Pursuit of Honor Part 23

"Yes," Johnson snorted. "He's a disrespectful little s.h.i.+t."

"Not really. Just seems that way because he's so much smarter than the rest of us. At any rate he was telling me the other day that he has a new software program that can tell how many times something has been copied. Now Marcus is at your office right now. If I call him up and ask him to find out how many times this stuff was copied and he comes back with something other than two . . . well . . . let's just say you and I will be finished. So think real hard. How many copies did you make?"

Johnson thought about it for a long moment and then said, "Three. I think there are actually three copies."

Rapp set the pills on the table and slid the bottle of water over. "Good answer." Rapp watched as Johnson popped the pills in his mouth and took a swig of water. "That office you leased?"

Jonson nodded.

"Third floor, directly across the courtyard from Lewis's office. We already have all your equipment." Rapp saw the surprise wash across Johnson's face. "I know more s.h.i.+t about you than you can even begin to imagine, Max. You f.u.c.king hold back on me one more time and this will get really ugly. I mean Saddam Hussein, third world, shove a thermometer up your p.e.c.k.e.r and smack it with a hammer ugly. Shove your head in a bucket full of your own s.h.i.+t ugly. That's what we do to traitors."

"I'm sorry," Johnson said in a shaky voice.

"Sorry doesn't f.u.c.king cut it, Max. You need to get it though your head that you have one shot at this."

"I understand."

"Good, because the next time I ask you for a number, you better be d.a.m.n sure it's the right one."

"I will. I promise."

Rapp wasn't so sure, but maybe with a little reprogramming they could get him back on the right team. He'd never pull a Saddam Hussein on him, but he might show him a few photos just to scare the p.i.s.s out of him. "All right, now where are these copies?"

CHAPTER 48.

MCLEAN, VIRGINIA.

THE house was on a nice tree-lined street in North Arlington, not far from where Rapp had grown up. It was upscale, but not obnoxious. Lots of two-story colonials and federal style houses with well-kept lawns. Lawyers, lobbyists, and government contractors lived in the neighborhood. Jobs that fed out of the bottomless trough of federal funds. Very few civil servants lived in the neighborhood, unless, like Nash, their spouse worked in the private sector. house was on a nice tree-lined street in North Arlington, not far from where Rapp had grown up. It was upscale, but not obnoxious. Lots of two-story colonials and federal style houses with well-kept lawns. Lawyers, lobbyists, and government contractors lived in the neighborhood. Jobs that fed out of the bottomless trough of federal funds. Very few civil servants lived in the neighborhood, unless, like Nash, their spouse worked in the private sector.

Rapp pulled up in front of the house a few minutes before eight and threw the gears.h.i.+ft into park. He looked up the sidewalk at the white front door and imagined what was going on inside. Kennedy had called Nash before bed and told him he would be traveling with her for most of the day. They had a closed meeting on the Hill with the Judiciary Committee and then a briefing with the president. If Nash had told Kennedy about his problem with Rapp she had failed to pa.s.s it along. Rapp undid his seat belt and climbed out of the car. As he started up the walk he wondered if Nash might take a swing at him. Rapp hoped he'd gotten a little sleep and regained some of his senses.

Rapp hit the doorbell and then stepped off the front stoop. If Nash was still p.i.s.sed it was best to have a little room to maneuver. A few seconds later Maggie answered the door. She had raven-black hair, a b.u.t.ton nose, and bright blue eyes, all set against smooth alabaster skin. She was already dolled up for the big day, dressed in a black pencil skirt and white cotton blouse with a s.h.i.+rred waist. Her jet-black hair was slicked back in a perfect high ponytail that both showed off her gorgeous face and gave her a little bit of that corporate dominatrix look that told men to tread carefully. You would never guess by looking at her that she'd given birth to four kids.

Maggie flashed Rapp a nice smile and a conspiratorial wink. "Mitch, what a nice surprise." She offered her cheek.

Rapp kissed it and whispered, "How's he doing?"

"He doesn't have a clue." Then in a louder voice she said, "Come on in." Maggie led him down the hallway. "We're getting the kids ready for school."

"Good, I was hoping I'd catch them."

As Rapp entered the kitchen four faces lit up as if it were Christmas and one face turned so sour you would have guessed his mortal enemy had just walked in the room. Shannon, the fifteen-year-old daughter, jumped up from the kitchen table and threw her arms out. "Uncle Mitch." She gave Rapp a hug and said, "Guess what?" Before Rapp had a chance to answer she said, "I get my permit Sat.u.r.day!"

It had been a long time since Rapp had gone through that teenage right of pa.s.sage, but she was obviously extremely excited at the prospect of being able to drive. "Great."

"Will you take me driving?"

"Absolutely." Rapp reached out and rubbed the head of Jack, the ten-year-old brain child, who was simultaneously working on a bowl of cereal and watching Sports Center Sports Center. Maggie was from Boston and the kids were all big Red Sox fans, so Rapp asked, "How are your Yankees doing?"

"Yeah, right," Jack replied. "They're a bunch of overpaid prima donnas."

"Sounds like you're talking about the Red Sox."

Maggie was coming back from the other side of the kitchen with a fresh cup of black coffee. "Don't make me throw this on you." She handed the mug to Rapp, just as Charlie, the one-year-old, started banging on the tray of his high chair.

Rapp took the mug and turned to face Charlie, who was looking up at him with his big brown eyes. He had an expectant smile on his sloppy, food-caked lips. "Sorry, little man. I was getting to you." Rapp bent over and kissed the top of his head. When he straightened up he looked at Rory, who was sitting on the other side of the table. The thirteen-year-old had a plate of Pop Tarts and an open book in front of him. "How'd it go last weekend?"

Rory looked up with a barely concealed grin. "We won all three matches."

Without looking away from the TV, Jack said, "He had fourteen goals. No one could stop him."

"Nice," Rapp said. Rory was a phenomenal athlete. Rapp had been an All-American lacrosse star at Syracuse and took great joy in watching Rory play. The kid was a man child on the pitch and had the potential to play at the highest levels.

"We play again Sat.u.r.day," Rory said, dropping a hint.

"Great . . . I'll try to make it." Rapp turned his attention away from the kids to Mr. Sourpuss, who was standing on the other side of the kitchen. "Irene wanted me to pick you up." He checked his watch. "She wants us to get there early so we can go over a few things."

"I can drive myself," Nash said gruffly.

"Still pouting, I see."

Maggie cleared her throat extra-loud and said, "Come on, kids. Let's go. It's time to load up." She took a washcloth to Charlie's face and then unhooked and plucked him out of the chair. She handed him off to Rapp and said, "He needs to be dropped off at day care. Make sure Grumpy gets the car seat from the back of the van." She kissed Charlie and Mitch and then walked over to her husband, kissed him, and said, "I love you. Be safe and have a great day. I'll call you later."

Thirty seconds later she was gone with the kids and Rapp was standing in the kitchen with Charlie in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other. Nash was leaning against the far counter looking at Rapp as if he was trying to figure out if he could take a swing at him and not hurt Charlie.

Nash took a sip of coffee and said, "I have a bruise on my chest."

This wasn't Rapp's thing-handling people with kid gloves. He was tempted to put Charlie back in the high chair and kick his dad's a.s.s, but that would be a little shortsighted. The only thing that mattered today was getting Nash to the White House. Rapp swallowed his pride, ignored every code he'd ever learned about leading warriors, and said, "I'm sorry. I wish it hadn't come to that."

"Come to that . . . that's your apology."

Rapp sighed. "Listen . . . let's talk in the car. There are some things I need to say to you, and . . ."

"And what?"

"When was the last time your house was swept?"

"Probably a month ago."

"We'll talk in the car." Rapp's word was final.

They left through the side door. Nash handed Rapp a diaper bag and walked over to the two-car detached garage to grab the car seat. Charlie saw the neighbor's cat and about jumped out of Rapp's arms. He pointed and bounced and yelled and when none of that worked he grabbed a fist full of Rapp's hair and gave it a good yank. Rapp was so amused by the kid's determination that he just laughed.

Once Nash had finished wrestling with the car seat, they strapped Charlie in and were off. Nash didn't speak for the first minute. When they got to Glebe Road, Rapp said, "I know you're mad at me, but you have to tell me where we're going."

"We're going to the Dirksen Senate Office Building. You know where it is."

Rapp thought, Holy cow, he really is losing his mind Holy cow, he really is losing his mind. Then he jerked his head toward the backseat and said, "Charlie's day care."

"Oh, take a left."

Rapp pulled onto Glebe and said, "Listen . . . I'm not the easiest guy to work with, and neither is Stan, but you have to take a little owners.h.i.+p in this."

"In what?" Nash asked, obviously irritated.

"You think I knocked you on your a.s.s yesterday because I'm frustrated with my job?"

"Maybe."

Rapp shook his head. "I've known you for how long . . . and I haven't once laid a hand you . . . other than that time in the Kush when I dragged your shot-up a.s.s out of the line of fire." Rapp looked sideways at Nash. "It'd be nice if you kept that one in mind before you condemned me to h.e.l.l."

Nash shook his head and looked out the pa.s.senger-side window.

Rapp scoffed. "That's it. You've got no reply to that one. I risked my a.s.s to save your ungrateful a.s.s and you've got nothing to say."

"I knew you were going to hold that one over my head for the rest of my life."

"That's usually the way it works when you save someone's life, Mike. To tell you the truth I didn't think about it until yesterday. When you were being so unreasonable."

"Unreasonable . . . me?"

"That's right, Mike. You're a professional. You know better than anyone that in this day and age you can't say s.h.i.+t, because it might get recorded. But that didn't stop you from coming unhinged yesterday. I warned you twice, but you just kept on."

"And then you hit me."

"You're d.a.m.n right I did, and I'd do it again. This s.h.i.+t is bigger than you and me, and you knew that when you signed up. You were the one who came to me and said you were sick of fighting a war with one hand tied behind your back."

Nash was silent for a few blocks. Charlie hummed away in the backseat and then finally Nash said, "I'm not ungrateful, but I'm not going to throw my conscience out the window. You have no right . . . Stan has no right to-"

"Easy," Rapp said, cutting him off. "Slow down before you make a fool of yourself again. I'm not asking you to sell your soul."

"Well it sure does seem like it."

"Just hear me out for a minute. I spoke with Stan and filled him in on your situation."

"Great," Nash moaned. "I suppose you told him you knocked me on my a.s.s."

"I did."

"c.r.a.p. I'm never going to hear the end of this."

"Probably not, but that's not what's important."

Nash stared straight ahead. "What did he say?"

"He said the fact that I was able to knock you on your a.s.s with one palm strike is all the proof he needs that you need to take a sabbatical."

Nash was a state high school wrestling champ in Pennsylvania and had boxed in the Marine Corps. His little altercation with Rapp had been the shortest fight of his life. His sternum hurt like h.e.l.l, and his ego was ten times worse. "Yeah . . . well, I haven't had a lot of sleep lately."

Rapp could have made any one of a dozen retorts but none of them would have been helpful. This morning wasn't about winning the argument and getting a stubborn friend to do the impossible, which was to admit he'd been wrong. It was about advancing the ball toward the goal line. "All of us have been under a lot of stress lately. You probably more than most of us. Chris was your guy. The way he was taken out really sucked, and then there was Jessica and the rest of the folks you knew in the NCTC. Stan's never set foot in the place, and I don't get in there very often, but you knew those people. I'm not a heartless b.a.s.t.a.r.d. I understand why you're a little messed up, but in this line of work, there's no coddling. You need to take a few weeks off . . . take 'em, but you have to honor your promises and keep your mouth shut."

"And if I take a week off and I still disagree with you and Stan, where does that leave us? Do I just ignore my conscience and let you guys do something that I think is a mistake?"

"No," Rapp said. "In fact, I think Stan has a solution."

"Let me guess . . . it involves a Kimber 1911 and a wood chipper."

"No." Rapp shook his head and smiled at the visual. "He's says it's your call."

"What's my call?" Nash asked with a frown.

"Whether that unethical b.a.s.t.a.r.d ever sees daylight again."

"Bulls.h.i.+t."

"Nope . . . Stan says he's sick of doing all the heavy lifting. Says he's sick of you b.i.t.c.hing about the size of the hole."

"The size of the hole?" Nash asked, not understanding what Hurley meant.

"Yep . . . he says it's your turn to grab a shovel and start digging. He's done. He says it's your call."

"My call about what?"

"On what we're going to do with that rat b.a.s.t.a.r.d who leaked our operation. The one that got Chris Johnson killed and quite possibly another 187 Americans."

Nash turned his head slowly and looked out the window. His thoughts turned to Chris Johnson. The retired Army Ranger had been Nash's first recruit. The twenty-nine-year-old had gone completely off the grid, for nearly a year, while he infiltrated one of D.C.'s most radical mosques. He was on the verge of exposing the cell that had pulled off the attacks only a week ago, when a story appeared in the Post Post that accused the CIA of illegally running surveillance on a half dozen East Coast mosques. The day after the article appeared, Johnson was discovered, tortured and killed by the Lion of al Qaeda and his merry band of terrorists. that accused the CIA of illegally running surveillance on a half dozen East Coast mosques. The day after the article appeared, Johnson was discovered, tortured and killed by the Lion of al Qaeda and his merry band of terrorists.

Without looking at Rapp he asked, "When do you want my decision?"

"Stan says you have a good week before we're done with the debriefing."

A week, Nash thought. Seven lousy days to decide a man's fate. A man whom he hated. What in the h.e.l.l had he gotten himself into?

CHAPTER 49.