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There was a knock on the door. Nash walked over and opened it. General Dostum was standing in the hallway, smiling. “He wants to talk to you.”

Nash did not want to talk in front of Haggani, so he said to Rapp, “I’ll be back in a minute.” He stepped into the hallway, and as soon as the door was closed he asked, “What’s up?”

Dostum rolled his eyes. “The man is a snake. He thinks only of himself. I knew he would want to strike a deal.”

“Did he give you anything?”

“He says he has information that would be very helpful and timely to the U.S.”

“You believe him?”

“He was in a position to know important things, but he is a liar. It is up to you to sort it all out.” Dostum grinned.

Nash thought of his strategy. He knew from experience that you never walked into an interrogation room without a plan. He had an idea where al-Haq would want to take this. He patted Dostum on the shoulder and said, “Thank you. I will go in alone. Please watch, though, and don’t be afraid to interrupt if you think he is lying.”

CHAPTER 8

WASHINGTON, D.C.

WHERE in the hell is Mitch Rapp?”

The question was tossed out like a hand grenade lobbed at an enemy position. It rolled down the long, shiny mahogany conference table, striking fear in all. Eyes were averted, a few throats were cleared, and one man was actually smart enough to get up and head for the door. One by one, though, all eyes turned to the woman sitting at the opposite end of the table. As director of the CIA, she was responsible for Rapp.

Irene Kennedy looked down the length of the ridiculously long table at her questioner. He was a lawyer, of course. They were all lawyers these days; the FBI agents on her left, the Department of Justice people on her right—even the handful of people from State more than likely had law degrees. Kennedy had intentionally left her lawyers back at Langley for this early-morning meeting. Tactically speaking, this was a reconnaissance operation, and for that she’d brought along two men with plenty of experience. She eyed the antagonist at the far end of the table. Over the last two weeks she’d heard a steady stream of complaints about the man. Watching him operate for the first time, she wondered how two parents could have so thoroughly failed to equip their child with the most basic manners.

Wade Kline was the newly appointed chief privacy and civil liberties officer at the Department of Justice. He was a fairly attractive man, at least until he opened his mouth, at which point he became decidedly less so. His new position at Justice was created to appease the ACLU crowd on Capitol Hill, who felt that America had become a police state. Before taking the post, Kline had spent a decade as a prosecutor working for the New York State Attorney General’s Office.

“Well?” Kline asked with obvious impatience.

Kennedy’s face remained unimpressed. She had learned the espionage business at the arm of Thomas Stansfield, a Cold War legend. Like her mentor, she was widely known to be an unflappable player; respected by most, despised by a few and feared by more than she realized. All of that went with the job, of course. She was the director of the Central Intelligence Agency, and it was easy for people to imagine a hidden, sinister side to an otherwise classy and pleasant woman.

Kennedy eyed Kline and told herself to stay calm. At thirty-nine he was too young to be throwing his weight around, and old enough to know better. Kennedy had seen plenty of men and women like Kline come and go over the years. Five months ago the New Yorker would have had no chance at getting under her skin, but a lot had changed since then. There was no doubt about the source of her discontent. It could all be traced to a single traumatic event that had sent her careening down a road of doubt and pain, an event she tried every day to forget.

“This is not a difficult question,” Kline pressed. His suit coat was off, his tie loose, and his white shirtsleeves rolled up.

Kennedy’s brow furrowed as if she was studying a strange insect. “Mr. Rapp,” she said in an even tone, “is unavailable.”

“Unavailable.” Kline contemplated the word. “That’s pretty vague.”

“Not really.”

“I beg to differ.” Kline paused, scribbled a note to himself, looked directly at Kennedy, and asked, “Where is he?”

It was obvious to Kennedy that Kline had spent a fair amount of time strutting in front of juries. Surely he didn’t think she would simply announce the location of her top counterterrorism operative to the Justice Department’s newest politically appointed watchdog. Feeling a tinge of anger over the man’s arrogance, Kennedy said, “Where and what Mr. Rapp is doing is none of your business.”

“I couldn’t disagree more, Ms. Kennedy.”

Despite the warnings by her legal counsel, Kennedy was shocked by the man’s arrogance. She took off her reading glasses. “It’s Director Kennedy, Mr. Kline, or Dr. Kennedy, if you would prefer.”

A cocky, self-satisfied grin spread across Kline’s face. “Doctor, director,” he said in a more pleasant tone, “either one works for me.”

Kennedy did not flinch. She made no effort to respond in any way. Her thoughts headed down an unconventional path, exploring the man’s potential weaknesses, wondering how he would react to pain.

“Back to Rapp, if we could.” Kline tapped his pen on his yellow legal pad as if to refocus the conversation. “I’ve been asking to see the man for more than a month, and frankly, I’ve about run out of patience.”

“Mr. Rapp is very busy.”

“Aren’t we all, Madam Director.”

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