Wilson looked at his five colleagues and incredulously said, “Can’t you see what’s going on? She wants me to drop this because she knows I’m on to something.” When no one reacted, Wilson looked at David Taylor, whom he’d worked closely with for the last three years. “David, don’t you see what’s going on?”
Taylor spun his chair to his left. With his back brace it was the only way he could look Wilson in the eye. “Do you know what your problem is, Joel? You think you’re the only noble person in this town.”
“Come on.”
“I’m serious. The rest of us are all corrupt or greedy. Our motives are suspect, but not you. You’re above all of that. You’re a fucking martyr and you brought this all down on yourself because you’re an arrogant know-it-all. Even in the face of all of this, you can’t see that you’ve screwed up.”
Director Miller looked at him with pure disgust. “Maybe you’d gain a little more perspective from our field office in Bismarck, North Dakota.”
Chapter 46
Virginia
The house was forty minutes northwest of Langley, just past Dulles International Airport. A couple who had retired from the Clandestine Service after putting in thirty-plus years were listed as the owners of the sprawling property. They were now consultants for the CIA, and continued to be paid a generous salary, but they rarely made the commute to the George Bush Center for Intelligence. Their job was to manage the forty-seven-acre compound and its various buildings. The place was low-key, concealed behind rows of trees, a fence, and nothing more than a single gate. There were no guard dogs or men wandering the perimeter with machine guns.
Even to the more discerning eye there was very little to see. The perimeter security was all microwave trip wires and heat sensors and miniature cameras. The system itself was automated, with a software program that could distinguish a deer from a man to limit false alarms. The bulk of the security was in the house. All the windows were fixed, bulletproof Plexiglas, and the interior had been demolished to the studs. Because of the lessons learned from overseas embassy attacks, the walls were now reinforced with ballistic fabric and the doors were all titanium covered in wood veneer. The basement contained two holding cells, an interrogation room, and a panic room as a last and unlikely resort, should the security on the first floor be breached.
Rapp was in the study on the main floor, sitting in a black Herman Miller lounge chair. A man in an identical chair sat six feet away on the other side of the fireplace hearth asking questions and taking notes. The man, Dr. Lewis, was the resident shrink for the CIA’s Clandestine Service. He had known Rapp for a long time. He adjusted his glasses at the corner and said, “Your wife.”
“What about her?”
“How much do you remember?”
Rapp remembered all of it, or at least he thought he did. It was a strange process to relive it all for a second time and it wasn’t all bad. The good memories came back as well as the bad ones. Rapp recognized that might be a good thing to share with Lewis. To a certain extent you had to share with the man, or he simply deemed you unfit for the field, and the only thing more unnerving to a Clandestine officer than a therapy session was being confined to a cubicle at Langley. There was also a feeling of trust with the doctor. It was similar to way he had felt with Kennedy when he’d awakened in the hospital. There was also a feeling that he was not typically a very trusting person.
“At first it was just the pain… the bad memories… the loss… the feeling that I would never be able to recover. It all came flooding back.”
“And how did that feel?”
Rapp laughed defensively. “Like shit… how do you think it felt?” Lewis nodded and scribbled a quick note. “No, I would imagine that was not an enjoyable experience.” He stopped writing. “And then what happened?”
“The good memories came back. Meeting each other, dating, falling in love… that didn’t take long, and then the wedding. We were really happy. I was really happy.” Rapp looked into the fire for a moment and said, “I don’t think I was ever happier.”
Lewis nodded. “I would say that’s probably true.”
Rapp pulled his gaze away from the fire. “Did you know her?” “I only met her once, but I’ve watched you grow up in this business.
I did your original psych evals twenty-some years ago. I’ve watched you through the good and the bad and you definitely had an extra bounce in your step during the time you just described.”
Rapp’s gaze fell back to the fireplace. “In a strange way I want that again.”
“What exactly do you mean?”
“What Anna and I had. I want to find that again. How have I been since she was killed?”
Lewis did not like vague questions. “Could you be more specific?”
“As a person, did I change? Was I the same? What was I like?”
“I would say your grieving process was not untypical.”
“You’re holding something back,” Rapp said, putting a hard stare on Lewis.
Lewis thought of Kennedy and the way she described how Rapp could look right through her at times. “You were understandably angry.”
“Violent?”
“Yes,” Lewis said with a nod, “although violence is a part of this business.”
“But I was more violent than before?”
“Yes… you lacked patience. Not that you ever had a great deal of it to begin with, but after Anna’s death you seemed to lose any tolerance for dissent.”
“Did it interfere with my work?”
Lewis thought about that for a long moment and then said, “As far as I know, it did not, but I think you should ask Irene.”
“You’re holding back again.”
“There was some concern that you were growing a bit too reckless. Taking too many chances. Always pushing ahead even when it made more sense to pause and regroup.”
That sounded familiar to Rapp. He remembered the rage, he remembered killing certain people and feeling satisfaction that the person would never take another breath. It was actually gratifying. Rapp had spent some time trying to remember all of the people he’d killed. It was like a photo album of assholes. The Who’s Who of terrorists, assassins, arms dealers, corrupt financiers, and intelligence operatives. The trip down memory lane was devoid of guilt.
“Back to the good memories,” Lewis said in an effort to steer the conversation back to a point of interest. “How did they make you feel?”
“Good,” Rapp shrugged. “That’s why they call them good memories.”
Lewis laughed and scratched another note.
Rapp frowned as a distant memory came back to him. “Didn’t I tell you once that I don’t like you taking notes?”
Looking as if he’d been caught, Lewis set his pen down and said, “Yes, you did.”
“And we came to some kind of an agreement.”
Lewis nodded.
“If I would be more open, then you’d stop taking notes.”
Lewis coughed slightly and then said, “That’s correct.”
“So what gives?”
“It’s a habit,” Lewis said sheepishly.
“Were you trying to test my memory?”
“A little bit.”
After pointing at the note pad, Rapp pointed at the fire. Lewis tore out the top three pages and tossed them into the fire. “Now,” Lewis said, “back to the good memories for the third time. Tell me about them.”
“I was happy.” Rapp got a faroff gaze in his eyes, “I remembered how close we were. How it was hard to be
