Extreme Measures

CHAPTER 16

WASHINGTON, D.C.

THERE hadn’t been many dates and no real relationships to speak of. The ones with any sense simply stayed away and the ones who pursued her made her nervous for the simple fact that they should have had more sense. Then there was the very real fear that she would be set up by a foreign intelligence service. It had been done before, using a woman’s heart, or in a man’s case something else, to put them in a compromising situation. So there were background checks, surveillance by Langley’s counterespionage gang and probably the FBI as well. She questioned none of it. To do so would have been reckless.

Irene Kennedy had resigned herself to the simple fact that she would probably never find true love and almost certainly never remarry. The first go-around had gone badly, as they pretty much always do when referred to in the past tense. She rarely looked back on it with any deep regret. It had started out well enough. He was interesting, handsome, and very intelligent. Her mistake had been underestimating his relationship with his mother. The woman treated her son as if he were still eight years old. He was a mama’s boy who thought only of himself. Looking at it after the fact, Kennedy could see she enabled his behavior. She was a pleaser. She loved him and wanted to make him happy. It was three years into their marriage when she gave birth to their son Thomas that things took a turn for the worse. When confronted with the hard truth that her husband wouldn’t change a diaper, handle a feeding, or get up with Thomas in the middle of the night, it was hard to deny the simple fact that the man was a selfish prick.

It would have been another story if he’d been the breadwinner and she’d been a stay-at-home mom, but it was the opposite. He was a college professor who acted as if he was God’s gift to the intellectual elite of the world. Kennedy soon grew tired of the inequities of the partnership. The tipping point came one Saturday afternoon when she found herself mowing the lawn with young Thomas sleeping in a baby backpack, while the professor was off working on his dissertation. It took nearly two years for the divorce to be finalized, but it was then that she knew it was over, when she knew she no longer loved the man.

Still, she never regretted the marriage, for the simple fact that it had given her a son whom she adored. Kennedy had made it a priority to make sure her son did not turn out like his father. The only real challenge came every summer when Thomas would spend a month at his father’s family summer retreat on Nantucket. It was really the only time he spent with his father since he was now teaching in France. There were lots of tennis and golf and sailing. He never changed, though. He was a good kid who got good grades and stayed out of trouble. Her mother helped a lot, and then there was Rapp.

Kennedy reached for her glass of wine and looked through the open French doors of the semi-private room. Her date was late. As she took a sip of the pinot noir, she thought of the influence Rapp held over her son. He was a complex man… no, that’s not right, she thought to herself. He’s probably the least complex man I know. Rapp’s line of work was complicated, rare and very dangerous, but to Kennedy he was perhaps the most transparent man she had ever known. There were plenty of people at Langley who were tacticians; those who dreamt up grand, complex plans that would weaken or destroy the enemy, plans that would harvest intelligence and give them an advantage over their enemies. Invariably, Rapp would pick these plans apart. As someone who had spent almost his entire career in the field, he was painfully aware that there was a direct relationship between the complexity of a plan and its chances for failure.

Rapp preferred the simple, direct approach, which usually involved firing a bullet into the back of someone’s head. That was the stark truth, and Kennedy spent a fair amount of time trying not to think about it. Her mother, though, had expressed her concerns. When Rapp’s wife was killed several years ago, Kennedy’s mother had come to her and stated in unequivocal terms that she thought it extremely reckless that her daughter allowed her grandson to spend so much time in the company of a CIA assassin. Kennedy hated the word. Hated the idea that someone who had sacrificed so much could be dismissed and tarnished by a simple word. Put Rapp in a uniform and give him a rank, and he would be a hero. They’d have pinned so many medals on his chest, he’d tip over. He wasn’t part of the military, though, so certain people looked down on him, even her own mother.

Kennedy couldn’t blame her. Her mother did not understand how anyone could do what he did for a living. Kennedy smiled as she thought of how her mother would react if she knew the whole story – if she were given access to Rapp’s file. Even worse, how she would react if she read her own daughter’s file. At least with men like Rapp and Nash the anthropological evidence was in plain sight. One look at them and it was obvious that they were hunters. Her own daughter, on the other hand, had not a hint of predacity in her entire appearance or demeanor. She was the epitome of high-powered Washington class. Her clothes were always stylish but never over-the-top. She showed just enough skin to retain her femininity and never so much as to be thought a slut. Her smooth, shoulder-length hair was the perfect accent to her narrow face and button nose.

Never was there a hint that beneath the disarming, pleasant smile lurked a woman whose patience was gone. A woman who now, on an almost weekly basis, gave men like Rapp and Nash the approval to break laws, to lie to congressmen and senators, to kidnap and torture, and, yes, to kill. It was never cavalier or done for the perverse pleasure of doing it simply because she could. The decisions were made with great care and consideration, but nonetheless they were made, and Kennedy had to live with them, had to live with the lies. She knew Rapp could handle it, but she was increasingly worried about Nash. Where Rapp kept to himself, especially since the murder of his wife, Nash was forced to confront the lie. Married, with four kids, he crossed over on a daily basis, back and forth from suburbia to the black-ops world of counterterrorism – soccer and lacrosse games followed by late-night interrogations and the occasional liquidation.

They’d come up with plenty of words to help them cope with their less-than-noble deeds; detainee, as opposed to prisoner, opened up the door for extreme interrogations, which, of course, had a much nicer ring than torture. A suspect underwent rendition, as opposed to simply being kidnapped. All of the political speak drove Rapp nuts. He blamed it all on the lawyers, and he was probably right. The truth was they were in a dirty business that was populated by some less-than-reputable people. Rapp liked to remind everyone, “We’re not cops. We’re not soldiers. We’re spies, and spies do nasty shit to nasty people.”

Nowhere in their charter was there anything about fighting fair. The enemy certainly didn’t, and their people treated them like heroes. In America you were forced to sit through meetings like the one she’d just finished at the Justice Department. Meetings with people who didn’t know the first thing about the silent war that was being waged. Your reward for your sacrifice was to be hounded by some politically appointed prick like this Wade Kline. At a bare minimum your reputation got trashed in the press, or worse, you ended up indicted and drowning under a mountain of legal bills. Kennedy’s anxiety rose as she thought of Rapp and Nash and what they were up to. One slip-up and the vultures would pounce.

Her date appeared at the top of the staircase with an apologetic smile on his face. Kennedy wasn’t the slightest bit irritated that he was twenty minutes late. She pushed back her chair to stand, but her date rushed over and gestured for her not to bother.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said as he bent over to kiss Kennedy.

She offered her cheek and said, “Don’t worry, any chance I get to have a moment alone is one I’ll gladly take.”

The man laughed genuinely and took his seat directly across from Kennedy. He unbuttoned his suit coat and retrieved a pair of reading glasses from his inside pocket. William Barstow ran an investment firm in town and had been divorced for a little more than a year. Kennedy had never met the ex or the two kids and was in no rush. She’d sat next to Barstow at a fund-raiser for the Kennedy Center, and he’d made her laugh. It might sound like a small thing to most people, but there wasn’t a lot to laugh about in her life. As the event wrapped up, Barstow asked her out, Kennedy said why not, and now they were five dates into what was so far a pretty easy relationship.

They were at the Ruth’s Chris Steak House on Connecticut Avenue. The service was excellent, as was the food, but more important, it was one of a handful of restaurants in town that had a good working relationship with Langley. Not far from embassy row, the place was often used for meetings and was rumored to be wired to the hilt. Kennedy liked it because it had a room on the second floor that had two glass walls which at least gave the illusion that you were part of the busy restaurant. It was far less stifling than some of the other private rooms in town, the ones where you felt like you were seated in a closet. Her security team was familiar with the place and could sweep it and employ their countermeasures with relative ease.

Kennedy looked across the table at her date. He was the John Wayne type, that was for sure. A big barrel chest, with warm brown eyes and a disarming grin, which belayed a very serious man who, she had no doubt, could lose his temper at work. She worked with plenty of men just like him, although their suits weren’t as nice. His drink arrived a moment later, and he held it up to toast Kennedy.

As the two glasses clanged, Barstow said, “To an evening without interruptions.” With a conspiratorial wink he added, “I left my phone in the car.”

Guilt washed over Kennedy’s face. Based on what was going on in Afghanistan, she knew there was almost no chance of getting through the evening without a disruption.

Barstow noticed the look on her face. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No… it’s just that… there’s a good chance I will have to take at least one call.”

“That’s all right, your job is a little more important than mine.”

Kennedy heard no malice or jealousy in his voice. It was a gesture of honest humility. “Thank you. I’ll try to keep it short.”

Barstow ordered a fabulous bottle of Bordeaux and they made small talk over salads. He got the wedge and she got the baby arugula. Kennedy enjoyed asking him about the financial markets. He had a master’s degree in economics from the University of Chicago and he usually had a fresh take on the world. Like most economists he also used hard facts to back up his theories. He would have been really good in her line of work.

Three waiters filed into the room with the main course and sides. A petite filet was set down in front of Kennedy as well as steaming side orders of asparagus and mushrooms. A giant slab of meat was placed in front of Barstow as if it were a bar of gold. Kennedy knew it was the porterhouse, and if Barstow acted the way he did last time, he would eat only half of it and take the other half home for his dog. At least, that was the story.

Kennedy savored the aroma of what would be her first steak in four weeks. It was all she allowed herself. The wineglasses were refreshed and then the waiters filed out. Kennedy and Barstow looked at each other in anticipation. Barstow looked to be torn between making another toast and digging into his slab of red meat, which would feed a small family for a week. Kennedy grabbed her steak knife and fork and was poised to go to work, when she sensed something amiss. There was a flurry of movement on the other side of the glass doors. It was men in dark suits, not waiters in white jackets. Kennedy badly wanted to ignore them but knew she wouldn’t. Carefully she turned her head and instantly knew the meal was over.

Looking back at her through the glass was Rob Ridley. The deputy Clandestine chief was a perennial smart-ass. He loved to tease and joke, but there was none of that on his face tonight. He was as grim as Kennedy had ever seen him. Kennedy slowly set her fork and knife down and dabbed the corners of her mouth with her napkin.

After a heavy sigh she said, “Bill, you’ll have to excuse me. It appears that interruption I was anticipating has arrived.”

Barstow tried to look sympathetic, but in truth was already inhaling his first cut and looked like he might pass out. Kennedy went to the door and drew it back. Ridley stepped forward, his eyes as concerned as Kennedy had seen them in some time.

“What’s wrong?”

“We’ve got big problems.”

“How big?” she asked.

“Really big.”

“Mitch?”

“Yep.”

Kennedy sighed. It sounded like he was finally going to get the fight he was looking for. She had resigned herself to the fact that it would happen sooner or later. The conflict was unavoidable, and Rapp’s attitude that they fight it on their terms was probably right, but it still didn’t feel right.

“I’ll brief you on the rest of it in the car,” Ridley said.

Kennedy turned to say good-bye to her date, saw his expression of understanding, and felt very guilty that he would have to eat alone. She considered the time difference, looked at her own meal, and made her decision. Turning back to Ridley she said, “I’ll be down in thirty minutes.”