«Max, Director Stansfield isn't going to be around to protect you forever. And when he's gone, I'm going to relish putting you out to pasture.»

Salmen stood. «Yeah, well, until then, Your Honor… you can kiss my big white ass.» The deputy director of Operations turned and left the conference room with a broad smile across his face.

After a period of uncomfortable silence, Kennedy looked to the DDI and said, «Sir, I would like to apologize for Max. He has been under a lot of stress lately. As you know, he and Director Stansfield are very close. I don't think Max is taking his poor health very well.»

«You don't need to apologize for him.» Brown appreciated Kennedy's comments. She was one of the most competent and professional people he had ever worked with. It was too bad she was going to end up being a casualty of this whole mess.

«I know I don't, sir, but please don’t take it personally. Max is just very cranky, and on top of that, he doesn't care much for Congressman Rudin.»

«Yes, I know. I can assure you that the congressman feels the same way about Max.» Brown looked at his notes for a second and then said, «I want you to be completely forthright when you go before the committee tomorrow; The last thing we want is to have Director Stansfield's career end in disgrace.»

Kennedy nodded in agreement, but internally she was deciphering Brown's real intent. Stansfield had let it leak that he would last six months to a year. Kennedy knew he'd be lucky to last a month. Brown's concern had nothing to do with Thomas Stansfield's reputation. It had everything to do with his own career. Scandals in Washington were a media and political feast to be savored, death by a thousand cuts to be drawn out over a period of years not months. Brown, not Stansfield, would be the one in the hot seat if a congressional investigation were launched. And it was extremely rare for someone's career to survive such a bloodletting.

Rapp drove west on Georgetown Pike in a black 1994 Volkswagen Jetta. It was dark out, and rush-hour traffic was starting to dwindle. The car was registered under the name of Charlie Smith. Rapp had a Maryland driver's license in his pocket with the same name. The CIA had taught Rapp many things over the years, but two of the most important were to be thorough and paranoid. A shrink had once told him to use the word cautious because of the negative connotations associated with the word paranoid, but Rapp had only laughed. He had always been cautious, it was second nature to him, but paranoid described his current mental state perfectly. When you were on your own, up against the world's largest and best funded- intelligence agency, there was no more appropriate word.

Rapp had an advantage over most, though. He was an insider. He knew how the Agency operated, and despite all of their technological advancements, they were stil11imit- ed. If a person was proactive and paranoid enough, disappearing was easy. And Rapp was both. That was why three years ago, he had set up the Charlie Smith alias and paid eight-thousand dollars cash for the Jetta. That was why he kept it in a storage yard up in Rockville along with a few other items that might come in handy. Rapp had been the hunter long enough to understand that someday he might become the hunted. And when that happened, it was best not to waste time trying to buy weapons and steal vehicles.

As they passed under Interstate 495, Shirley let out a yawn. Rapp looked over his shoulder to see how she was doing. She looked back at him with her big brown eyes and licked her lips. Rapp had picked her up at 7319 Georgia Avenue NW. For a mutt, she was a good looker. The people at the Washington Humane Society had been very helpful. He'd asked for a medium-sized dog that was mellow and, if possible, didn't bark too much. They had brought him back to the kennels and showed him Shirley. She was part collie, part Labrador, and part something else. She'd been with them for three weeks, and no one had claimed her, which surprised the woman who was showing Rapp around. It appeared Shirley had been very well trained. When Rapp asked the woman how they had come up with the dog's name, she told him they went down a list of names until she responded to one. «It could be Curly, Burley, Hurly, or anything that sounds like Shirley, but I picked Shirley. She looks like a Shirley.» Rapp didn't argue. Shirley was fine with him. After picking her up, he stopped at a pet store and got a leash, some dog food, and a few treats to help woo her.

At Linganore Drive, he took a right off the pike and then took his first left onto Linganore Court. Rapp drove the car to the end of the street, turned it around, and parked. He grabbed Shirley from the back seat and went over to the walking path. It ran between two houses and into the Scotts Run Nature Preserve. The preserve consisted of three hundred eighty-four acres of wooded land overlooking the Potomac River in McLean, Virginia. The hiking trails were well used during the day and especially the weekends, but on a Tuesday night they would be empty. Rapp and Shirley «disappeared into the darkness and broke into a jog.

IRENE KENNEDY ARRIVED at 7:20. She had left Langley at six and stopped at home just long enough to make Tommy a bowl of macaroni and cheese and eat a salad for herself. After spending exactly forty-three minutes with her son, she handed him off to Heather, the teenager who lived next door. There was no need to brief Heather on the rules and numbers to call if anything scared her. They had run through the routine at least a dozen times. Kennedy set the security system and left, getting in back of the government sedan with her protector behind the wheel. The ride to Stansfield's house was filled with guilt and doubt. More and more, Kennedy was feeling like a bad mom. When she wasn't at Langley working, she was at home working. Tommy was spending a frightening amount of time glued to the TV.

The demands put on her time were growing with fewer respites between the flare-ups. The life of a single parent was hard enough, but with her job, it was nearly impossible. She didn't blame her ex, though. It was better that they had parted when Tommy was little. The man was out west and out of their lives. At least he would never get close enough to disappoint his son the way he had disappointed her.

Kennedy felt torn between her obligation to her son and her obligation to a very serious job. A job that saved lives. But something was going to have to give. She couldn't go on like this. Her work would suffer, and so would her relationship with her son. As they turned into Stansfield's driveway, Kennedy forced the thoughts from her mind. She needed to focus. The last thing her mentor needed right now was to worry about her. The car stopped in front of the garage, and Kennedy got out. She walked up to the front door, where she was met by one of Stansfield's bodyguards. Kennedy went down the hall and entered the study, where she found Thomas Stansfield sitting in his leather chair, his feet up on the ottoman and an afghan on his lap. She walked over and kissed him on the forehead. All things considered, he looked good.

Leaving her hand on his shoulder, she asked, «How are you feeling today?»

«Just fine, thank you. Would you like anything to drink?»

Kennedy knew he wasn't fine. He couldn't be. The doctors had told her the cancer was very painful. But that was Thomas Stansfield. He wasn't about to feel sorry for him- self, and he didn't want anyone else to, either. Kennedy declined the offer of a beverage and sat on the sofa across from her mentor. «Congressman Rudin wants me on the Hill first thing in the morning.»

«I’ve heard.»

Kennedy didn't bother to ask how. She'd stopped wondering years ago how the man got his information. «What else have you heard?»