corps? Was it a debate club?"

"Don't compare this to the Corps. I would have never considered kidnapping a fellow Marine."

Rapp had heard about enough. He didn't like the fact that they were veering into specifics. He glanced over at Nash's bloodshot eyes, shook his head, and said, "I don't think you're going to attend this meeting."

"I don't think that's your decision to make."

"The h.e.l.l it isn't."

Nash scoffed. "Oh . . . you're never the problem . . . not Mitch Rapp. It's always someone else's fault. You wanna write my att.i.tude off to a lack of sleep, but it's a lot more complicated than that. I can tell you right now being tired has nothing to do with it. What we're doing back there . . . to one of our own . . . it's just wrong."

Rapp checked his rearview mirror and then yanked the steering wheel to the right. The car moved onto the shoulder.

"What are you doing?"

"Pulling over."

"We don't have time," Nash said with alarm. "We're late."

"Well, you should have thought of that before you decided you wanted to have a b.i.t.c.h session." Rapp brought the black Charger to a sudden stop and threw the gearshift into park. As he unbuckled his seat belt, he said, "Leave your phone in the car." Rapp checked the mirror, waited for a car to whiz by, and then got out and circled around the trunk. He had a .45 caliber Glock on his left hip in a paddle holster and as he stepped onto the gra.s.s he rested his left hand on the b.u.t.t of the weapon.

Nash reluctantly got out of the vehicle and said, "Come on, Mitch, this is bulls.h.i.t."

"What would be bulls.h.i.t, would be putting you in front of the president and whoever else he's bringing to this meeting."

"I'm not the problem here, Mitch." Nash pointed at himself and then, turning his finger on Rapp added, "I think you need to take a long hard look at yourself."