Pursuit of Honor

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.

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 instituted 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 passing trees, Nash asked, “What in the hell 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 crap . . . 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 hell was wrong with Nash and he had to do it before he put him in the same room as the president and God 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 shit 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 hell 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 attitude 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 bitch 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 grass he rested his left hand on the butt of the weapon.

Nash reluctantly got out of the vehicle and said, “Come on, Mitch, this is bullshit.”

“What would be bullshit, 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.”

“You are so fucking 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 hell 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 shit, 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 analogies, 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 ass,” Rapp responded without hesitation.

“This is bullshit. 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 succumb 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 hell are you talking about?”

Rapp stared at him. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

“Fuck 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 shit 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 shit. 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 butt.

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 damn 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 damn 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 friendship.”