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.”

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.”