“Hell no.”

“Don’t be unreasonable.”

“I’m willing to face the music. I told you that before I came over here. It’s time to force this issue.”

“That’s fine, and Irene agrees, but this stuff about you hitting an officer isn’t going to play well with the very people we need to support you.”

“Yeah… well, have you met him yet?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“I can see where he might bug some people.”

Rapp frowned. “The guy is a prick with a capital P.”

“And he has a huge shiner and is wearing a sling, and if he ends up in front of one of the committees wearing his service dress uniform, he is going to garner a boatload of sympathy from the exact people we are counting on for support.”

Rapp drove the ball into the mitt a few more times and then asked, “So what do you want me to do?”

“You know what I want you to do.”

“Crap.”

“It’s not that hard. Just shake his hand and say you’re sorry. We’ve explained to him that you have a very colorful history and even intimated that the president owes you a few favors. That he would more than likely look favorably on someone who was willing to help him out in such a delicate situation.”

“Who’s the we?”

“Stephen Roemer, special assistant to the secretary of defense.”

Rapp thought about his options for a moment and then swore. “If this kid cops an attitude…”

“I’ll make sure he doesn’t. The important thing is that we get you out of here so we can get moving on the other stuff. There’s still going to be an investigation and hearings and God only knows what else. Now, if you don’t want to apologize… you can sit in this cell for the next month or so while a bunch of lawyers decide your fate.”

“Hell no.”

“Then do it.”

“Fine.”

“Make it sincere, Mitch. We need you back in D.C.”

“I said fine,” Rapp growled.

Ridley reached into the bag next to the chair and pulled out a khaki flight suit. “As much as I’d love to see you have to walk around in your prison garb, I think it might send the wrong message.”

“I thought you said I might have to stay in here for a while?”

“That was before you agreed to play nice. Now, hurry up and put those on. You have to apologize, and then we have a plane to catch.”

CHAPTER 21

WASHINGTON, D.C.

NASH lived in North Arlington not far from Marymount University. The neighborhood was upscale but not obnoxious. The lots were mostly a quarter to a half acre in size, and the homes were all north of a million bucks but south of two. The neighborhood was a compromise. She wanted more. He wanted less. It was a constant point of friction in their marriage. He’d been raised with very little money, and she’d been raised with tons. He made a decent wage working for the CIA, but it paled in comparison to the seven-figure income she pulled in as a partner in one of D.C.’s top public relations firms. They were from different worlds. Vastly different worlds, but they were fiercely loyal to each other.

Nash looked up and down the tree-lined street. Other than the neighbor’s sprinkler clicking away, it was pretty quiet. Not a single car was parked on the street, which Nash liked. In his world every car was a possible bomb. He scanned the nearby bushes, and then walked down the front sidewalk where three newspapers were strewn about. He retrieved all of them and headed back inside, closing and locking the door.

Charlie was deposited in his high chair and strapped in. Nash hit the start button on the coffeemaker, and then grabbed a box of Cheerios from the pantry. He poured some onto the tray of the high chair and watched Charlie begin to work on his fine motor skills. Next, he filled a bottle of milk, nuked it for thirty seconds, and handed it off to his son. He then grabbed a jar of the puréed gourmet baby food that his wife insisted on buying. He popped the top, looked at the paste, and cringed. He was convinced that these expensive little jars were the reason Charlie’s poops were so pungent.

Nash turned on the TV, sat down, and looked at the three newspapers still rolled up and sitting on the table. He was afraid to open them out of fear that he would see Rapp’s name on the front page, and he decided to put it off until he was done feeding Charlie. Nash shoved a spoonful of the green and brown paste into Charlie’s mouth. The kid ate it without protest. Nash filled up another spoonful, smelled it, made a pinched face, and said, “Yuck.”

Charlie scrunched up his little face and parroted his father, “Yuck.”

“That’s right, buddy.” Nash shoved the spoon into his kid’s mouth.

A female anchor had been droning on in the background about the news. Nash hadn’t heard a word she’d said until she uttered the acronym of his employer. He turned his attention away from Charlie to the TV, and in the process almost fed Charlie’s left eye a spoonful of squash and peas.

“The Washington Post,” the woman announced, “is reporting that for the last year the CIA has been secretly conducting a domestic spying operation without the knowledge of the FBI, the Department of Justice, or its oversight committees on Capitol Hill. It is unclear at this point what role the White House may have played in the domestic spy scandal. The story says that the CIA has specifically targeted Muslim leaders, clerics, mosques, and charitable organizations in a half dozen cities across the United States for more than a year now.”

“Fuck,” Nash blurted out as he reached for his copy of the Washington Post. Right about the time he found the front-page headline, he heard his son parrot him. Nash paused, waited a moment, and looked at Charlie, hoping he’d misheard him.

Charlie took a pull off his bottle, sighed, looked at his father as if he was bored and said, “Fuck.”

Nash grabbed Charlie by the hand and said, “No, little buddy. That’s a bad word.”

Despite Nash’s efforts, Charlie said the word again.

Any other morning Nash would probably be laughing, but he heard his wife stirring upstairs. If she came down and heard her little angel swearing like a Marine she would flip. He put on his most stern face, pointed at Charlie, and said, “Bad word.”

Charlie frowned, pointed right back at his father, and said, “No.” A moment passed and then he repeated the four-letter word, but this time with more vigor.

Nash heard his wife coming down the stairs and began to panic. Grabbing the spoon off the table, he quickly scooped it into the baby jar and shoved the food into Charlie’s mouth just as he was beginning to utter his new favorite word again.

Maggie Nash entered the kitchen wearing a loose white robe, her raven black hair cascading past her shoulders. She headed straight for Charlie and kissed him on the forehead. Charlie started squirming with excitement and tried to speak, but Nash was right there with another load of puréed squash and peas.

Maggie grabbed a bottle of lotion off the counter, poured some into her hands, and began to rub it over the scars on her husband’s back. She tilted her head to the side and threw back her hair. “About last night,” she said cautiously, “I don’t want you to overthink the whole thing.” She worked the lotion into his muscular shoulders and added, “It’s not uncommon.”

Nash frowned and mumbled, “I’d rather not talk about it.”

“It’s all the stress of your job, honey. It’s normal for men to…”

“Please,” Nash cut her off. “Not in front of the baby.”

She took a step back. Placed her right hand on her hip. “The baby can barely say Mommy and Daddy. I don’t think he’s about to blurt out ‘erectile dysfunction.’”

Nash winced at the mention of the medical condition. This was just like his wife. She’d want to talk about this over and over until they’d looked at it from every possible angle, and then she’d want him to talk to a shrink. But he was fine. He’d been with Maggie for fifteen years and not once had he failed to rise to the occasion. He tensed and said, “We are not going to talk about this.”