“What I remember is you were jealous because I was talking to some girl, so you decided to do blow job shots on the bar, and if you hadn’t been sticking your pretty little ass in that guy’s face, he would have never grabbed it, and Sean would have never had to knock him out.”

Maggie pointed at herself. “That was not my fault, and this is not my fault. This comes from your side of the family. You brother Patrick just beat up some guy in Atlantic City last month and he’s thirty-five years old.”

“The guy had it coming.”

“Oh… I’m sure he did. You and your brothers… any excuse to fight, and now it’s been passed down to our son.” Maggie looked up at the ceiling and moaned. “I can’t believe this is happening. He’s going to get kicked out of the best prep school in Washington. Do you have any idea how many strings my father had to pull?”

Nash had heard enough. He’d never liked the idea of sending Rory to the effete prep school, but he wasn’t around enough to really fight it. “You know what, Maggie, it doesn’t matter how much money your dad made, and it doesn’t matter how much you make, they’re never going to let you into their little club. No matter how you slice it, you’re an Irish Catholic girl from Boston.”

“What in the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You tell me. I’m proud of where I came from. I’m not so sure you feel the same.”

“Don’t you ever!” she screamed, and held her glass up like she might throw it at him.

Nash waved her off and walked out of the kitchen, saying, “Look who’s the one with the temper now.”

“We are not done talking about this!” she yelled after him.

“Yes, we are.”

Nash grabbed the railing and climbed the stairs. He knocked softly on the boys’ door and then entered. Rory was on his stomach, his face stuffed into a pillow, sobbing. Jack was sitting in his bed reading, a frightened look on his face. Nash walked over and pulled back Jack’s blankets.

“Go read in Mamma’s bed. I’ll come get you when I’m done.”

“Is everything all right?” Jack whispered.

“Everything will be fine, buddy.” Nash nudged him out the door and then closed it. He walked back to Rory’s bed and sat on the edge. He put his hand on Rory’s back and said, “Ror, I want you to try and calm down and then I want to hear your side of the story.”

Between sobs, he managed to spit out, “What does it matter… Mom doesn’t care.”

“I care… so stop crying and turn over.” Nash rubbed his back and added, “Son, I was in plenty of fights when I was your age. My dad used to say it takes two to tangle. Your mother doesn’t understand that because she’s a woman, but I do. You’re a good kid. I doubt you just hauled off and smacked Derek for no reason.” Under his breath he added, “Especially since he’s a spoiled little shit.”

Rory flipped over and composed himself enough to start the story. He said, “We were done with lacrosse… and were waiting for play practice to start… which I hate… and Mom made me sign up for.”

Mentioning his mother elicited another deluge of tears. “Calm down,” Nash told him.

“Derek was waiting to get picked up and he started talking about Shannon. He started to say… things.”

Nash’s antennae went up. “Like what?”

“He talked about how hot she was… and that he wanted to have… you know… he wanted to have sex with her… except he didn’t use that word. He used that word that we’re not supposed to use.”

Nash felt his own anger grabbing hold. “Which word?”

“The F word.”

Motherfucking little shit, Nash thought to himself. “Is that all?”

“I told him not to say it again or I was going to hit him… and then he started talking about Mom.”

“Really.” Nash said, surprised. “What did he say?”

Rory squirmed. “I’d rather not say.”

“I’d rather you did,” Nash said in a very firm paternal voice.

“He said… Mom was a…” Rory stopped.

“What?”

“He called her a MILF.”

“He called her a MILF,” Nash said in near disbelief as he thought of the acronym that stood for Mom I’d Like to Fuck. “What else did he say?”

“He said he wanted to do the same thing to Mom as he said he wanted to do to Shannon.”

“And then you hit him.”

Rory nodded.

“Good.”

“So I’m not in trouble?” asked a hopeful Rory.

“Not from me and not from anyone else, if I have anything to say about it.” Nash bent forward and kissed him on the forehead. “Let me have a word with your mother and then I’ll call you down.”

Nash stood and walked to the door. He stopped and turned back to his son and said, “Rory, do you like going to Sidwell?”

His son shook his head and the tears began to well up once again in his eyes. Nash felt like an absolute jerk for not being there for his son. For not putting his foot down and telling his wife the way it was going to be. His job was sucking the life out of him, and his family was suffering for it. Nash decided, at that moment, he was going to do Rory right and set things straight.

CHAPTER 50

WASHINGTON, D.C.

THE mosque was a converted corner grocery store in a crime-ridden part of town about a mile east of the Capitol, not far from the Congressional Cemetery. It was three stories of brick, chipped paint, and rotted wood. The van circled around the block once to see if they could spot any surveillance, but everything appeared to be ordinary, and besides, their contact had not waved them off by using the prearranged phrase. Hakim pulled the van into an open spot two blocks away on the opposite side of the street and handed the keys to Farid. If he saw anything unusual, or had not heard from them in fifteen minutes, they were to leave the area and head straight to a small warehouse he had leased three miles north of where they were.

Both Karim and Hakim checked their weapons before leaving the van. Karim also grabbed a radio and stuffed it in the big front pocket of his hooded sweatshirt. With a nod to each other they exited and crossed the street side by side. Hakim’s gait was relaxed, while Karim’s was hurried. And while Hakim casually looked up and down the tree-lined street, Karim’s eyes nervously darted from one parked car and tree to the next.

“Relax,” Hakim said in a slow, easy voice. “In a neighborhood like this, looking nervous is a good enough reason for the police to stop and question you.”

Karim slowed his pace to match that of his friend’s and forced himself to stop swiveling his head in every direction. He found comfort in the fact that they were going to a mosque. If he had not seen it with his own eyes in Afghanistan, he would have never believed it, but he had, so he did. The Americans bent over backward to stay out of their mosques. Even when fired on from the mosques they would wait for hours or days until Afghan soldiers arrived, but they themselves would not set foot in them. This had enabled al-Qaeda and the Taliban to store many of their weapons safely in mosques that were spread out across the countryside as they retreated, and then in the spring when they would start a new offensive they would simply collect them and pick up where they had left off. To Karim, it was one of the more glaring examples of how foolish and weak the Americans were.

Half a block away from the mosque they noticed a silhouette in one of the upper windows. It was a three-story building with the mosque itself on the first floor and then offices and apartments on the second and third floors. The structure occupied half of the city block, and while it was ugly, it served its purpose well. A cloud of cigarette smoke wafted out from a doorway fifteen feet ahead on the left. Both men slowed.

“Joe,” Karim said in his best Americanized English.

A head popped out, and a small man with a large nose and even larger ears glanced around the door frame at them. He flashed a nervous smile and said, “Chuck.” The man took one more drag and then flicked the cigarette to the curb as he stepped from the doorway. He held out his arms and said, “It is good to see you.”