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The director of the Clandestine Service looked at Stofer and then Rapp and cleared his throat. “Irene, none of us are taking this well. It sucks, but all things considered, Rick dying is not a bad outcome. I know it sounds harsh, but it’s the reality of our business.”
“So this is your glass-is-half-full pep talk?”
O’Brien looked a bit sheepish. “I’m not proud of it, but if that’s the way you want to look at, that’s fine with me.” He nervously twisted the gold band on his wedding-ring finger and added, “It could have been a hundred times worse.”
Kennedy took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. “Sometimes it doesn’t feel that way.”
“Remember Buckley?” O’Brien said in an ominous tone. Bill Buckley was the CIA’s station chief in Beirut who was kidnapped by Hezbollah in 1984.
Kennedy remembered Buckley. He was a friend of her parents. After his kidnapping and subsequent torture, his interrogators beat information out of him until they’d discovered his entire network of spies and assets. One by one those people simply disappeared or were found dead. The disaster crippled the CIA for more than a decade in the region. “I imagine we’ve all spent a good deal of time thinking about Bill this week.” She looked at her tea for a moment and admitted, “You’re right, it could have been a lot worse, but somehow that doesn’t make me feel very good right now.”
“I hate to sound harsh,” O’Brien said in his deep voice, “but Rick probably welcomed this. After what he went through . . .” O’Brien shook his head. “I wouldn’t want to see my worst enemy have to endure that.”
Rapp didn’t know if it was his head injury or if he’d always thought like this, but he was not comfortable with all of the emotions that everyone was wearing on their sleeves. This was CIA, and more precisely, the Clandestine Service. The department was filled with badasses from every branch of the military. They were the risk takers, the ones who were sent in to do the dirty work. You could try to soften torture and call it enhanced interrogation measures, but Rapp had used more than enhanced interrogation measures and so had Rickman. It was the world they lived in. It sucked that Rickman had to endure that kind of abuse, but they were professionals. There was also something else bothering Rapp that he couldn’t put his finger on. It was a feeling that something wasn’t right, that things didn’t add up.
“How’s your head?”
Rapp looked up to see Kennedy studying him. He felt fine, just a little tired. “Not bad.”
Her gaze narrowed and she said, “You looked like you were in pain.”
“No . . . just thinking about something.” Rapp leaned forward and brought his hands together, and then, deflecting Kennedy, asked, “So where are we with this idiot from the FBI?”
“You’ll be interested to know that Scott saw him take a little ride with our old friend Senator Ferris last night.”
“Do we have audio?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Do I need to worry about this guy?”
Kennedy shook her head. “He has a meeting this morning with Director Miller. We’ve already discussed the matter and Miller assures me Agent Wilson will no longer be a problem.”
“Good,” Rapp said, and then, changing gears, asked, “And the transcript? I heard Rick threw them a curveball or two.”
Stofer opened a black leather briefing folder. “That’s right. He tossed out a few names . . . the names of people who as far as I know do not work for us.”
“Who?” Kennedy asked.
Stofer adjusted his reading glasses and said, “Aleksei Garin, SVR Directorate S.” He whistled. “That’s going to be a tough one to swallow.”
“I’m not sure anyone over there has the balls to confront Aleksei. He’s not afraid to put bullets in people’s heads.”
Everyone agreed and then Stofer said, “Shahram Jafari, head of Iran’s Atomic Energy Organization. Another tough one to swallow, but they’re so damn paranoid they might make Jafari’s life miserable—at least for a while. They’ll be turning themselves inside out trying to find out if Jafari is a traitor. The last one isn’t so clean. He identified Nadeem Ashan with the ISI. He doesn’t work for us per se, but we consider him a valuable ally.”
“Why would Rick throw Ashan’s name in the mix?” Rapp asked.
O’Brien poured himself a cup of coffee and said, “It could have been the first name that popped into his head. Anything to stop the pain. You know how it goes.”
Rapp did, but Rickman was smarter than that. He would have had a prearranged list in his head. “We should look into Rick’s relationship with Ashan. See if there’s anything there.”
“We’re already on it,” Stofer said.
The main door to the office opened and Stan Hurley entered. “Sorry I’m late. What did I miss?”
Rapp looked at his mentor as he moved across the large office with his smooth amble. For a seventy-plus-year-old with terminal cancer he sure didn’t act like it. Hurley’s gait was the only thing about him that was smooth. He was a hard man, with hard edges, a hard personality, and a craggy disposition. This was the first time Rapp had seen him since learning he had cancer. For a split second he was about to stand to greet Hurley, maybe even give him a hug, but the reaction lost steam as quickly as it had come on. Hurley wasn’t a hugger. He didn’t like people touching him. He called it an institutional hazard. So instead Rapp gave him a short nod of recognition.
Kennedy and Stofer quickly filled Hurley in on what he’d missed. When they were done, O’Brien filled the dead air by saying, “Irene, Betty wants me to say some things to the press. A few comments about Rick and Hub and their sacrifice.”
