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Mike Nash’s four-year-old son squirmed wildly as he was lifted off his feet, but the hand-me-down jacket was too tight for him to slip out of.
“The jig’s up, kid.”
Chuck had escaped ten minutes ago, disappearing in a rare moment when both his parents lost focus at the same time.
“I’m bored, Mitch!”
“Tough,” Rapp said, putting him back down. “Now march.”
Rapp followed, noting that Chuck glanced back every few moments to calculate the odds of another successful escape. To his credit, he recognized that he was beat and decided to play it cool until another opportunity presented itself.
Ahead, the small knot of people surrounding Stan Hurley’s coffin came into view. Chuck ran toward his annoyed mother while Rapp aimed for Irene Kennedy, who was hanging back in a long black coat and a hat that shadowed her face.
A man with Stan Hurley’s past should have had a much bigger turnout but the guest list was complicated. Despite his profession, he’d outlived his siblings, and the ex-wives who were still alive wanted nothing to do with him. Two of his five children had showed, but the other three didn’t speak to him. Most of the surviving people he’d worked with over the years were either out of the country or understandably reluctant to publicly acknowledge their relationship. Flowers were -everywhere, though. Many sent by people who owed Hurley their lives.
Scott Coleman and his team were there, as were a scattering of retired CIA operatives. Two attractive foreign women Rapp didn’t recognize were most teary. The odd mix was rounded out by an elderly priest who had served with Hurley in Europe before attending seminary. He was keeping the Bible reading to a minimum, focusing on old war stories instead. While Hurley had been a fundamentally religious man, he’d made it clear that he had no interest in a heaven that would accept him.
It was hard for Rapp not to wonder if this was a preview of his own end. A week propped up in a freezer before being quietly planted. A handful of guests, a few mumbled toasts in dives scattered across the globe, and a collective sigh of relief from the enemies who had managed to stay one step ahead.
What would Anna have said? Probably that life and death were about choice, not destiny. That he had the ability to evolve.
But into what? There would never be another Anna, and he’d come to believe that was a good thing. She was the love of his life but that had put him in a terrifying position. He had worried constantly not only about her safety but about what she saw when she looked at him.
The coffin began to glide down on its hydraulic lift just as he came alongside Kennedy.
“I’m going to miss him,” she said.
It had been a long and complicated relationship for both of them. She’d known Hurley since she was a child and, in a way, he had, too. From their early days of trying to beat each other to death to the man frozen in a chair next to the steaks, it had never been normal. Or boring.
“I’m sorry, Irene. It was my op. My failure.”
The smile that spread across her face was uncharacteristically broad. “He’d have said that it was his op and you were just tagging along.”
“Yeah. I guess he would.”
“I was staying in touch with his doctors, Mitch. He wasn’t going to last much longer, and the death they described . . .” Her voice faded for a moment. “I’ve come to believe that it was better this way.”
Rapp just nodded. It was a scenario that had scared the hell out of him. Hurley would have never killed himself—survival was woven into every fiber of his being. And that would have left it to Rapp to slip into the hospital late one night as the shifts were changing. What would it have felt like to press a silencer to Hurley’s temple while the old cuss goaded him on?
“Are Rickman’s files safe?” Rapp asked as the coffin hit bottom and the funeral started to break up. Chuck was the first to take off, and this time Nash gave chase while the rest of his family dabbed at their eyes with a shared handkerchief. Coleman’s people drifted away, leaving only their boss to stare stoically down at the hole.
“President Chutani has started an internal investigation. We have a man in his administration who tells us the files were stored on a computer that Ahmed Taj kept in his office safe. Marcus is familiar with the encryption protocol he used and says that it’ll take the Pakistanis a minimum of thirty years to crack it. By then the information will only be interesting to historians.”
They didn’t speak again until they were the only mourners left, watched discreetly from the trees by the men charged with covering Hurley up.
“Senator Ferris was trampled during the panic caused by Taj’s poisoning,” Kennedy said. “Six cracked ribs, a broken wrist, and a puncture wound in his thigh. Last night he was transferred to Bethesda and he insists that you’re responsible. That you stabbed him with a steak knife. Is that true?”
“No.”
“You’re certain?”
“Positive. It was a fork.”
“He told the White House that you tried to kill him.”
“I don’t try to kill people, Irene. I either do it or I don’t.”
“That’s essentially what I said to President Alexander. And Chutani is extremely grateful for your intervention. According to him, the security footage was somehow corrupted. He also says that he has two men who will sign affidavits stating that Ferris was drunk and that you were nowhere near him when he fell.”
