With a sigh, Nash deleted much of what he’d written and prepared to start over. As his fingers flew over the keyboard, he had another moment of personal revelation—this one even less pleasant than his self-induced attitude correction. For the first time since he’d joined the Agency, Nash hadn’t responded with revulsion when he’d considered what a post-CIA life might look like.
As usual, Maggie was right.
A come-to-Jesus was in order.
The reinforced steel door behind him banged open and Nash frowned.
It was customary to at least knock before barging into the Holy of Holies. The kind of conversations held in its sacred space were of the sort meant for station chiefs and presidents.
Someone needed to learn some manners.
As Nash turned, the frustration he’d been holding at bay boiled over. “Were you raised in a barn?” Nash said.
“Look who’s taken to the executive persona like a duck to water. Just because you’ve adopted the seventh floor’s dress code doesn’t mean you have to copy their attitude too.”
Other than Maggie, the number of people who could talk to Nash in this manner and still boast a picture-worthy smile was in the low single digits.
Digit number one was framed in the doorway.
“What if I’d been on the phone with someone important?” Nash sputtered, trying to cover for his irritation.
“More important than me?” Rapp said. “Impossible. Now, are you going to keep pissing and moaning or do you want to get back in the game?”
Nash wanted to be mad.
He really did.
Though he’d shucked his jacket and rolled up the sleeves on his dress shirt, he knew that Rapp was right. He looked like any of the other SES bureaucrats who lorded over their Washington fiefdoms.
Rapp, on the other hand, looked like… Rapp.
Where Nash’s pants and shirt still displayed some of their dry-cleaner-induced stiffness, Rapp’s wardrobe gave off a different vibe. His pants were wrinkle-free, but the cuffs had a slight coating of dust. Similarly, his shirt, while clean, was open at the neck and untucked. The sleeves were rolled and the fabric bunched as if perhaps its wearer had been in a recent wrestling match.
Knowing Rapp, this was entirely possible.
But it was the vibe that radiated from his former partner that most irritated Nash. Rapp brought to mind an athlete who’d just stepped off the field for halftime. He was in his element, warmed up, and ready to give the other team hell. Nash, on the other hand, wasn’t even the former starter who was now offering encouragement from the sidelines. He was in the owner’s box with the rest of the has-beens and never-was’s. But as much as Nash wanted to direct his irritation at his former teammate, he couldn’t. Not because he’d suddenly outgrown his admittedly childish behavior. No, his change of heart stemmed from something Rapp had just offered.
A chance to lace up his cleats and join the team.
“Tell me,” Nash said.
He cringed at the needy tone that accompanied his answer and prepped himself for Rapp’s ribbing. It didn’t come.
“Shit’s going sideways,” Rapp said. “I need your help.”
“In the field?” Nash said.
“Sort of,” Rapp said. “I want to put your newly minted clout as a senior Agency executive to work.”
“What are you talking about?” Nash said, a sinking feeling settling in his stomach.
This didn’t sound like donning a chest plate or grabbing a rifle.
“Ashani’s here. I need to meet with him.”
“Not gonna happen,” Nash said, shaking his head. “The Islamabad chief of station showed me a breakdown of the Iranian delegation. It’s rife with Quds Force minders. Your picture is probably on every urinal in the Iranian embassy. No way can you get within a mile of Ashani.”
“I know,” Rapp said. “That’s why you’re going to set up the meeting. Invite Ashani to coffee. A mano a mano between the head of the MOIS and the CIA’s deputy director for counterterrorism. Hold the meeting in your hotel suite. I’ll join you.”
Nash shook his head. “He won’t accept. I was supposed to meet with Ashani’s number two earlier, but he stood me up.”
“Moradi?”
“Yep.”
Rapp smiled. “Ashani will accept. He already reached out to Irene to set the conditions. He’s going to provide us with information in exchange for his family’s safety.”
“On the missiles?”
“That and something more.”
“What?”
“CRANKSHAFT.”
Inwardly Nash sighed, but he kept his expression blank. While this wasn’t an invitation to be Rapp’s number two man in the tactical stack, it sure beat the hell out of hobnobbing with Pakistanis.
“Sure,” Nash said. “When?”
