"He called you a MILF."

"A MILF."

"Yep, a Mom I'd Like to Fuck."

Maggie's eyes opened in shock and her jaw hung loose. "That is disgusting."

"It sure is," Nash said, picking up steam. "He told Rory he wanted to fuck you."

"Oh, my God," Maggie said with a horrified look on her face.

"So, tell me, little Miss Harvard Law, how do you feel now about jumping all over your son? How do you feel about not letting him tell his side of the story?"

She was speechless for a moment and then said, "Obviously, I let my emotions get the best of me. But there was a better way to handle this," she added with a bit of an indignant tone creeping back into her voice. "Rory can't go around punching his friends every time they say something that upsets him."

"Can you ever just admit you're wrong?"

"I'm not wrong, Michael."

"Oh..." Nash sighed. "The kid did the right thing."

"No, he didn't. Sidwell has a zero tolerance policy."

"Fuck Sidwell, and stop acting like a lawyer. This is our son we're talking about."

"Don't talk to me like that."

"Do you know how many times I've heard you tell your clients to shut up?" he shot back. "That when they get blindsided by something, to shut their mouths until they get all the facts? That's your motto, and you chose not to live by it tonight. Rory came home, you jumped to a bunch of conclusions, and you hammered him, like a petty third-world dictator."

"That is debatable, but the one thing that isn't is that violence is not the answer. It is not the way to solve problems."

"Shut up, Maggie," Nash said hotly. "I love you and I'll always love you, so I'm going to tell you to just shut that pretty little mouth of yours. Stop being a lawyer and start being a mother. Rory gave that little shit plenty of warnings and he chose to ignore them. He pushed and then Rory gave him exactly what he deserved."

Maggie tried to speak, but Nash put out his hand. "Don't! Don't say another word. It was your idea to send him to that damn elite school. I was fine with Shannon going there. They have a great theater program, but it's not the right place for Rory. It's a damn dilettante factory."

Maggie crossed her arms across her chest and looked defiantly at her husband. "Is that all?"

Out of sheer frustration, Nash started to walk away and then turned back and said, "You have a son up there who loves you. Loves you enough to defend your honor, and in this day and age that's something you should be proud of. He's in a lot of pain right now. He's confused because he thinks he did the right thing."

"I feel bad about not giving him a chance to tell his side of the story, but Michael..."

"Don't but me. I don't want to hear any buts. Would you rather have him walking around telling his friends how big of a bitch you are... because I'll tell you right now, there's plenty of kids his age doing exactly that."

Maggie nodded slowly and seemed to be thinking about what she would do.

"If you love him as much as he loves you," Nash said, "you'll go up there right now and apologize, and you won't bring up any of this zero tolerance bullshit."

"Fine," she relented. "Just give me a minute."

CHAPTER 52

WASHINGTON, D.C.

RALPH Wassen sat at the bar and took a sip of his Manhattan. It was his second in a little less than an hour. At a quarter to twelve on a Tuesday evening the place had plenty of open seats. The person he was supposed to meet was late, and it didn't surprise him one bit, even though he didn't know the man. He knew enough about him, though, to understand that he would make him wait. He had no hard evidence that told him so, it was more intuition. Wassen had canceled a date for this little rendezvous, and he was hoping he wouldn't regret the decision, since his love life had all but dried up in the last year. He kept telling himself it was the demands of work, but he knew it was more than that. He was growing tired of all the jetting around to New York and Miami. Turning fifty had sobered him to the fact that there were fewer years ahead than behind.

Wassen didn't even notice that the man had arrived until the bartender came over and asked if he could get him something to drink.

The man answered in his deep, steady voice. Wassen looked up and saw the man's reflection in the mirror behind the bar. The sight of him standing behind him and the sound of his voice sent a stab of fear through Wassen's veins. Wassen swiveled his chair to the left and realized the man must have come through the back door. He was wearing a black field jacket with a mandarin collar and plenty of pockets. Wassen imagined them filled with all types of gadgets, most of them lethal.

Rapp threw a twenty down on the bar and grabbed his bottle of Summit Pale Ale. "So, Ralph," he said casually, as his eyes looked at everyone except the person he was talking to, "what's on your mind?"

"Ah..." Wassen was caught off guard. "Thank you for coming." There was no apology for being nearly forty-five minutes late. No acknowledgment, really. Just a nod.

"Should we take that booth over there?" Rapp pointed to an empty one on the far wall.

"Sure."

Rapp left the bartender a buck and picked up the rest of the bills. Both men slid into the high-backed booth, Rapp facing the front door and Wassen the back. Wassen clutched his small drink with his long fingers and thanked Rapp again for coming.

"It's not a problem," Rapp said in an easy tone. "What can I help you with?"

"You've got a big day tomorrow."

Rapp shrugged as if to say that it was bigger for some than others.

"My boss is pretty keyed up."

"I'm sure she is. A nationally televised hearing is a lot of free advertising for them."

"Yes it is, and you seem," Wassen said with a grin, "very calm for a man who is about to be grilled on national television."

Again, Rapp shrugged his shoulders. "Let's just say I've been in worse spots."

"Oh... I'm sure you have, but this is different." Wassen took a sip. "This group won't play fair. They will stack the deck in their favor."

"I'm sure they'll try."

Wassen noticed a bit of cockiness. "That doesn't worry you?"

"I can take care of myself," Rapp replied with a grin.

Wassen studied him for a moment; the alert eyes, behind the handsome rugged face. Sitting here in the bar he seemed like a decent fellow. Not the immoral animal some made him out to be. Although, it was not difficult to imagine that he was capable of extreme violence. "Why do I get the feeling that you know something that no one else does?"

Rapp grinned, a lopsided dimple appearing above the scar on his left jawline. "I know a lot of things that others don't, Ralph. That's my job."

"But you're supposed to pass all of those secrets on to the Intelligence Committee, aren't you?" Wassen asked in a sarcastic tone.

"We both know that would be a mistake."

Wassen nodded and then stared into his drink for a long moment.

Rapp watched him intently and then said, "You're going to have to put your cards on the table. You're not the one in a vulnerable position. I am."

"Do you want to bet? If Babs found out I was here, she would pluck my testicles out with her pretty little French manicured fingernails."

"That might be true," Rapp laughed, "but no one is looking to indict you."

"Fair enough." Wassen took another sip and then in a slightly embarrassed tone said, "You know not all of us think you're a monster."

"Just your boss."

"She can be passionate at times."

Rapp said nothing.

"I got a call this afternoon from a friend in New York. He asked me, 'What makes your boss think that we Americans want to extend our constitutional rights to a bunch of homophobes who recruit retarded children to be suicide bombers?'"

"Did you pass along the message?"

"No."

"You should."

"I might," Wassen said without much enthusiasm. "Maybe in the morning... which, by the way, they are talking about closing the morning session."

"I heard." The Judiciary Committee Meeting Room was secure, and it was not uncommon for them to shut the spectators and the cameras out when they didn't know what to expect.

"Why are you doing this?" Wassen blurted out.

"Doing what?"

"Testifying. Any sane man would take the Fifth and make it hard on them."

"One could argue my sanity, but I think taking the Fifth makes it easy on them. It's the game they are used to playing. Being open and forthright is something this town is not used to."

"You're right, there. That's why they're moving to close the morning session. They're nervous you might say something that will embarrass them."

Rapp took a sip of his beer and smiled.

"I think you've got something planned."

"The only thing I have planned is to go before the committee tomorrow and answer their questions."

Wassen nodded and then finally admitted, "I have tried to convince her to drop this whole matter."

"I can't see that happening."

"No." Wassen shook his head. "As much as I'd like to see her do it, I don't think she will."

"Then she and I will be locking horns in the morning."

Wassen nodded sadly and then said, "I would like to help, if there is a way. This infighting is bad for all of us."

"Agreed," Rapp said, "but we appear to be pretty far apart on some major issues."

"Which brings me to my main question - why?"

"Why what?" Rapp asked.

"Why risk your entire career on an operation like this?"

Rapp smiled. Wassen was the first person to get it. "Ralph, that's the million-dollar question."

CHAPTER 53

KARIM finished tying the gag around the man's mouth and then removed his shoes. He held the tip of the knife a few inches from the man's eyes and said, "Toenails can grow back, but toes will not."

It was a line he had heard an Afghan use on a British paratrooper they had captured one night during a battle. He had learned much that evening watching the Afghani methodically wear the man down. He had always assumed there was a real skill to torture, but he'd had no appreciation for it until he'd seen it firsthand. There were several truisms. The first was that everyone broke. No matter how tough they were, eventually they cracked. The only time that wasn't true was if the subject was overstressed and died prematurely of a heart attack. The other truism was that you could get anyone to say anything. In this instance Karim thought that was the more important lesson to keep in mind. The subject was fit and looked to be under thirty. His heart would be able to handle a great deal of pain.

He did not want to start out asking the man if he worked for the CIA, because eventually he would admit to it only to stop the pain. He needed to get him to flatly admit who he worked for. No leading questions.

"I have found in these situations it is best to show the subject that I am serious." Karim looked up at Aabad, who was standing behind the man, and said, "Hold him tightly around the chest." Karim grabbed the man's right foot and placed the tip of the knife under the nail of the big toe. Looking into the frightened eyes of the man, he said, "I can make this one toe last for hours."

The man began to fight. Karim held the foot firmly and jammed the tip of the knife under the nail bed. The man went stiff with pain and his eyes rolled back into his head. Fifteen seconds later he stopped fighting them and his breathing became labored.

"Take off the gag," Karim ordered Aabad. After it was removed he asked the man, "Your name, please. The one you used when you were a Ranger."

"Tony... Tony Jones."

Karim smiled. "I don't believe you, but we will check." He stood and grabbed a mobile phone from a shelf, and he dialed a number and then gave the person on the other end the name.

"Put the gag back on," Karim ordered.

"No," the man screamed. "You haven't even found out if I'm lying to you."