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years earlier. The Department of Defense had shipped his ODA team off to Pakistan to help the black ops boys from Langley who were trying to train and equip the mujahedeen in the treacherous border region between Pakistan and Afghanistan. Hurley, in his typical gruff manner, had expressed his amusement that the vaunted Green Berets were now attaching shrinks to their units. He wondered if Lewis was similar to the political commissars who were attached to Red Army units, which was not exactly a compliment, since the communist officers were political appointees and in charge of Communist Party morale among the troops. They were also known to ship off to Siberia anyone who did not show absolute devotion to the party. They were feared and despised by their own men.
    Lewis had read clean through the rough bravado of Hurley, and rather than take offense, he laughed along. As the weeks passed, however, Hurley began to consult the shrink with increasing frequency. Hurley soon learned the good doctor was a valuable asset to have around. Lewis, he found out, had a gift. He could read people. The doctor was a walking, talking polygraph.
    When Hurley was finished giving the afternoon’s play-by-play he did not stop to hear the doctor’s opinion or let him ask questions. He moved headlong into what he thought needed to be done. “I want you to sit down with him and run him through the wringer. Clear your calendar for the rest of the week if you have to. I want to know what the deal is with this kid. He’s hiding something and I want to know what it is.”
    As was his habit, Lewis pursed his lips and stared off into the distance while he thought about other possibilities. He respected, liked, and felt a sense of loyalty to Hurley, but he was not exactly a well-balanced, mentally healthy adult male. Kennedy, on the other hand, was possibly one of the most measured and thoughtful humans he’d ever had the pleasure of working with. Before he did anything he wanted to hear her side of the story.
    “I’ll clear my schedule for tomorrow,” Lewis said, agreeing without really agreeing. “Let’s head inside. I’m starving and I need to use the bathroom.”
    After Lewis had relieved himself and washed his face, they found Kennedy at the kitchen table reading a file and picking at a plate of noodles. Lewis looked at the uninspired pasta and frowned. One of his passions was cuisine, and it pained him to watch his colleagues put so little effort into something so important. Without saying a word he began searching the cupboards for something, anything that he could use to create a passable meal. Kennedy and Hurley shared a brief smile.
    Lewis stuck his nose into the refrigerator, and without bothering to turn around, said, “Stan, would you be so kind as to fetch a bottle of wine from the basement? A Chateau Dominique would be fine.” He took out a package of chicken and closed the door. Moving to the sink he paused for a brief moment and then said, “You might as well grab two.” When Hurley was gone, Lewis looked over his shoulder at Kennedy and motioned for her to join him at the sink.
    “So,” he said, “Stan’s not exactly thrilled with your new recruit.”
    “He’s not the easiest man to please.”
    Lewis turned on the water and began to rinse the chicken. With a wry smile he said, “He thinks you set him up.”
    Kennedy rolled her eyes.
    “This is the one you told me about? The kid from Syracuse?”
    “Yes.”
    Lewis splayed the chicken open and let the water run through the crevices. “You never said anything about his fighting abilities.”
    Kennedy sheepishly shrugged her shoulders and said, “I didn’t know he had them.”
    “That’s a pretty big thing to miss.” Lewis glanced up at her. “I’m not judging.”
    “I’m not proud that I missed it, but in the end isn’t it a good thing?”
    “Maybe … maybe not.”
    Kennedy explained what she knew about Rapp, which admittedly wasn’t a great deal, but she