"And they still don't," Hurley said dismissively.
"Really ... how in hell did you introduce yourself?"
"I told him I was a trainer from Richmond. Said I went a round with this young kid named Rapp and was very impressed. I wanted to ask his sensei what he thought."
"And?" Lewis asked, suddenly very interested.
"The kid doesn't pass the smell test. His sensei says he came in three months ago and claimed he had almost no experience. Within a month and a half he had throttled everybody in the dojo except the sensei."
"Brazilian jujitsu?" Lewis asked.
"Yeah ... how'd you know?"
"I saw him take Victor down today. The style is hard to miss."
"So he comes in here and almost bests me and then he snaps Victor's elbow ... I'm telling you, the kid isn't who he says he is."
Stansfield's patience was wearing thin. "Be more specific."
"I'm not sure, but it doesn't feel right."
"What ... you think he's a plant ... a spy?" Kennedy asked in a mocking tone.
"I'm not sure. I'm just telling you he doesn't pass the smell test. You can't get that good that quick."
Kennedy looked at Stansfield. "Let's cut to the chase. He doesn't like him because he's my recruit." She sat back and folded her arms across her chest. "He's a misogynist."
"I don't like him because I don't know who the hell he is. We need to know everything there is to know about these guys before we bring them in. That's why military experience is a must. That way we know exactly what they've been doing for a minimum of four years."
"And how is that working out for us, Stan?" Kennedy shot back. "We don't have a single operative in the pipeline, and we've been at this for almost two years."
"I am well aware that I have failed to produce. Painfully fucking aware, but that doesn't mean I'm going to rush things and have something this important blow up in our faces."
Lewis, in a neutral tone, asked, "Stan, what is your problem with Rapp?"
He took a while to answer and finally said, "I can't put my finger on it. It's more of a feeling. A bad feeling."
"Do you know what I think it is?" Kennedy asked. "Two things. First ... I think you have major control issues. You can't stand the fact that you weren't involved in recruiting him. And second ... you feel threatened."
"What?" Hurley's face was twisted into a mask of confusion.
"He's you. He's the man you were forty years ago, and it scares the crap out of you."
Hurley shook his head dismissively. "That's bullshit."
"Really ... well I can say the same thing about your gut feeling. It's bullshit. What, do you think the PLO planted him in a D.C. suburb twenty-three years ago, raised him Catholic and sent him off to Syracuse to play lacrosse? Or do you think it was the KGB before the Soviet Union collapsed and now he's a rogue deep cover operative? Ridiculous." Kennedy dismissed the ludicrous idea with a flip of her right hand. "You're clutching at straws."
No one moved or spoke for five seconds, while Kennedy's stinging remarks set in. Lewis finally said, "She has a point." He pushed back his chair and stood. "I'd like to show you something. I sat down and talked with him before all of you arrived. I think you will find this very interesting." Lewis approached the surveillance control board and pressed a few buttons. A black-and-white image of Rapp appeared on the screen. He was sitting in the office on the first floor. Lewis's voice came over the speakers. He was offscreen to the right.
"That was unfortunate, what happened this afternoon."
Rapp sat still for a few seconds and then nodded.
"Do you feel bad at all about what you did to Victor?"
It took him a long time to answer, and then he said, "We're all big boys here."
"So you feel no remorse?"
"I wish it hadn't happened, but Victor isn't exactly the nicest guy."
"I see. Is it possible that you intentionally broke his arm?"
"Intentionally is a strong word. We were sparring and one thing led to another."
"The thing that led to the other was you snapping his arm before he could tap out."
"I'm not sure he would have tapped out."
"You could be kicked out for what happened."
"Why?"
"Sergeant Smith thinks you intentionally broke Victor's arm."
"I don't see how that would be fair. No one said anything about what holds we could use or not use. We were supposed to stay away from the head and the groin. That was it."
"If you intentionally broke another recruit's arm that would be grounds for dismissal."
Rapp looked at the floor for a long moment and then said, "I don't like playing all these games."
"Games?"
"Yeah ... games."
"How do you mean games?"
"You know what I'm talking about."
"I'm not sure I do."
"That file on your desk the other day." Rapp pointed to the clear surface. "The file with my name on it."
"What about it?"
"You were testing me."
"Really?"
"Yes," Rapp said in an easy tone. "I've seen the way you monitor what's going on around here. You study everything." Rapp gestured at the desk. "You're not the kind of guy who leaves sensitive files lying around unless there's a reason. I'm sure this place is wired for video and sound." Rapp motioned toward the bookshelf and then the overhead light. "When you asked to see me a few days ago and I was left sitting in here by myself for fifteen minutes, you were probably sitting up in the attic or down in the basement watching me. Testing me to see if I would open the file and read what was in it."
Lewis could be heard clearing his throat and then saying, "Even if that were true, I don't see it excuses your breaking Victor's arm."
"I never said it excused anything. What I said is that you are playing games with us. You leaves files lying around, tell us one set of rules and then let Victor break them. You were in the barn, how was it okay for Victor to punch Fred in the face?"
"We will deal with that separately. This is about what you did."
"I saw the way you reacted when Victor punched Fred in the nose." Rapp paused and looked down at his hands. "Do you know what I think ... I think Victor doesn't fit in."
"How so?"
"Based on what I've seen since I've been here, there are just two logical conclusions where Victor is concerned. Either Victor is a recruit just like the rest of us or he's part of your evaluation process."
"Part of the process?"
"He works for you guys. He's one of the instructors."
"And why would we do that?"
"So you could get a closer look at us. You put Victor in with us, and his job is to tempt us into making mistakes. Ask us who we are and where we're from. Try to get guys to screw up so you can get rid of the guys who don't have the discipline."
"Interesting."
"Either way it isn't good. If I understand this program correctly, Victor is not the kind of guy you're looking for. So if he is a recruit, and you guys can't see that, I'm not sure I want to work for people who can't grasp the obvious."
"And if he is one of the instructors?"
"It's a pretty fucked up way to train disciplined men."
"Let's assume you're correct for a second. Knowing all of that ... you decided to break his arm."
Rapp shook his head. "I had my suspicions before, but I wasn't sure. After I broke his arm, I saw the way you and the other instructors reacted, and I pretty much knew he was one of you."
There was a good five seconds of silence and then Lewis asked, "Do you think you have a good moral compass?"
Rapp let out a small laugh. "Here we go with your vague questions."
"I know, but please try to answer this one."
"You mean do I understand the difference between right and wrong?"
"Yes."
Rapp hesitated. "I would say pretty much yes."
"But?"
"Here ... at this place ...
it seems like that line keeps getting moved."
"Can you give me an example."
"That angry old cuss ... the one my recruiter warned my about ... well, I'm not here five minutes and the two of us end up in the barn ... He's telling me to quit and save all of us the effort. I tell him no and suggest we should find out if I have what it takes. He very clearly tells me that the head and groin are off limits while we spar. We lock horns and twenty seconds into it I have him beat. He was about two seconds from blacking out when he grabbed my nuts and practically turned me into a eunuch. He never said anything to me about it. In fact I haven't seen him since. Then you have Victor running around here breaking every rule he wants while the instructors are all over the rest of us. Again, we go in to spar today and the instructors clearly tell us the head and groin are off limits, and what does Victor do ... Fred is within seconds of beating him and Victor punches him square in the face. I saw the look on your face, but the other two didn't say boo. It's screwy. I don't know how you expect the rest of us to follow any rules. And here I sit ... technically I didn't do anything wrong, and I'm being threatened with the boot."
"I didn't threaten you."
"You said Sergeant Smith thinks I should get the boot. I'd say that's a threat."
Lewis hit the stop button and turned to face Hurley. With arms folded, he said, "That was one of the more difficult sessions I've conducted. Do you know why?"
Hurley shook his head.
"Because I agreed with virtually everything he said."
CHAPTER 18
STANSFIELD stood at the end of the dock, looked up at the moon, and ran through the list of transgressions. Although he didn't show it, and he never did, he was livid with what was going on down here. He had allowed Hurley far too much latitude, and while much of his anger was directed at the snake eater, more of it was directed back at himself. How had he not seen the signs earlier? This place, this operation, all of it was his responsibility. Kennedy had tried to warn him as respectfully as she could, but his days were filled with a hundred other pressing issues of national security. And he had a blind spot when it came to Hurley. Especially on the operational side of things. He'd known Stan longer than anyone at the company. He knew his long list of talents, and his short but potent list of faults.
There'd been a few bumps over the years, occasions when Hurley had let him down, but even the great Ted Williams struck out every now and then. They had met in Budapest in the summer of 1956 just as everything was heating up in the unwilling Soviet satellite. Stansfield was in his thirties and was quickly rising through the ranks of the fledgling CIA, while Hurley was in his early twenties, fresh out of training and thirsting for a fight. Stansfield saw firsthand in the run-up to the Hungarian Revolution that Hurley had a real aptitude for mayhem. He was talented, and wild, and a lot of other things, some good and some bad. But one thing was undeniable. He knew how to get at the enemy. Engage them, upset them, bloody them, and somehow make it back with nothing more than a few bumps. In the espionage business it was easy to fall into a safe daily pattern. Begin the day at your apartment, head to the embassy for work, a local cafe for lunch, back to the embassy, maybe a cocktail party at another embassy in the evening, a stop at a local cafe for a nightcap, and then back to your apartment. You could safely move about a foreign capital without ever risking your job or your life. Not Hurley. When he landed in a new place he headed straight for the rough part of town. Got to the know the prostitutes, the barkeeps, and most important, the black-marketeers who despised their communist overlords. Hurley fed him daily reports about the rising contempt among the citizenry and proved himself to be a first-class field operative. He became Stansfield's indispensable man.
Tonight, however, Stansfield was having his doubts. Budapest had been a long time ago. Sooner or later all skills diminished. The obvious transition was to move him behind a desk, but that would be like asking a race horse to pull a plow. It would kill him. Stansfield looked back up at the house. He had silently left the meeting and walked down to the lake on his own. A simple hand gesture was enough to tell his bodyguards to wait at the top of the small hill. Hurley would know to come find him. He did not have to be asked.
Stansfield could tell his old colleague was well aware that he had disappointed him. He was as down as he'd seen him in many years, and it could have been because of a variety of factors. At the top of the list was probably that shiner on his face. Stansfield had to bite down on the right side of his tongue when he'd found out that Kennedy's recruit had been the one who'd painted him. Hurley's fighting abilities were unmatched by any man he'd ever encountered. His tolerance for pain, his quickness, his mean streak, his Homeric ability to find the weakness of another man, no matter how big or strong, had become the stuff of legend at Langley.
Looking back on it now, Stansfield could see where the mistakes had been made. He had allowed Hurley to create a cult of personality down here. His own little fiefdom of Special Operations shooters. All of them were extremely talented and useful, but as a group they had the ability to create a toxic stew of contempt for anyone who had not walked in their shoes. Even Doctor Lewis, a snake eater himself, had voiced concern. Kennedy had repeatedly attempted to nudge him in the right direction. She had the gift--the ability to glimpse where it was all headed. She knew they needed to adapt, change course and tactics, and she had been trying to get Stansfield's attention. The problem was, as the deputy director of operations, he was in charge of it all. Every valuable operative they had in every major city all over the globe and all of the support people who went with them. Virtually all of it was compartmentalized in some way, and a good portion of it wasn't even put to paper. It was a never-ending chess game that was played in his head every day, all day long.
Stansfield heard the soft footfalls on the stairs coming down to the lake. He turned and made out the image of Hurley in the moonlight. The platform swayed as he stepped onto the L-shaped dock. Hurley approached his boss without a word and pulled out a pack of Camels. He offered his old friend one, knowing that he liked to acquaint himself with his old habit when he was away from his wife. The two men stood facing the lake, looking up at the starry night sky, puffing on their cigarettes for nearly a minute before Hurley finally spoke.
"I fucked up."
Stansfield gave no reply. Just a simple nod of agreement.
"Maybe it's time I call it quits."
Stansfield turned his head a few degrees to look at Hurley and said, "I will tolerate a lot of things from you, but self-pity is not one of them. You've never been a quitter and you're not going to start now."
"I got my ass beat by a college puke."
"You got your healthy ego bruised is what happened."
"You don't understand. It should have never happened. I still can't explain how it happened. I'm not getting any younger, but even on an off day I'm still better than ninety-nine point nine percent of the guys out there."
"I know math was never your strong suit, but the answer is pretty obvious."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"If you can beat ninety-nine point nine percent of the guys out there and he bested you that means he's in the point one percent."
Hurley shook his head. "I don't see how it's possible. Not enough training."
"You don't see it, because you don't want to. I did a little checking on my own. Irene's find is an exceptionally gifted athlete. He's considered a bit of a freak of nature in the world of lacrosse. Did you know he's considered to be one of the greatest college lacrosse players of all time?"
"What in hell does that have to do with fighting?"
"A great athlete can learn almost anything, and do it a lot quicker than an average athlete," Stansfield said firmly. "Your big problem, though, is that you allowed your personal disdain for anyone who hasn't worn the uniform to cloud your judgment."
"Still--"
"Still nothing," Stansfield cut him off. "The boy is a three-time All-American and national c
hamp. You got thumped by a world-class athlete."
"Who has no real training."
"You yourself said he's been taking classes."
"Rolling around some mat at a strip mall is not training."
Stansfield let out a tired sigh. It was his way of releasing pressure so he didn't blow. Some people you could gently tap a with a finishing hammer a few times and they would get the point. Not Hurley, though. You had to hit the man square in the forehead with a sledgehammer repeatedly to get your point across.
"Sorry," Hurley said meekly. "I'm still having a hard time buying this kid's story."
"You are possibly the most stubborn person I have ever met, and that's saying a lot. You have used that to your advantage many times, but it has also gotten you into a fair amount of trouble, and before you get all sensitive on me, this is coming from the guy who had to get you out of all that trouble over the years. I've called in a lot of favors to pull your ass out of the fire. So hear me when I tell you that this issue is moot. The kid beat you, and quite honestly I don't care how he did it, or where he learned how to do it. The fact is, he did it, and that makes him a very desirable recruit."
Hurley finally got it. "What do you want me to do?"
"Fix it."
"How do I fix it if I'm not even sure where I fucked up?"
"Stop being so conveniently modest. You know where you made mistakes ... It's just not in your nature to confront them, so dig a little harder and they'll turn up. And by the way, I made a few mistakes of my own. Ultimately, you are my responsibility." Stansfield glanced back up at the house. "That last hour in there was one of the most embarrassing of my career."
Hurley was too embarrassed himself to speak.
"We're supposed to know better," Stansfield continued. "We're the veterans, and we just had two kids point out something that we both should have caught. There was a day when I knew better. To put it mildly, you are an organizational nightmare. You belong in the field. I think this," Stansfield held his arms out and motioned at the nature around them, "lulled me into thinking that you were in fact in the field, but you're not. You're too corralled down here."