Extreme Measures

CHAPTER 23

LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

THE assistant told Nash they were expecting him. He glanced at the two bodyguards standing post outside the CIA director’s office and opened the heavy soundproof door. Irene Kennedy was seated behind her desk with the handset of her secure phone held to her right ear. She glanced up and gave him a where in the hell have you been look, before spinning her chair away and looking out the window. Nash silently cursed his wife. Standing in the middle of the big office, he wished he could have dragged her in here so she could feel what it was like to piss off the person who ran the Central Intelligence Agency.

Two men were sitting on the couch opposite Kennedy’s desk. The gray-haired gentleman on the left mouthed a swear word and put one hand to his ear like he was holding a phone. It was Chuck O’Brien, the director of the National Clandestine Service and a thirty-two-year veteran of the CIA. He had been trying to get ahold of Mike since 6:00 a.m. and it was now almost 9:00.

Nash had two separate CIA-issued phones that he was expected to carry on his person at all times. As soon as he heard the female TV anchor talking about the Washington Post article, he knew what had happened. When he returned from Afghanistan, Maggie had met him at the door wearing a thin robe and a lustful expression. She handed him a glass of wine, informed him that the kids were in bed, and suggested he go upstairs and take a shower. He stopped in the den first and plugged in both phones. After he had gone upstairs to shower, Maggie had turned off both phones. She wasn’t crazy about his working for the CIA, and she had a serious problem with the fact that the higher-ups at Langley demanded her husband be plugged in twenty-four hours a day every day of the year. She was right, they were right, and as usual he was stuck in the middle trying to keep everyone happy.

Nash glanced at an empty chair but chose to remain standing. Some might have thought it an old habit from the Marine Corps, but they would be wrong. Nash didn’t like the seventh floor. Didn’t really like headquarters at all. The discomfort had nothing to do with Kennedy. At least not personally. They got along fine. He respected her, even feared her a bit, which was healthy in his line of work. The discomfort, he reasoned, was due to the fact that he didn’t belong. The seventh floor was an arena in which he was not suited to compete.

The top floor of the headquarters building was filled with bureaucrats. Nash would be shocked if one in ten had any real field experience. That did not make them bad people, but it spoke to their narrow perspective. Most were good husbands and wives, fathers and mothers. They were active in their kids’ lives and their communities. They were people who had sacrificed and were willing to sacrifice more. They were patriots, but they had been browbeaten by the media and henpecked by the politicians. They were like children who were punished for the wild ways of an older brother. Mike and his fellow operators in the Clandestine Service were the wild sibling in the relationship. In many ways the bureaucrats’ distrust of men like Nash and Rapp was inevitable.

“No, Mr. President,” Kennedy said as she spun her chair back around. “I can assure you no such operation has been sanctioned by the CIA.” She listened for a second and then replied, “They like to get upset, sir. It gives them a reason to go on TV and let their constituents know they’re still alive.” She listened for another moment and then said, “Yes, sir. I’ll be there at four.”

Nash stood in the middle of the spacious office and did his best to look bored and unfazed by the revelation that the president was already involved.

Kennedy placed the white handset back in its cradle and looked up at Nash. “The president is very anxious.”

Nash didn’t know how to respond so he simply nodded.

Kennedy held up her copy of the Washington Post and said, “This is not good.”

“I would agree.”

“Please tell me it is a complete fabrication.”

“It is a complete fabrication.”

The man sitting next to Nash’s boss scoffed in disbelief.

Nash turned and looked with contempt at Glen Adams, the CIA’s inspector general. The man had been hounding him for fourteen months and counting. Mike could think of nothing more satisfying than putting him in a headlock and pounding the snot out of him.

Kennedy glanced at Adams and then back at Nash. “Our esteemed inspector general doesn’t agree with you.”

“I’ve been warning you for months,” Adams said in an I-told-you-so voice. “He’s a loose cannon. My money has him running the whole damn operation.”

Nash felt his headache returning. He closed his eyes for a second and then looked at Adams. The Washington Post article flashed across his mind and he wondered if Adams might be one of the unnamed sources that the reporter quoted. Nash took a step closer to the couch and in response to Adams’s accusation said, “Prove it.”

“That’s not my job, but I have no doubt, based on this article, that the Justice Department and the FBI are already in the process of doing just that.”

“Yeah, I wonder if anyone in this building gave them a head start.”

“Don’t make this about me,” Adams said in a sad voice.

“Fuck you.”

“Mike,” Kennedy said forcefully.

“This is bullshit,” Nash said directly to Kennedy. “I want to know how many terrorists this waste of sperm has captured. How many people in his office have been killed in the line of duty since nine-eleven?”

“This isn’t about me, Mr. Nash.” Adams shook his head and casually flicked a piece of lint from his pants leg.

“No, it sure the hell isn’t, because I can’t think of a single thing that you’ve done to protect the American people from another attack.”

“We all have our role to play,” said Adams.

“Some more important than others.”

Adams sighed as if he was bored. “I’m not going to allow you to bait me into a fight when I have nothing to do with this.”

“The hell you don’t.” Turning back to Kennedy, Nash asked, “I wanna know if I’m under investigation by the Gestapo here.”

Before Kennedy could answer, Adams said, “That’s none of your business.”

“What about my rights?”

“You surrendered them the day you walked through the front door.”

“What about you? Who investigates you?”

Adams laughed. “That’s funny, Mr. Nash. Who investigates me?” He shook his head. “I don’t need to be investigated. I play by the rules.”

“Spoken like a true sociopath.”

“Let’s just calm down,” Kennedy cautioned.

Nash’s headache got worse. He looked at the woman he’d always respected and suddenly lost his patience. “Fuck this.”

“Excuse me?” Kennedy was shocked.

“This is all a bunch of bullshit. You’re telling me to calm down. I saw the front page of the Post. It’s all a bunch of lies, but it doesn’t matter. The politicians are going to want to burn someone at the stake and this little smug prick here is trying to offer me up.”

“There is no need to talk to me like that.”

“You’re scum, all right. You’re a traitor to your own country.” Looking back at Kennedy he said, “How much do you want to bet he’s one of the anonymous sources mentioned in the Post story?”

Adams stood abruptly. “I don’t need to take this. My work here is above reproach, and I for one have done nothing to embarrass this agency.” Adams started for the door, and as he passed Nash, he said, “I doubt you can make the same claim.”

Nash’s right hand shot out and grabbed Adam’s fleshy bicep. He spun him back around and said, “Don’t ever compare what you do around here with what I do. When you have a bad day, a file gets lost. When I have a bad day, one of my boys gets killed.”

Adams tried to pull his arm away. “Get your hands off me!”

Nash ignored him. “You’re not on the field. You’re not on the team. Hell, you’re not even in the arena. You’re at home with a bottle of beer and a bag of chips watching the game on TV, criticizing our every move, when the truth is, your fat, lazy ass wouldn’t last five minutes out there.”

“Mr. Nash!” Kennedy yelled as she stood. “That is enough.”

“It sure is.” Nash let go of Adams and started for the door. He grabbed the handle and looked across the office at Kennedy. “The next time you need someone to go to Afghanistan and get shot at, you can send this prick.” Nash yanked open the door and was gone before Kennedy or his boss could say another word.