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Brown looked in the direction of Kennedy and said, “And he would like to see you in front of his committee first thing in the morning, Irene.”
Salmen let out a moan, and Kennedy said, “All right. Would he like anything specific?”
“He didn’t say. He just asked me to remind you that you’d be under oath.” Brown said this with all of the reverence of a former federal judge.
Salmen scoffed at the comment and said, “What a joke!”
Brown did not like dissension. “Is there a problem, Max?”
“Yeah. Rudin is the problem.”
“Pardon me?” Brown seemed to be in an even more serious mood than normal.
“Chairman Rudin is a frustrated little man who’s had a bug up his ass since day one about this Agency.”
Deputy Director Brown did not think the comment was funny, and two of the other deputy directors were forced to stifle their reactions to Salmen’s candid and accurate analysis. Kennedy, as always, kept a neutral expression on her face.
“I would appreciate it if you’d show the congressman from Connecticut a little more respect.”
This caused Salmen to laugh out loud. “The congressman and I have had a hate-hate relationship for years. If I started to respect him at this stage of the game, he’d be very upset.”
Brown decided to move on. Looking to Charles Workman, the deputy director of Intelligence, he said, “I want a report on my desk by five. Anything and everything you have on what went down in Germany.” Workman dutifully replied that he would personally take care of it. Brown turned back to Salmen. “Is it true that we had Hagenmiller under surveillance?”
Salmen stuffed his hands under his armpits and shrugged. “That’s on a strictly need-to-know basis.”
Brown’s face became flushed over Salmen’s blatant disrespect. “I am in the need to know, and I expect a report from you on my desk by five.”
Salmen remained defiant. “I will give you no such report until Director Stansfield tells me to do so.”
“Listen, Max, I have done nothing to deserve this from you. I am the DDI, and for all intents and purposes the acting DCI. When I tell you I want something on my desk by five, I mean it.”
Salmen appeared to back off just a touch. “Jonathan, I mean no disrespect, but I’ve been doing this a hell of a lot longer than you. The bedrock of this agency is the philosophy of ‘need to know.’ When Director Stansfield tells me you need to know, I’ll tell you.”
“Max, Director Stansfield isn’t going to be around to protect you forever. And when he’s gone, I’m going to relish putting you out to pasture.”
Salmen stood. “Yeah, well, until then, Your Honor…you can kiss my big white ass.” The deputy director of Operations turned and left the conference room with a broad smile across his face.
After a pe
riod of uncomfortable silence, Kennedy looked to the DDI and said, “Sir, I would like to apologize for Max. He has been under a lot of stress lately. As you know, he and Director Stansfield are very close. I don’t think Max is taking his poor health very well.”
“You don’t need to apologize for him.” Brown appreciated Kennedy’s comments. She was one of the most competent and professional people he had ever worked with. It was too bad she was going to end up being a casualty of this whole mess.
“I know I don’t, sir, but please don’t take it personally. Max is just very cranky, and on top of that, he doesn’t care much for Congressman Rudin.”
“Yes, I know. I can assure you that the congressman feels the same way about Max.” Brown looked at his notes for a second and then said, “I want you to be completely forthright when you go before the committee tomorrow. The last thing we want is to have Director Stansfield’s career end in disgrace.”
Kennedy nodded in agreement, but internally she was deciphering Brown’s real intent. Stansfield had let it leak that he would last six months to a year. Kennedy knew he’d be lucky to last a month. Brown’s concern had nothing to do with Thomas Stansfield’s reputation. It had everything to do with his own career. Scandals in Washington were a media and political feast to be savored, death by a thousand cuts to be drawn out over a period of years not months. Brown, not Stansfield, would be the one in the hot seat if a congressional investigation were launched. And it was extremely rare for someone’s career to survive such a bloodletting.
Rapp drove west on Georgetown Pike in a black 1994 Volkswagen Jetta. It was dark out, and rush-hour traffic was starting to dwindle. The car was registered under the name of Charlie Smith. Rapp had a Maryland driver’s license in his pocket with the same name. The CIA had taught Rapp many things over the years, but two of the most important were to be thorough and paranoid. A shrink had once told him to use the word cautious because of the negative connotations associated with the word paranoid, but Rapp had only laughed. He had always been cautious, it was second nature to him, but paranoid described his current mental state perfectly. When you were on your own, up against the world’s largest and best funded intelligence agency, there was no more appropriate word.
Rapp had an advantage over most, though. He was an insider. He knew how the Agency operated, and despite all of their technological advancements, they were still limited. If a person was proactive and paranoid enough, disappearing was easy. And Rapp was both. That was why three years ago, he had set up the Charlie Smith alias and paid eight-thousand dollars cash for the Jetta. That was why he kept it in a storage yard up in Rockville along with a few other items that might come in handy. Rapp had been the hunter long enough to understand that someday he might become the hunted. And when that happened, it was best not to waste time trying to buy weapons and steal vehicles.
As they passed under Interstate 495, Shirley let out a yawn. Rapp looked over his shoulder to see how she was doing. She looked back at him with her big brown eyes and licked her lips. Rapp had picked her up at 7319 Georgia Avenue NW. For a mutt, she was a good looker. The people at the Washington Humane Society had been very helpful. He’d asked for a medium-sized dog that was mellow and, if possible, didn’t bark too much. They had brought him back to the kennels and showed him Shirley. She was part collie, part Labrador, and part something else. She’d been with them for three weeks, and no one had claimed her, which surprised the woman who was showing Rapp around. It appeared Shirley had been very well trained. When Rapp asked the woman how they had come up with the dog’s name, she told him they went down a list of names until she responded to one. “It could be Curly, Burley, Hurly, or anything that sounds like Shirley, but I picked Shirley. She looks like a Shirley.” Rapp didn’t argue. Shirley was fine with him. After picking her up, he stopped at a pet store and got a leash, some dog food, and a few treats to help woo her.
At Linganore Drive, he took a right off the pike and then took his first left onto Linganore Court. Rapp drove the car to the end of the street, turned it around, and parked. He grabbed Shirley from the back seat and went over to the walking path. It ran between two houses and into the Scotts Run Nature Preserve. The preserve consisted of three hundred eighty-four acres of wooded land overlooking the Potomac River in McLean, Virginia. The hiking trails were well used during the day and especially the weekends, but on a Tuesday night they would be empty. Rapp and Shirley disappeared into the darkness and broke into a jog.
IRENE KENNEDY ARRIVED at 7:20. She had left Langley at six and stopped at home just long enough to make Tommy a bowl of macaroni and cheese and eat a salad for herself. After spending exactly forty-three minutes with her son, she handed him off to Heather, the teenager who lived next door. There was no need to brief Heather on the rules and numbers to call if anything scared her. They had run through the routine at least a dozen times. Kennedy set the security system and left, getting in back of the government sedan with her protector behind the wheel. The ride to Stansfield’s house was filled with guilt and doubt. More and more, Kennedy was feeling like a bad mom. When she wasn’t at Langley working, she was at home working. Tommy was spending a frightening amount of time glued to the TV.