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Nash rolled onto his side, threw back the covers, and swung his legs onto the floor. He was wearing a pair of gray flannel pajama pants and nothing else. He put his elbows on his knees and ran his hands through his short brown hair. At thirty-eight he was still in peak physical shape, but the chiseled exterior hid inner flaws. A stabbing pain shot from one temple to the other, so much so that it hurt to open his eyes. It reminded him of his days in the Marine Corps when he used to drink way too much. If only he were so lucky. He’d been to three separate specialists and none of them could tell him why he was waylaid with a splitting headache every morning when he got out of bed. Apparently, massive explosions could do more than just give you a concussion.
All complaining aside, he was grateful he could walk. It had taken four surgeries to pluck all the shrapnel from his back. The last one was the most delicate, since it involved removing a piece of razor-sharp metal from between his L3 and L4 vertebrae. After that surgery his progress had been amazing.
Other than the physical scars of the molten hot shrapnel that had peppered his back, there were few signs that Mike Nash had changed, but those close to him could tell he was holding on a little too tight. His wife had warned him. Thomas Dudley, the psychiatrist he worked with, had been pulling him aside every chance he got—trying to get him to talk about what he’d been through. Told him he needed to find a way to blow off some steam.
An unfortunate choice of words, considering the debacle that had taken place the previous evening. The last thing Nash wanted to do was revisit that subject. He was an expert at mental triage
. He had learned it well on the wrestling mats and football fields of his youth. The Marines had further perfected the survival skill, and the CIA had given him the equivalent of a master’s degree. Repress and move on, that was their motto. Maybe there would be time to deal with all of it later. Maybe it would simply fix itself. He sure as hell hoped so, because life had become decidedly less enjoyable.
His thoughts turned to Rapp. Nash told himself he had no right to complain about a thing. The man had jumped on a grenade for all of them. The shit storm of all shit storms was about to come raining down on them and Rapp had walked right into it. Told the rest of them to get away. Nash glanced over his shoulder at his wife, thought of the great years they’d had together, and wondered how she and the kids would handle it if he got indicted. Rapp was convinced he could take the heat and keep the attention off everyone else, but Nash had his doubts. Congressional investigations were bad enough, but his one had the earmarks of something much bigger. It smelled like one for the Office of Special Counsel and that meant it could last for years, their net getting bigger and bigger, and catching all kinds of crap none of them could have predicted.
The banging noise down the hall grew in its ferocity. His wife stirred. Nash stood and walked stiffly across the room and down the hallway. Two other bedroom doors were firmly closed, but the last one on the left was ajar. The mystery noise was emanating from the smallest room on the second floor. Nash stopped just outside and peeked through the crack. Inside he caught a glimpse of one-year-old Charlie as he ran from one end of the crib to the other and then back again like he was a professional wrestler bouncing off the ropes and working up a head of steam for a clothesline or an atomic leg drop.
After a few more laps he stopped and grabbed on to the side rail. His tiny fingers clutched the white wood, his cheeks puffed with air and he gave it everything he had. Back and forth, back and forth. Bang…bang. Bang…bang.
Mike Nash got a huge kick out of this little kid’s determination. He pushed the door open another foot and waited to be seen.
Charlie caught the movement and looked over the top rail with his big brown eyes. A huge smile spread across the baby’s face. He sprang up on his toes, threw out his arms, and squealed, “Dada. Dada.”
Mike Nash brimmed with unbridled love. He hadn’t seen the little fella in a week. He crossed the small nursery, grabbed Charlie under his outstretched arms, lifted him up, and brought him in tight. Nash kissed him on his shiny, red cheek and then went to work on his neck. Charlie giggled and then squealed with laughter.
“Good morning, Chuck,” Nash said in a whisper. “Did you miss me?”
Charlie took his two pudgy hands, slapped his father’s face with surprising force, and then tried to grab as much skin as possible. Nash broke free by shaking his head and then started snapping his teeth at Charlie’s fingers. Charlie pulled his hands back and squealed in delight.
Nash placed him on the changing table, unzipped the boy’s pajamas, and with the efficiency of a Marine gunnery sergeant field stripping an M-16, went to work. A fresh diaper was unfurled and put in place. The tabs on the puffy diaper were simultaneously pulled back, but before it was yanked free, Nash grabbed a washcloth to place over Charlie’s groin in case he decided to hose down the nursery. He’d learned that lesson the hard way with Charlie’s oldest brother. Nash tossed the used one in the diaper pail, gave the boy the once-over with a wet wipe, and then secured the new diaper.
The two headed downstairs, with Charlie clutching his father’s neck. Nash stopped at the front door and looked out the small window. He tried to remember if he’d heard anything last night about the weather. This traveling from one continent to another could really confuse you. He’d gotten home late and all of the kids were asleep. Unfortunately, they’d grown so comfortable with his coming and going that none of them bothered to wait up. Nash punched in the security code and turned off the alarm. He cracked the front door and peeked outside. The air was humid for a change. It looked as if spring had finally arrived.
CHAPTER 20
BAGRAM AIR BASE, AFGHANISTAN
RAPP lay on his bunk and stared up at the ceiling. They’d taken away his uniform and given him an orange jumpsuit just like the ones worn by the other prisoners. He took it all in stride. He’d been in far worse situations. It would do him no good to start ranting and raving and demanding that he be treated with more dignity. The truth was that he found it humorous that they had chosen to put him in the very same facility that housed Haggani and al-Haq. Rapp figured this was the only place they had where they could keep him isolated until Washington weighed in on the unique situation. The main prison was filled with hundreds of combatants and terrorists. Putting Rapp in with that group was almost unimaginable, but that dimwitted captain had actually suggested they do just that. Fortunately, General Garrison seemed to have a decent amount of common sense and intervened.
This thing was going to get kicked up to the highest levels in Washington, and his allies on the Hill would be indignant that they had treated Rapp no better than a common terrorist. His stint at the prison was at two days and running. He knew because he still had his watch. They’d ordered him to hand it over, but he declined. After a brief discussion the four guards who were processing him decided it wasn’t worth the fight. They’d already seen what he’d done to one of the prisoners as well as Captain Leland, and since they liked neither the spitting terrorist nor Captain Leland they decided to cut him some slack. He’d been brought six meals and expected his seventh any minute. The food was nothing great, but it wasn’t bad. It sure the hell was better than anything these guys were eating up in the mountains.
So far the only real surprise was that no one had shown up to bail him out. He figured it must have been the time change and the fact that it had happened over the weekend. Whatever the case, Rapp knew they would be coming soon. He’d be dragged back to Washington, and then the real show would start. The solitude had given him plenty of time to figure it out. To think about each person, what they would say and how he would meet it all head-on. It was time. They had been running from this fight for far too long. The amount of time, energy, and money they spent trying to hide what they were doing from their own government was ridiculous.
Rapp heard the metallic click of the lock on the door being released and sat up, thinking his next meal had arrived. When the door opened he saw the familiar face of Rob Ridley. The deputy director of the National Clandestine Service looked at Rapp with a combination of amusement and concern.
“You’ve really done it this time, my friend.”
“Could you have taken any longer?” Rapp asked in return.
Ridley held up his camera phone and said, “Don’t move. I need to record this moment for my personal archives.”
Rapp made an obscene gesture and said, “I’m glad you can find some humor in it.”
Ridley dragged a chair into the small cell and closed the door. “It’s not every day I get to see my idol in prison orange.”
All Rapp could do was smile at Ridley and shake his head. It was good to see him, but he wasn’t about to tell him that. “Seriously, where in the hell have you been?”
Ridley sat and let out a long sigh. “This is a complicated situation, Mitch.”
Rapp took the fact that his friend closed the door as a bad sign. “So some prick wants to keep me in here and show me a lesson?”
“Kind of. Here, I brought something for you.” Ridley handed Rapp a paper bag.
