Hurley finally spoke. “And you think all of this is a mistake. You’re here through no fault of your own?”

Adams knew this was where he needed to be careful. “I know you’ve been out for a while, so I don’t expect that you’ve kept up on everything that’s been going on, but let’s just say, Rapp stuck his nose into something that doesn’t concern him.”

Hurley almost laughed, but managed to keep a straight face. “Really?” Hurley said as if he were intrigued. “Why don’t you enlighten me?”

ADAMS’S mind was moving at light speed trying to plot the correct course that would allow him to sucker this old codger into thinking Rapp had made a monumental mistake. He couldn’t remember the exact date, but as best he could recall Hurley had been out for at least fifteen years. There was no doubt he kept tabs on certain things, but most of his old sources would have dried up. The key, he decided, was to stay as vague as possible and keep things current.

Adams averted his eyes and seemed to study the dented and scratched surface of the metal desk. “This thing I’m working on . . . I’m afraid I can’t talk about it.”

Hurley looked at him with his bloodshot but shrewd eyes. “So if I call Director Kennedy right now, she’ll tell me you were on official CIA business?”

Shaking his head, Adams replied, “She wasn’t involved in this.”

“Tell me who to call then. Give me a name.” Hurley folded his arms across his chest as if he were settling in for a long wait.

“Stan, you’re not read in on this.” Adams shifted in his chair. “Hell, you don’t work for Langley anymore. I can’t discuss this with you.”

Hurley snorted. “I know more shit about our black ops than the president, so stop wasting my time and start answering my questions, or we’re going to test that little euphorian theory of yours.”

“And what theory would that be?”

“The one about torture . . . how you like to tell all your buddies in the press that it doesn’t work. That it’s nothing more than a recruiting tool for al Qaeda.”

Adams looked dumbfounded. “Well, that’s true.”

“And how in the hell would you know?” Hurley leaned over the chair. “Have you ever interrogated someone? Had to get rough with him to save lives?”

“You know the answer to that. I’m the inspector general of the CIA.”

“What about those twenty-three months you spent in the clandestine service that you like to brag about? A whole five of them in the field. And even then the only time you left the embassy compound was to play golf or try to get laid.”

“I’m not going to relive all that with you,” Adams said with a forced smile. “Let’s just agree that there are two sides to every story.”

“Yeah . . . like the truth and then the stuff that isn’t the truth. Like your little dinner date last night.”

“What about it?”

“According to Mitch you were in the process of committing treason.”

“Mitch Rapp is a professional liar.”

“It might be a good idea if you didn’t try to make this about Mitch. You either start answering me honestly, or I’m going to bring him in here, and you know as well as I do that he cares even less about your feelings than I do.”

“Fine . . . fine,” Adams said, backpedaling. “But there’s only so much I can say.”

“What were you doing in New York last night?”

“Having dinner with an old college friend.”

“Discussing?”

Adams hesitated. He had to be careful not to catch himself in a lie. “I respect you, Stan. I always have, so I’m going to say this as politely as I can. I don’t answer to you. I don’t answer to Mitch Rapp. I answer to the president and the oversight committees on the Hill. That’s it.”

Hurley exhaled a sigh of frustration. “I don’t seem to be getting through to you.”

“I feel the same way,” Adams said in disappointment. “I understand how difficult this business is, so I’m willing to look the other way this one time, but this offer is not going to last very long. I’m tired and I have a busy day of appointments. I’ll give Rapp one chance to let me walk out of here. And I mean right now. One chance.” Adams held up his index finger.

Hurley started to laugh. “You don’t understand what’s going on, do you?”

“I understand that in about two hours people are going to start wondering where I am, and once that happens it is going to be very hard for me to look the other way on this. So, for the last time, let me go and I’ll forget all this, but I tell you,” Adams’s face flushed with anger, “if Rapp so much as looks at me the wrong way, I will bury him.”

Hurley wouldn’t have believed the man’s arrogance if he hadn’t been here to witness it. “I don’t think you’re going to be going anywhere for quite a while.”

“I’d better,” Adams felt his heart begin to race, “because what little understanding I have is quickly wasting away.”

“You’re an idiot,” Hurley said as if he were telling him his shoes were untied. “I tried my best to help you early in your career, but you really are one dumb son of a bitch.”

Adams acted as if he’d been slapped in the face. “Uncle Stan, I have done nothing wrong. I am the one trying to do the right thing.”

“If you think you’ve done nothing wrong, then I might as well shoot you in the head and get this over with.”

Adams’s mouth was agape. Here was a man he had known since birth-his father’s best friend, for Christ’s sake. Adams blurted out, “I’ve served my country. I don’t understand . . . I signed up just like you and Dad.”

“Do yourself a favor and don’t start comparing your clandestine service career to your father’s.”

“I . . .” Adams stammered, “I wasn’t about to go down with that ship of rats. They were the most corrupt bastards I’d ever met.”

“Corrupt? You talking about our fine boys down in Bogotá back in the eighties?”

“Of course I am. They should have all been thrown in jail.”

Hurley considered slapping him, but he didn’t want to make this any more personal than it already was. “This is all my fault. The other instructors at the Farm wanted to wash your ass out, but I protected you. They knew you didn’t have what it would take, and I knew it, too, but I thought I owed it to your father, so I talked you up and let you graduate.” Shaking his head in self-loathing, he added, “It was one of the biggest mistakes of my life.”

“Didn’t have what it would take?” Adams asked, some anger finally seeping into his voice. “You mean like a frontal lobotomy? You mean the ability to ignore every ethical standard I’d ever learned? Ignore everything Congress says about what I should or shouldn’t be doing?”

“The problem with you, Glen, is that you always thought you were special, and the truth is you’re not. You were a dogshit operative. The only thing you were good for was wining and dining at the embassy parties. Anything that involved getting your hands dirty, you pissed and moaned like a little girl.”

“By getting my hands dirty you mean breaking the law?”

“You’re damn right I do. What in the hell do you think it is that the CIA is supposed to do? You think we’re supposed to obey everyone’s laws? Go ask the International Court and the U.N. and the fucking State Department for permission to find out which Colombian military officers are on the drug cartel’s payroll?”

“Oh . . . I think you’re simplifying it a bit.”

“You want me to simplify things? Here it is. You were a complete failure as an operative, you were a mediocre prosecutor who kissed all the right asses and managed to land an empty-suit job as the chief watchdog at the CIA where your entire mission is to get in the way of people who are actually trying to keep us safe. Is that simple enough for you?”

“Get in the way!” Adams shouted. “You think things like the rule of law and the Constitution simply get in the way?”