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“Hell no.”
“Don’t be unreasonable.”
“I’m willing to face the music. I told you that before I came over here. It’s time to force this issue.”
“That’s fine, and Irene agrees, but this stuff about you hitting an officer isn’t going to play well with the very people we need to support you.”
“Yeah…well, have you met him yet?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“I can see where he might bug some people.”
Rapp frowned. “The guy is a prick with a capital P.”
“And he has a huge shiner and is wearing a sling, and if he ends up in front of one of the committees wearing his service dress uniform, he is going to garner a boatload of sympathy from the exact people we are counting on for support.”
Rapp drove the ball into the mitt a few more times and then asked, “So what do you want me to do?”
“You know what I want you to do.”
“Crap.”
“It’s not that hard. Just shake his hand and say you’re sorry. We’ve explained to him that you have a very colorful history and even intimated that the president owes you a few favors. That he would more than likely look favorably on someone who was willing to help him out in such a delicate situation.”
“Who’s the we?”
“Stephen Roemer, special assistant to the secretary of defense.”
Rapp thought about his options for a moment and then swore. “If this kid cops an attitude…”
“I’ll make sure he doesn’t. The important thing is that we get you out of here so we can get moving on the other stuff. There’s still going to be an investigation and hearings and God only knows what else. Now, if you don’t want to apologize…you can sit in this cell for the next month or so while a bunch of lawyers decide your fate.”
“Hell no.”
“Then do it.”
“Fine.”
“Make it sincere, Mitch. We need you back in D.C.”
“I said fine,” Rapp growled.
Ridley reached into the bag next to the chair and pulled out a khaki flight suit. “As much as I’d love to see you have to walk around in your prison garb, I think it might send the wrong message.”
“I thought you said I might have to stay in here for a while?”
“That was before you agreed to play nice. Now, hurry up and put those on. You have to apologize, and then we have a plane to catch.”
CHAPTER 21
WASHINGTON, D.C.
NASH lived in North Arlington not far from Marymount University. The neighborhood was upscale but not obnoxious. The lots were mostly a quarter to a half acre in size, and the homes were all north of a million bucks but south of two. The neighborhood was a compromise. She wanted more. He wanted less. It was a constant point of friction in their marriage. He’d been raised with very little money, and she’d been raised with tons. He made a decent wage working for the CIA, but it paled in comparison to the seven-figure income she pulled in as a partner in one of D.C.’s top public relations firms. They were from different worlds. Vastly different worlds, but they were fiercely loyal to each other.
Nash looked up and down the tree-lined street. Other than the neighbor’s sprinkler clicking away, it was pretty quiet. Not a single car was parked on the street, which Nash liked. In his world every car was a possible bomb. He scanned the nearby bushes, and then walked down the front sidewalk where three newspapers were strewn about. He retrieved all of them and headed back inside, closing and locking the door.
