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IRENE Kennedy pushed her reading glasses onto her head and looked at the walls of the hospital break room. The space had been swept for listening devices and she had her secure laptop, but there was still only so much she could do from Bethesda. As desirable as it was to stay close to Scott Coleman, she needed to get back to Langley.
A quiet knock sounded on the door and a moment later Mike Nash poked his head in. “You have a minute, Irene?”
Nash had recently turned forty, but there was little sign of it. The former Marine had been understandably angry when Mitch Rapp had ended his ops career. Since then, though, he’d come to terms with his new life and was performing admirably in his role as one of her top executives.
With no real need for physical speed or endurance anymore, he’d gained a fair amount of weight—every ounce of it muscle. The primary purpose of the new physique was to stabilize the damage his spine had suffered in an explosion in Afghanistan. It had the additional benefit of making him even more physically attractive, which, combined with his natural charm, made him quite popular on Capitol Hill. Even the most odious members of Congress never missed an opportunity to slap Nash on the back and get their photo taken with a bona fide American hero.
Increasingly, Kennedy found herself begging off political meetings and sending him in her place. As good as he’d been at ops, he was even better at handling the egos in Washington—an activity that she found more difficult every year.
“What news do we have on Mitch?” she asked.
“None,” he said, taking a seat directly across the table from her.
“What do you mean, none? We must—”
“I mean none. Winds across the region are kicking up and we lost the vehicle he was being transported in when visibility went to shit.”
“What about informants?”
“We’re afraid to use the few we have. We don’t want anyone asking questions about Eric Jesem. People might start paying too much attention to him.”
Kennedy took a deep breath to obscure her anger at the lack of progress. She’d already been too hard on Joe Maslick. He’d contacted the Agency in time for them to get surveillance in the air, but there had been nothing else he could do. Even her own ability to insinuate herself into Rapp’s plans was spotty. Particularly when he went completely insane and decided to go alone and injured into ISIS territory.
“What about the man who attacked Scott?”
“I have better news on that front,” Nash said, tapping the briefcase he’d placed on the floor next to him. “We’ve got some solid suspects and our people are working to flesh them out.”
His tone was typically upbeat but his face was etched deep with worry. While he and Rapp had suffered more than their share of conflict over the years, they were still close. And Scott Coleman was probably the best friend Nash had. Fortunately, she, too, had some good news.
“I’m told that Scott’s fighting off the infection.”
Nash’s eyebrows rose perceptibly, but he had learned over the years to be cautious with his optimism. “So . . . there’s a chance? He could make it?”
“Actually, he’s awake.”
Nash ran a hand over his mouth, wiping away the sweat that was glistening over his lip. “Can I see him?”
Kennedy stood. “I think that can be arranged. But we’ve been warned not to upset him. He’s extremely weak and very lucky to be alive.”
Nash bolted for the door, but then managed to stop long enough to hold it open for her. She had to admit that despite the fact that everything else was falling apart, being the bearer of good tidings was a real pleasure. It was an unusual role for someone in her position.
• • •
Nash stood a few feet from the glass, taking a moment to adjust to the reality of the man on the other side. Coleman was propped in his ho
spital bed with bandages covering most of his head and half his face. One of his arms contained multiple IV needles and the other was immobilized in an elaborate harness. His heavily bandaged leg was elevated in a sling and there was a drain tube inserted between his ribs.
His eyes were open, though. Fixed on a sunny window with a thousand-mile stare.
Finally, Nash gave his head a violent shake, squared his shoulders, and pushed through the door.
“How’s the taxpayer-funded vacation going?”
Coleman turned his head carefully, tracking Nash as he dropped into an overstuffed chair.
“It’s going okay, asshole.”
Kennedy entered and took the only other seat. “How are you, Scott?”