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VIRGINIA
THE house was forty minutes northwest of Langley, just past Dulles International Airport. A couple who had retired from the Clandestine Service after putting in thirty-plus years were listed as the owners of the sprawling property. They were now consultants for the CIA, and continued to be paid a generous salary, but they rarely made the commute to the George Bush Center for Intelligence. Their job was to manage the forty-seven-acre compound and its various buildings. The place was low-key, concealed behind rows of trees, a fence, and nothing more than a single gate. There were no guard dogs or men wandering the perimeter with machine guns.
Even to the more discerning eye there was very little to see. The perimeter security was all microwave trip wires and heat sensors and miniature cameras. The system itself was automated, with a software program that could distinguish a deer from a man to limit false alarms. The bulk of the security was in the house. All the windows were fixed, bulletproof Plexiglas, and the interior had been demolished to the studs. Because of the lessons learned from overseas embassy attacks, the walls were now reinforced with ballistic fabric and the doors were all titanium, covered in wood veneer. The basement contained two holding cells, an interrogation room, and a panic room as a last and unlikely resort, should the security on the first floor be breached.
Rapp was in the study on the main floor, sitting in a black Herman Miller lounge chair. A man in an identical chair sat six feet away on the other side of the fireplace, asking questions and taking notes. The man, Dr. Lewis, was the resident shrink for the CIA’s Clandestine Service. He had known Rapp for a long time. He adjusted his glasses at the corner and said, “Your wife.”
“What about her?”
“How much do you remember?”
Rapp remembered all of it, or at least he thought he did. It was a strange process to relive it all for a second time, and it wasn’t all bad. The good memories came back as well as the bad ones. Rapp recognized that might be a good thing to share with Lewis. To a certain extent you had to share with the man, or he simply deemed you unfit for the field, and the only thing more unnerving to a Clandestine officer than a therapy session was being confined to a cubicle at Langley. There was also a feeling of trust with the doctor. It was similar to the way he had felt with Kennedy when he’d awakened in the hospital. There was also a feeling that he was not typically a very trusting person.
“At first it was just the pain . . . the bad memories . . . the loss . . . the feeling that I would never be able to recover. It all came flooding back.”
“And how did that feel?”
Rapp laughed defensively. “Like shit . . . how do you think it felt?”
Lewis nodded and scribbled a quick note. “No, I would imagine that was not an enjoyable experience.” He stopped writing. “And then what happened?”
“The good memories came back. Meeting each other, dating, falling in love . . . that didn’t take long, and then the wedding. We were really happy. I was really happy.” Rapp looked into the fire for a moment and said, “I don’t think I was ever happier.”
Lewis nodded. “I would say that’s probably true.”
Rapp pulled his gaze away from the fire. “Did you know her?”
“I only met her once, but I’ve watched you grow up in this business. I did your original psych evals twenty-some years ago. I’ve watched you through the good and the bad and you definitely had an extra bounce in your step during the time you just described.”
Rapp’s gaze fell back to the fireplace. “In a strange way I want that again.”
“What exactly do you mean?”
“What Anna and I had. I want to find that again. How have I been since she was killed?”
Lewis did not like vague questions. “Could you be more specific?”
“As a person, did I change? Was I the same? What was I like?”
“I would say your grieving process was not untypical.”
“You’re holding something back,” Rapp said, putting a hard stare on Lewis.
/> Lewis thought of Kennedy and the way she described how Rapp could look right through her at times. “You were understandably angry.”
“Violent?”
“Yes,” Lewis said with a nod, “although violence is a part of this business.”
“But I was more violent than before?”
“Yes . . . you lacked patience. Not that you ever had a great deal of it to begin with, but after Anna’s death you seemed to lose any tolerance for dissent.”
“Did it interfere with my work?”
Lewis thought about that for a long moment and then said, “As far as I know, it did not, but I think you should ask Irene.”
“You’re holding back again.”
