“Mike Nash,” the president said, seeming to realize that his line of questioning had hit a dead end. But she decided not to let him get away with those two simple words. Not after what he’d done.
“What about him?”
“I want to talk to him.”
“I think you’ve done enough of that.”
He extended his index finger and aimed it at her like a gun. In truth it was much more dangerous than that. “You may be useless to me, Irene, but you never struck me as stupid. Just about every ally you thought you had in this town would now slit your throat to stay on my good side. And the ones who wouldn’t are on their way out. What legacy are you wanting to leave? And how hard do you want the rest of your life to be?”
He was right. She wasn’t stupid. Despite decades of service, she had precious few friends left inside the Beltway. It was a town built around power, and that power now flowed from the man sitting in front of her.
“Mike’s dead,” she said finally.
Cook’s expression went blank. “Rapp murdered him?”
“He committed suicide.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“You didn’t leave him much choice,” she said, suspecting it was the remaining effects of the wine talking but no longer capable of caring. “You told him to provide you the CIA file on Nicholas Ward so the Saudis could use it to kill him. When you found out you’d failed, you manipulated Mike in a way that left him no option other than to go to Uganda and deal with the situation before we discovered that he was the mole we’d been searching—”
Cook’s laughter was loud enough to cut her off, but not loud enough to hide a hint of insecurity. He was right to be confident in his position, but overconfidence was an error he wouldn’t make. Or, more accurately, an error his wife wouldn’t allow him to make.
“Do you have any evidence of that, Irene? Any at all?”
“I don’t need evidence, Mr. President. Because this isn’t a war I’m interested in fighting. You got this position in a fair election, Mike made the decisions he made of his own free will, and I’m not na?ve enough to believe that I could win a confrontation between us.”
He stared at her in silence for a long time, but in the end, he seemed to accept her explanation. “But what about Rapp? He’s not as smart as you.”
“Mitch makes his own decisions.”
“And what are we going to do about him?”
She barely managed to stifle a smile—the first one in what seemed like a long time. Cook’s conspiratorial tone was so light as to be almost translucent. A test. Maybe not even that. The suggestion of a test. Was Kennedy susceptible to the subtle forces that had twisted Mike Nash? Could Cook look into her soul and find something she wanted? Some weakness that could be used to control her?
No. If that weakness had ever existed, it was gone now. What she’d said about not wanting to fight was true. Perhaps the truest words she’d ever spoken in her time as CIA director.
“I think I can save us some time by telling you that I’m not Mike. You’ve never done anything to earn my admiration or loyalty, while Mitch has done nothing but. I violently oppose where you and your constituents want to take this country. But I also acknowledge that I’m not in a position to do anything about it.”
“Then I guess you know what comes next.”
“I do.”
“Don’t go back to Langley. You won’t make it through the gate. Your personal effects will be sent to you.”
She turned to leave with no further acknowledgment of him.
“Let this go,” she heard Catherine say. “If you do that simple thing, we’re willing to send you off with a glowing speech and a Medal of Freedom.”
Kennedy opened the door and passed into the outer office like she had on so many occasions before. This time, though, would likely be the last. Her life of service, the battles she’d fought, and the sacrifices she’d made had all come to nothing more than a muddy puddle in front of the president’s desk.
CHAPTER 5
WEST OF MANASSAS
VIRGINIA
USA
RAPP activated the light on his watch and looked down at the dial: 10:43 p.m. In one minute, he would be able to commemorate his third day of living in a pipe. It was an arbitrary deadline, but as good as any. He felt around for a can of WD-40 and sprayed some on the hatch’s locking mechanism before beginning to slowly twist it. He had no idea what was happening outside, making silence critical. The hope was that he’d emerge into an empty forest, but it was just as likely that he’d find himself surrounded by search parties, dogs, and helicopter-mounted searchlights.