match. One of the men in the video was Wafa Zadran, who had spent three years in Guantanamo. Several members of the Joint Intelligence Committee were harsh critics of the detention center in Cuba and had made a platform out of lecturing the CIA and the Pentagon that Gitmo was a recruiting tool for terrorists. This particular group of politicians fell into the dangerous mind-set that Islamic radicals thought, acted and behaved like anyone else, and if you were simply nice to them they would be nice to you in return. In its mildest form, this type of this was naive, and in its harshest form it was extremely narcissistic. Either way, it was wrong and did nothing to help fight Islamic terrorism. Zadran was yet another example of their failed and short-sighted policy, but Kennedy knew these politicians all too well. They would never accept responsibility for what they’d done.
There was a soft knock on the door and then a woman in her midfifties entered. It was Betty Walner, the CIA’s director of the Office of Public Affairs. “Everything is ready. Do I have your authorization to release the clip?”
The clip was their solution to the stampede of panicked agents and assets. Chuck O’Brien, the director of the National Clandestine Service, had advocated the idea. As O’Brien put it, “Dead men don’t tell secrets. This will put an end to it.”
Kennedy was averse to the idea at first. The CIA didn’t like making sensitive things public, and this was about as sensitive as it could get. Her mind had been pretty much made up for her when the terrorists decided to release a second edited clip of Rickman’s beating. It became obvious that they were going to try to milk Rickman’s interrogation to make it seem as if he was still alive. O’Brien’s idea became the toaster in the bathwater. Release the clip of Rickman’s death and short-circuit the entire game. There was also a serious opportunity to embarrass the Taliban by showing the execution of the two interrogators by one of their own. It would make them look like rank amateurs.
“Yes, the White House signed off on it,” Kennedy said, reaching for her cup of tea.
“I’ve already received more than a few requests for interviews with you.”
“I’m too busy right now.”
“I know you are, but you’re going to need to make some statements. First about Rickman and Hubbard and their service to our country. You have to do that.”
Kennedy nodded. “I will at some point.”
“It needs to be today.”
Kennedy didn’t take it personally. Walner was just trying to do her job. “I’ll have something prepared by the end of the day.”
“And it would really help if you’d do a sit-down with a half dozen or so reporters.”
“Off the record?”
Walner shook her head. “Not on this one, Irene. It’s too big. Have you had time to read the papers today?”
“No.”
“The hawks on the Hill are screaming bloody murder over the reintegration program in Afghanistan and all the green-on-blue violence. They’re laying all the blame on the White House, and you’re stuck in the middle. Five at the most and they’ll have you in a committee room with cameras and they’ll be asking anything they want. Your best chance is to start shaping your message right now.”
Kennedy looked down the length of her office at the small hallway that connected her office to the deputy director’s office. Stofer was leading a group of her top advisors her way. She didn’t have the energy to deal with the media right now and she wanted to hear what her advisors had to say. “Stop back in a few hours with a plan and we’ll review it,” she said to Walner.
Walner left and Kennedy got up with her cup of tea and moved over to the seating area, which was composed of one long couch with its back to the window, a rectangular, glass coffee table, and four chairs, two across from the couch and one at each end of the coffee table. Kennedy took her normal seat and set her cup of tea on the table. “So where do we stand?” she asked her advisers.
The director of the Clandestine Service looked at Stofer and then Rapp and cleared his throat. “Irene, none of us are taking this well. It sucks, but all things considered, Rick dying is not a bad outcome. I know it sounds harsh, but it’s the reality of our business.”
“So this is your glass-is-half-full pep talk?”
O’Brien looked a bit sheepish. “I’m not proud of, it but if that’s the way you want to look at, that’s fine with me.” He nervously twisted the gold band on his wedding-ring finger and added, “It could have been a hundred times worse.”
Kennedy took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. “Sometimes it doesn’t feel that way.”
“Remember Buckley?” O’Brien said in an ominous tone. Bill Buckley was the CIA’s station chief in Beirut who was kidnapped by Hezbollah in 1984.
Kennedy remembered Buckley. He was a friend of her parents. After his kidnapping and subsequent torture his interrogators beat information out of him until they’d discovered his entire network of spies and assets. One by one those people simply disappeared or were found dead. The disaster crippled the CIA for more than a decade in the region. “I imagine we’ve all spent a good deal of time thinking about Bill this week.” She looked at her tea for a moment and admitted, “You’re right, it could have been a lot worse, but somehow that doesn’t make me feel very good right now.”
“I hate to sound harsh,” O’Brien said in his deep voice, “but Rick probably welcomed this. After what he went through…” O’Brien shook his head, “I wouldn’t want to see my worst enemy have to endure that.”
Rapp didn’t know if it was his head injury or if he’d always thought like this, but he was not comfortable with all of the emotions that everyone was wearing on their sleeves. This was CIA, and more precisely, the Clandestine Service. The department were filled with badasses from every branch of the military. They were the risk takers, the ones who were sent in to do the dirty work. You could try to soften torture and call it enhanced interrogation measures, but Rapp had used more than enhanced interrogation measures and so had Rickman. It was the world they lived in. It sucked that Rickman had to endure that kind of abuse, but they were professionals. There was also something else bothering him that he couldn’t put his finger on. It was a feeling that something wasn’t right, that things didn’t add up.
“How’s your head?”
Rapp looked up to see Kennedy studying him. He felt fine, just a little tired. “Not bad.”
Her gaze narrowed and she said, “You looked like you were in pain.”
“No… just thinking about something.” Rapp leaned forward and brought his hands together, and then, deflecting Kennedy, asked, “So where are we with this idiot from the FBI?”
“You’ll be interested to know that Scott saw him take a little ride with our old friend Senator Ferris last night.”
“Do we have audio?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Do I need to worry about this guy?”
Kennedy shook her head. “He has a meeting this morning with Director Miller. We’ve already discussed the matter and Miller assures me Agent Wilson will no longer be a problem.”
“Good,” Rapp said, and then, changing gears, asked, “And the transcript? I heard Rick threw them a curveball or two.”
Stofer opened a black leather briefing folder. “That’s right. He tossed out a few names… the names of people who as far as I know do not work for us.”
“Who?” Kennedy asked.
Stofer adjusted his reading glasses and said, “Aleksei Garin, SVR Directorate S.” Stofer whistled. “That’s going to be a tough one to swallow.”
“I’m not sure anyone over there has the balls to confront Aleksei. He’s not afraid to put bullets in people’s heads.”
Everyone agreed and then Stofer said, “Shahram Jafari, head of Iran’s Atomic Energy Organization. Another tough one to swallow, but they’re so damn paranoid they might make Jafari’s life miserable- at least for a while. They’ll be turning themselves inside out trying to find out if Jafari is a traitor. The last one isn’t so clean. He identified Nadeem Ashan with the ISI. He doesn’t work for us per se, but we consider him a valuable ally.”
“Why would Rick throw Ashan’s name in the mix?” Rapp asked.
