FIFTY.

    It was dark outside and the wind was howling off the big bay. Rapp stood in front of the full-length mirror in his bedroom and carefully pulled the bandages back from his wound. It looked like he'd been stepped on by an elephant. The bruising covered almost his entire right butt cheek and had already started to seep down into his leg.

    The doctors wanted him to stay off his feet for this very reason, but both he and the doctor knew the advice wouldn't be followed. He'd keep taking antibiotics and applying ice when he had the time and he'd make it through just fine. He threw on a pair of sweatpants and a thick cotton T-shirt and carefully made his way down to the kitchen.

    Anna was on her way home from work and Rapp was praying that she had calmed down enough that they could talk about last night without getting into another fight. Rapp wasn't much in the mood for any more screaming. He'd thought on and off all day about how he should have handled things with Anna. He'd screwed up to be sure, but he wasn't completely off base. Anna knew who she was marrying. She'd seen him in action before and knew it could be rough. And on top of that her father and two of her brothers were cops. The Philippines had been a successful trip. The Andersons were safe and on their way home, the deaths of the SEALs had been avenged, General Moro had been dealt with, Abu Sayyaf had been routed on their own turf and General Rizal had requested the aid of the CIA in ferreting out any other traitors. It had been a good couple of days for the Agency.

    On another front, however, things were not so good. Tensions between the Israelis and the Palestinians were approaching a dangerous level. There was a movement afoot in the United Nations to send in a team of independent inspectors to review what was already being called the Hebron Massacre. New footage was being released by the hour of tiny bodies being pulled from the rubble.

    The outrage was building to the point where several Jewish groups had taken to the airwaves protesting the heavy hand of Prime Minister Goldberg. Having been on the receiving end of perhaps the most horrific act of mass genocide in the history of mankind Jews were very sensitive to the murder of women and children. As a people they held the moral high ground when it came to suffering, and the last thing many of them ever wanted to see was their own people committing atrocities that drew comparisons to the Nazis.

    After returning from the White House, Rapp had gone straight to the CIA's Counterterrorism Center on the ground floor of the new headquarters building where he was brought up to speed by Jake Turbes. He had been Kennedy's replacement when she'd vacated her post to become the new DCI. Kennedy had handpicked him with the consent of President Hayes. Turbes was a veteran of both Laos and Afghanistan. He was one of the few people left at Langley with any real field experience. This probably more than any other reason was why Rapp got along with him.

    It was amazing that Turbes, a maverick from Louisiana, had survived the Agency's purges. The risk-averse CIA of the nineties did not treat case officers like Turbes well. He was a real throwback, and Rapp suspected that Turbes had only survived the various shakeups by keeping a low profile and a little black book.

    Rapp had confirmed a rumor that one of Turbes's bosses had indeed tried to fire him. The boss, a slick climber, didn't like Turbes's rough style and gunslinger attitude and wanted him out. With thirty years under his belt Turbes was informed that he was being forced into early retirement. Turbes politely declined. The boss told him he didn't have a choice. Turbes then told the boss that he knew all about the girlfriend he kept in Cathedral Heights and that he would be more than happy to tell both his wife and the counterespionage guys that he was keeping a flame on the side. The boss decided to rethink Turbes's early retirement, but that wasn't enough for the fifty-three-year-old veteran.

    He told the supervisor he had twenty-four hours to resign from that Agency or he could kiss his reputation and family good-bye. The next morning the boss resigned.

    Right now Turbes was very unsettled about what was going on in the Middle East. Prior to the terrorist attacks of September 11, the director of the CIA's CTC was afforded a fair amount of anonymity.

    That was no longer the case. Congressmen and Senators now called frequently demanding to know what dangers were lurking on the horizon and what the CTC was doing to thwart them. Turbes had been forced to hire six extra people just to handle all the increased liaison duties between the Hill and the various federal departments.

    Turbes agreed with the belief that intelligence wasn't any good unless it was shared with the people who might be able to do something about it, but the politicians by and large did not fall into the category.

    As far as Turbes was concerned there was one absolute about Washington, and that was that politicians loved to hear themselves talk. No matter how many times you told them that something was classified there was always someone else they felt they could confide in. A wife, a girlfriend, a staffer without the proper security clearance, the list was almost endless.

    There were a few rare exceptions. A select number of Senators and Congressmen could really keep their mouths shut, and they were the people who for the most part had gravitated toward serving on the intelligence committees. The real plums for the egos on the Hill had always been Judicial, Appropriations, Finance and Armed Services. These were the committees that were most likely to garner them air time and enable them to funnel pork back to their districts. But with the new war on terror a few of the opportunists had forced themselves onto the intelligence committees so they could capitalize on the committees' sudden higher profile.

    Turbes kept a close eye on these people and had shared many of his concerns with Kennedy and Rapp. Just today he had sat on two pieces of intelligence that were so inflammatory he didn't feel he could trust them with the committees until Kennedy gave the go-ahead. Kennedy had agreed wholeheartedly and had already scheduled an early meeting at the White House so they could brief the President. The first piece of intelligence involved the gruesome murder of an Iraqi general in the Middle East and counterfeit money and the second involved the most taboo subject in the entire Hayes administration-the Saudis. Rapp knew when the President heard what they had to say he was going to blow his lid. OPEC for the most part went the way of the Saudis, and a warm relationship with the Saudis could go a long way toward keeping oil prices stable.

    Rapp grabbed a pot from under the stove, filled it with water and placed it on the burner. While waiting for it to come to a boil he decided to check to see if they had any messages. There were two for Anna and he saved them both. After adding the rigatoni noodles to the boiling water he uncorked a bottle of red wine and started making the sauce. Shirley the mutt sat on the floor watching him intently, waiting for any scraps that might fall her way. The extent of Rapp's culinary skills were limited to three or four pasta dishes and steaks on the grill. After he had the sauce going he put two place settings on the breakfast bar. He would have to eat standing for a few more days.

    Anna arrived home just as the noodles were coming off the stove.

    She greeted Shirley and then set down her heavy black bag. After hanging her coat in the front hall closet she entered the kitchen with arms folded and stopped on the other side of the small center island.

    Looking down, she fingered a stack of mail, most of it junk.

    Rapp dumped the noodles into the colander sitting in the base of the sink and looked through the rising steam at his wife, who so far had not acknowledged him. Deciding to take Kennedy's advice he said, "Honey, I just want to let you know I'm very sorry about last night. I shouldn't have blindsided you like that, and in the future I'll try to do a better job of letting you know what's going on."

    Anna did not look at him. She kept her eyes down, and continued to finger the stack of mail. She had her hair pulled back in a tight ponytail and slowly she began to nod. It was less of an acceptance of the apology than an acknowledgment that she'd heard him.

    Rapp watched her intently, not quite sure how this little game was supposed to proceed. With each passing second of her silence he grew a bit more irritated. He'd made the first step and she could at least thank him for trying. In a voice void of his earlier conciliatory tone he asked, "Is there anything you'd like to say?"

    She shrugged her shoulders and continued looking through the mail.

    "I don't like this," she said without looking at him.

    "I don't like being so out of control. No one has ever made me this angry. This is not who I am."

    Rapp wasn't sure if he should reply, but something told him he should just keep his mouth shut and listen.

    "I've never known anyone like you. There's no relationship book out there on how to be married to a spy."

    Rapp smiled.

    "I'm not a spy."

    "You know what I mean." She kept her arms folded and looked him in the eye for the first time.

    Rapp nodded in silence.

    "I understand that I didn't marry a businessman. I know who you are, and I respect you and love you for everything you've done, but you have to remember, you didn't marry a nincompoop who waits dutifully for you to come home every night and never asks a single question other than "How was your day?"

    Anna pointed to herself.

    "That's not who I am… that's not who my mother was. I'm not going to live a separate life from you. I need to know what you're doing. I need to be kept in the loop." She paused at the sight of her husband frowning.

    "Mitch, contrary to what you think, I know how to keep my mouth shut, and I'm sure as hell not going to say anything to anyone that might jeopardize your safety."

    "What about national security?" he asked.

    "I'm not asking to know the names of the CIA's informants in Iraq. I want to know about you. The hardest part about all this is having no idea where you are, or what you're doing."

    It was all so strange for Rapp. He'd spent his entire adult life never having to explain to anyone anything about his job. It was something that he'd always kept tightly segmented from his personal life. The entire idea of opening up and sharing any of it with anyone was foreign to the point of making him almost claustrophobic. Even though he felt this way he knew she made sense. If she were to suddenly leave the country with barely a moment's notice, and give him no explanation of where she was going, how long she would be gone, or what she'd be doing, it would drive him insane. There had to be some type of a middle ground where they could meet.

    Finally he said the only thing he could.

    "I can't argue with a single thing you've said, but you have to understand it won't be easy for me. I'm not exactly a great communicator."

    This made Anna laugh.

    "No you're not, but admitting it is half the battle."

    Seeing her smile made him feel better almost instantly.

    "Well, I promise I'll work on it, but you have to promise me you won't push too hard. Spouse or not… there are certain things I can't tell you."

    "And you need to promise me that you're not going to lead any more commando raids."

    Rapp sighed and agreed. Anna and his boss were right. Though his job would never be a safe one, though he would certainly find himself in the eye of the storm again in the future, it had been plain stupid and unnecessary to involve himself so directly in the hostage rescue. It just wasn't his job anymore.

    "I promise." He held out his arms and Anna came to him. He grabbed hold of her and held her tight.

    "I'm sorry, Anna."

    "I know you are." Anna embraced him and kissed his chin.

    "I'm glad you're home, and now you're never going to leave again."

    Rapp ignored her and asked, "Are you hungry?"

    "I'm starving."

    "Good. Have a seat." Rapp pulled out a barstool for her and poured a glass of wine. Efficiently, he prepared two plates of steaming noodles and added a healthy dose of red sauce to each. He grated a little Parmesan cheese and sprinkled it on top of each plate.

    Giving him one of her piercing looks, she said, "So what do we have to do to make sure you never get involved in something like this again?"

    Rapp wasn't exactly crazy about his wife's choice of words. He was a man of action, and the phrase "never get involved" had far too much finality to it. To buy some time, he said, "Irene and I are going to talk about it… go over some guidelines for what I should and shouldn't be involved in."

    Anna took a drink of wine.

    "I know this isn't easy for you, honey, but you've sacrificed enough. It's time to let some other people carry the load. My dad's been a cop for over thirty years. He didn't spend all of them kicking down doors and chasing bad guys."

    Rapp knew she was probably right, but it didn't mean he had to like it. If the Philippines had proved anything to him, it was that he wasn't ready to call it quits. Somehow he would have to sort all this out before another assignment came up, or he would make the same mistakes.

    Anna was about to say something else when the phone rang. Rapp walked over and looked at the caller ID. The call was from Langley. He grabbed the handset.

    "Rapp speaking." He listened for a moment and then said, "Jesus Christ. You can't be serious." After listening again for a few seconds he said, "All right. I'll be there as soon as I can," and then hung up the phone.

    "What is it?" asked Anna with genuine concern.

    "Someone just assassinated the Palestinian Ambassador to the UN."