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He had it memorized, and that profile could belong to one of only two people: either Congressman Albert Rudin, the chairman of the House Select Committee on Intelligence, or Ichabod Crane.
    Clark continued to the far end of the room. «Good afternoon, Al.»
    Rudin didn't respond, and Clark didn't expect him to. Al Rudin Was probably the most socially retarded politician in Washington. Clark grabbed a glass from the credenza behind the congressman and filled it with a couple of shots of Johnnie Walker scotch. The senator waved the drink in front of Rudin and asked if he'd like some. Rudin gruffly shook his head.
    Albert Rudin was in his seventeenth term as a United States congressman. He was a Democrat to the bone and hated absolutely every single Republican in town with the possible exception of Senator Hank Clark. Rudin was a tireless party hack. He did whatever it took to perpetuate the party. If the party was embarrassed by a scandal where they were clearly in the wrong, it was AI Rudin they paraded out in front of the cameras. It was pretty much the same rhetoric every time. The Republicans want to starve your children, they want to give a tax break to their wealthy mends, they want to kick your parents out of their nursing home – it made no difference that the reporters were asking questions about possible felonies committed by a fellow Democrat; to Rudin, it was good versus evil. He represented good, and the Republicans represented evil, and the truth mattered not. This was a marathon, not a simple jog around the block. It was about beating the Republicans.
    Hank Clark sank into the leather chair two over from Rudin and turned on the small reading lamp. After taking a long sip from his drink, he put his feet up on the chair between them and let out a long sigh. Clark weighed two-hundred-sixty pounds, and at six foot five he needed to take a load off his tired bones.
    Rudin leaned over and said, «I'm worried about Langley.»
    Clark looked at him passively and thought, No shit. When aren't you worried about Langley? Rudin was obsessed with the CIA. If he had it his way, the Agency would be mothballed like an old battleship and placed in the Smithsonian. Despite! d1inking it, and wanting to say it just once, Clark was far too smart to let a sarcastic impulse get the best of him. It had taken him years to gain Rudin's confidence, and he wasn't going to piss it all away for one small moment of personal satisfaction.
    Instead, Clark nodded thoughtfully and said, «Tell me what's on your mind.»
    Rudin shifted uncomfortably in his chair. «I don't want another insider to take over when Stansfield dies. Your committee should never have confirmed him in the first place.» Rudin's face twisted in disgust as he talked about Thomas Stansfield. «We need to bring someone in who can clean that place up.»
    Clark nodded and said, «I agree,» even though he didn't. He thought of reminding Rudin that Stansfield had been confirmed by a Democratic-controlled committee but thought it was best to keep him as calm as possible.
    «The president is in love with that damn Irene Kennedy, and I know that bastard Stansfield is going to recommend her as his successor.» Rudin shook his head. His deeply lined leathery skin turned red with anger. «And once she's nominated, it's over. The press and everybody in my party» – Rudin pointed a bony finger at Clark – «and yours is going to want to jump all over the idea of having a woman as the director of Central Intelligence.» Rudin didn't want his position to be construed as politically incorrect, so he added, «Not that I would mind a woman, but not Stansfield's protИgИ. We have to do something to stop that from happening, and we have to take care of it before the president gets the ball rolling. Once that happens, we're screwed.»
    Clark studied Rudin for a moment and nodded slowly as if the crass old man had just imparted a rare pearl of wisdom. It was so easy to play him. «I've been