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 was 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 Rapp 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