Rapp paused and let a moment pass before he put forth the uncomfortable alternative. “But, if I’m right and this cell does manage to reach D.C… and the bombs start going off… every last one of you is going to have to face the wrath of your constituents.” Rapp looked up and down the long bench. Most of the senators were as solemn as they’d been all morning. Rapp was reminded again of Kennedy’s words. How she had cautioned him to resist his instinct to tell them off. This was supposed to be about bringing them into the fold. Not deepening the divide. In a slightly conspiratorial tone he said, “There is another route we can take, however.”
No one spoke at first and then Senator Valdez asked, “What would that be?”
“You can quietly refer this entire matter back to the Intelligence Committee, where things can be handled in a more discreet manner.” Rapp gave them a moment to weigh their options and then said, “So, what is it going to be? An open session this afternoon, or back to the Intelligence Committee?”
Lonsdale looked as if she might take her gavel and throw it at Rapp’s head. She started moving her perfectly lined lips toward the microphone and was just about to let loose when both the vice chair and Kent Lamb, the esteemed chairman of the Appropriations Committee, reached out and grabbed her. After a tense fifteen-second conference, Lonsdale made it to her microphone and said, “Mr. Rapp, you are excused. The committee will now meet in private to discuss the issues before us and then break for lunch. We will reconvene at two this afternoon.”
“I will stay in the building, and make myself available should any of you want to discuss this matter in private.” Rapp gave a grimacing Lonsdale a nod and then left.
CHAPTER 60
NASH waited as long as he could for Rapp to emerge from the committee room, but he’d run out of time. His administrative assistant had come through as she almost always did and informed him that his wife was scheduled to meet with the dean at 11:45. Nash left word with Kennedy to have Rapp call him as soon as he got out and then he left to race across town. Sidwell was only five miles from Capitol Hill, but Nash knew it would take at least fifteen minutes to get there, and that was if he hit all the lights and traffic wasn’t too bad. As he pulled out of the Dirksen parking lot, he was relieved to find the street empty. Nash’s hopes that he would make it to the meeting on time were dashed a few blocks later as he reached a jam-packed Columbus Circle. With his options extremely limited, he nosed his way onto Massachusetts Avenue and headed northwest.
A cab cut him off a block later and he laid on his horn with everything he had. The cabby flipped him off. Nash looked through his windshield and for a split second imagined how satisfying it would be to run the guy off the road and whip him with his own antenna. He quickly banished the idea and turned his mind to his son. He could spend the next fifteen minutes getting angry about it and carefully plotting out the confrontation, but in the end this was about Rory. He and his wife would have to sort their problems out later.
The traffic was a mess at Thomas Circle, and for a minute Nash was tempted to take to the side streets, but he’d made this trip enough to know that could be a risky move. As he was nearing Dupont Circle his phone rang. The readout told him it was a private call.
“Hello.”
“Irene said you wanted to talk to me.” It was Rapp.
“Yeah,” Nash said, “How’d the rest of the hearing go?”
“Well enough. I’ll fill you in later. What’s up?”
“I’ve got a bit of a problem.” He paused and carefully chose his words, keenly aware that the call could be recorded. “That dinner we were planning… the one we canceled. I talked to everybody and they were fine with shutting it down, except Chris.”
“What was his problem?”
“He said he’d put too much effort into it to just call it off, and he felt like he was nearing a breakthrough.”
“So he’s still on the job?” Rapp said casually.
“Yeah, except there’s a slight problem. We had coffee yesterday, and he said he would check in with me last night and this morning.”
“And?”
“Nothing so far.”
“That’s not good. What are you doing about it?”
“I called Scott. He’s trying to track him down.”
Rapp didn’t answer right away and then said, “Irene said you had a family thing to attend to.”
“Yep.”
“When will you be done?”
“If all goes well, I’ll be back up there by one.”
“All right. If you hear anything, call me.”
“Will do.”
“And when you get back here, we might have to make a trip over there.”
“Over there?” Nash asked a bit anxiously. He wondered if Rapp meant the mosque.
“Yeah, I don’t like this. Chris is no flake. If he hasn’t called you back, we’ve got a problem.”
“I agree, but who in the hell are we going to bring it to?”
“We’re not. That’s why you and I are going over there. Get back here as soon as you can.”
“Will do.” Nash hit the end button and set the phone down.
Traffic eased up as soon as he crossed Rock Creek. A few minutes later he was turning on to Wisconsin Avenue and passing the National Cathedral. He checked the clock on the dashboard and swore. It was 11:51. Sidwell was the type of place where things ran on time, so there was no telling what kind of damage his wife had already done. Nash parked the van in the small lot in front of the school and raced in. He knew where the administration office was located, but not the dean’s office. A student pointed him in the right direction and a moment later Nash found himself standing in front of the dean’s door. He could hear people talking on the other side, but they weren’t clear enough for him to know what they were saying.
Nash tapped on the door lightly and then opened the door. He stepped into the room and said, “Sorry I’m late.” Nash gave his wife a fake smile and then approached the neat, organized desk of the dean. Sticking his hand across the desk he said, “I’m Mike Nash, Rory’s father.”
A serious woman with short salt-and-pepper hair offered Nash her hand and said, “I’m Peggy Barnum Smith, dean of students here at Sidwell. Please have a seat.”
Nash noted that there was no warmth in the woman’s voice. He grabbed a chair that was sitting near a bookcase and set it down next to his wife, who made no attempt to look at him. He glanced over at Todd and Kristy De Graff, whom he barely knew, and noted the tissue in Mrs. De Graff’s hand, as well as her red eyes and nose. “What have I missed?”
Dean Barnum Smith leaned forward and folded her hands, placing them atop her leather desk blotter. She tilted her head toward Nash and in a solemn voice said, “Kristy had just finished explaining to us the extent of Derek’s injuries. Your wife,” the dean said while gesturing to Maggie, “is hoping that we can find a middle ground short of expulsion. She has offered to pull your son off the lacrosse team and thinks that one hundred hours of community service, either here at Sidwell, or an organization of the De Graffs’ choosing would be fair.”
Nash took the anger that he felt toward his wife at that moment and set it aside. He looked back at the dean and said, “That’s not going to happen.”
“You would prefer he be expelled?” The dean asked sincerely.
“No.”
“I’ll be honest,” Barnum Smith said, “my hands are tied. We have a zero tolerance policy against fighting.”
“What is your policy for foul-mouthed kids?”
“Pardon me?” Barnum Smith said, looking very caught off guard.
“Have any of you bothered to ask themselves why a kid like Rory, who has never been in trouble before, would suddenly decide to beat up a classmate?”
“What are you trying to insinuate?” Kristy De Graff asked, obviously offended.