“Wouldn’t you be?” Anthony replied.
Bear surveyed the ruin of the room again and frowned. “Yeah.”
Anthony stood and faced Bear. “So what’s this about?”
Bear said, “First, what I’m about to tell you isn’t official.”
“All right,” Anthony said.
“I’ve been temporarily suspended by the Secretary.” He made air quotes as he said the word suspended. “DSS is officially off the investigation.”
“Gotcha. But you’re doing some looking on your own?”
“Exactly. Something stinks in this investigation. I’m trying to find out what.”
“So what do you want from me?”
Bear shrugged. “I’ll help you, you help me.”
Anthony nodded. “Information.”
“That’s right,” Bear said.
“Agreed.”
“What do you say we sit down? I want to go over what we know. What you know, what I know. Who did what, and when.”
“Let’s move into the dining room,” Anthony said. “I want to lay this out.”
The formal dining room was twenty-five feet long and had a table capable of seating sixteen. Highly polished wide plank flooring and extensive crown molding gave an impression of luxury and wealth.
Bear said, “I’ve seen a picture of this room. The Thompsons used to host dinners here. There’s one in particular I keep getting stuck on.”
Anthony raised an eyebrow.
Bear said, “The guests were Prince George Phillip. Prince Roshan al Saud. Leslie Collins. Chuck Rainsley.”
“Are you serious? When was this?”
“February of ’84.”
Carrie, walking by in the hallway, stopped and stood in the door. Beside her, Julia touched her arm. Both of them were listening.
Anthony said, “February ’84 was not quite three months after the Wakhan massacre.”
“What does that have to do with us, though?” Julia said, interrupting. “Why did Dad have pictures and files about that?”
Bear stared at her, stunned. “He had pictures? Of Wakhan?”
“Yeah,” Anthony said, his voice grim. “It was unmistakable.”
Bear said, “Before Thompson’s personnel file was stolen, I read through it. It looks pretty clear that Thompson was stationed in Afghanistan in ’83. So was Leslie Collins. And—Prince Roshan was also in Afghanistan at the time.”
Anthony said, “I want to suggest an idea here.”
“Go,” Bear said.
“Okay, so … Richard Thompson goes to Afghanistan. Let’s say, just for speculation—that it wasn’t the Russians who gassed that village. We’ll speculate that The Guardian is correct, and it was Afghan militia, backed by Thompson. And not just him, but that Collins and Roshan were involved.”
“Okay? But what does that have to do with now?”
“I’m getting there,” Anthony said. “First—again, according to The Guardian, and also some of my co-workers at the Post, Prince George-Phillip was responsible for the British investigation. Second—he is Andrea and Carrie’s father.”
Bear shook his head and said, “That’s confirmed now?”
Carrie nodded. “Andrea and Dylan turned up last night after Andrea jumped the wall into the British Embassy.”
Bear chuckled. “That girl has more balls than a basketball team.”
“I’ve received an invitation from the Prince to come to dinner this evening.”
“All right. So—he’s your father. Which means he and your mother had an affair—what—when?”
“Spring of 1984.”
Bear nodded. “Then at some point later on, they got back together. When? Where?”
Julia said, “In China. 1996.”
Bear said. “What I don’t get is this: who tried to kidnap Andrea? Why?”
Anthony said, “To … keep the affair secret? Who would want to do that? I assume George-Phillip.”
“Maybe. The Guardian says he suppressed the findings of the investigation. Why? Something to do with her? With Richard Thompson? Was someone else involved?”
“Maybe he was threatened somehow?” Julia said.
“Or she was,” Carrie replied.
“We know that he had some reason to suppress the findings,” Bear said. “We know your mother had a long-standing affair with Prince George-Phillip. And, based on the police report, your mother and father didn’t have much love lost between them.”
Carrie said, “He’s not my father.”
Julia closed her eyes and sighed. “He is mine. But the more I learn about him, the more disturbed I am. I’ve seen the police report you’re talking about. It raises a lot of questions. So does her diary.”
Bear said, “Her diary?”
Julia nodded. “Yes. It’s—in Spanish—difficult to read handwriting. But she makes it clear that she felt like she was a prisoner.”
Bear sat down in one of the embroidered dining chairs. “I don’t get it,” he said. “There’s something we’re missing. All right … who are our suspects?”
Anthony’s eyes darted to Carrie and Julia. Then he said, “I don’t think we can rule out Richard Thompson.”
Bear felt his stomach tense. “Yeah. Yeah, I don’t think we can either. Especially if he knew Carrie and Andrea weren’t his kids.”
Carrie sighed and sat down at the table. Julia walked up behind her, resting her hands on Carrie’s shoulders.
Carrie said, “He knew. He told me Chuck Rainsley was my father. But Rainsley said no, and now … well, you know.”
“Okay, so Thompson is one possibility. What’s his motive?”
“Revenge?” Anthony said. “He’s still pissed his wife had an affair. He was fine until Andrea came into the country.”
“Okay. Who else?” Bear asked.
“Leslie Collins,” Anthony said.
“Okay,” Carrie interjected. “Who is this Collins guy?”
“He’s Director of Operations at the CIA,” said Julia. “He’s basically the second-in-command. I remember him, sort of. He used to come over and meet with Dad. Mom always got weird when he was around.”
Carrie raised her eyebrows. “How long ago?”
Julia shrugged. “When I was in high school. Sometimes he’d come over and he and Dad would lock themselves in the office for hours. Mom and Dad had Collins and his wife over for dinner a few times. Can’t remember her name. Mary? Meredith? I think I may have met him before that, when I was really little. I’m not sure.”
Bear grunted. “Okay. So Richard Thompson and Leslie Collins are both suspects. Who else? Who would need to keep your parentage a secret?”
“Mom?” Julia asked.
Carrie shook her head. “No … but what about my father? My real father?”
Anthony nodded. “It would make for a ferocious scandal. George-Phillip isn’t that close to the throne, but he is a royal Prince. Plus, the head of the SIS. He’s got good reason to keep your parentage under wraps, Carrie. I’d be careful. Especially if you’re going to the Embassy for dinner.”
Carrie looked at Anthony thoughtfully. Then she nodded, once, slowly. “I will. My daughter needs me. I’ll be careful.”
Bear looked back and forth between Carrie and Anthony. She was still grieving, of course, though it had been close to a year since Ray Sherman died. But one day she would heal. And Anthony Walker could do a lot worse than Carrie Sherman. He kept looking at her kind of like a sad puppy dog. She was indifferent, or at least still too bludgeoned by pain to respond to any stimulus other than protecting her daughter. But something in Bear wanted to protect both of them.
Right now, though, he had more important things to think about. Like finding the son of a bitch who had shot his ex-wife.
“All right, all right. So we have three suspects. Anyone else? What about the attack on Friday night? Not to mention whoever shot at your mother on the border yesterday.”
Anthony said, “I think Richard Thompson could be a suspect in all three. If he wanted An
drea out of the way. But Carrie has the same father … and apparently he knows it.”
“Plus,” Bear said, “the drugs and money were planted by somebody. And they’ve been used by the special prosecutor as ammunition in his campaign against Thompson. Don’t forget the grand jury will be meeting soon.”
Anthony nodded. “So the drugs and money were planted by someone else. To smear Thompson?”
Carrie looked back and forth. “What if it was this Leslie Collins? He and Dad … I mean … whatever we call him … he and Richard Thompson were involved in the incident in Afghanistan. Now he wants to shut my dad up, smear him, whatever. So he sets up a scheme to discredit him.”
Julia nodded, rapidly. “That would explain the mysterious accounts in the Caymans I keep hearing about. Maybe.”
“So how do we figure out who it is?” Anthony asked.
Bear answered. “Well, we’ve got two prisoners. Joe Paretsky is in Federal lockup—he was one of the shooters in Bethesda last Tuesday, when you guys were going over to dinner. The one Dylan Paris took down. We’ve identified him, but not who he’s working for, and he’s not talking.”
“And the other prisoner?” Anthony asked.
“Nick Larsden. He’s in the Bellingham City Jail, and the feds are fighting for jurisdiction. They’ve got him for at least one murder in California, the owner of a campsite just out of Redwood City. He’s the guy who was shooting at Mrs. Thompson and Jessica when they tried to cross the border yesterday.”
Anthony’s eyebrows ran together. “I think that’s our guy. Plus, I know a guy in the Bellingham PD.”
“Yeah?” Bear said.
Anthony nodded. “Yeah—you know I went embedded as a reporter in Iraq. One of the guys in the platoon I went in with, he works for the corrections department there. Or he did.”
“Call him. I think I see a trip to the West Coast in my future.”
Carrie. May 5.
As it often was, traffic along Embassy Row headed toward downtown Washington, DC was snarled. Carrie normally needed to feel in control—and preferred to drive herself for that reason—but today she was grateful that one of the Pinkerton security guards was behind the wheel of the black Suburban. She sat in the back seat with Alexandra, fidgeting and nervous.
Another black SUV—the guard had referred to it as a chase car—drove closely behind them. Carrie kept looking down at the invitation. Cream paper with gold and black lettering.
You and your guest are invited to dine with
His Highness, Prince George-Phillip
at the Embassy of the United Kingdom,
4 pm on the Fifth of May, 2014.
His Highness, Prince George-Phillip, was apparently her father. And this invitation felt all too formal to her. Too distant. On the other hand, what else could he have done? Called her up and said, “Hey, this is your birth father. Want to get together?”
Obviously that made no sense. And even though part of her wanted to meet George-Phillip and learn just what had happened between him and her mother—another part just wanted to turn her back. She had nothing to lose by walking away—right now she didn’t have a father at all. Not meeting George-Phillip wouldn’t change that.
On the other hand, meeting him—that held another kind of risk. A risk of getting hurt again. She’d lost her husband and her father. She didn’t want to lose anything else.
But then her eyes fell on her sister. Alexandra. The middle child. She’d never been sure of herself, never had the confidence that Carrie and Julia had, never had that spark of brilliance that Sarah and Jessica had. But one thing she had was strength and loyalty. She wouldn’t shy away from any risk. She’d chosen that risk, she’d chosen to love a man who was broken by war and trauma. And despite the pain that came with that, she was richer for it.
Carrie closed her eyes. She’d also chosen. Ray had been dead now longer than she’d even known him. Nine short months from the day they met to the day he died. They were the hardest, most difficult and yet the best months of her life. She wouldn’t go back and change them. She wouldn’t give back one ounce of grief and loss if it meant losing even the slightest memory of Ray.
Ray—ever courageous, ever honorable, would have chuckled and pushed her to go on.
So, instead of panicking, or withdrawing into herself, Carrie did the only thing she could, the thing she was fated to do, the thing that defined who she was. She reached out and took Alexandra’s hand and squeezed it gently, reassuringly. “Dylan’s going to be fine,” Carrie said.
“Thanks,” Alexandra whispered. “I know. I know he will.”
Carrie sat back in her seat and stared into space. Everything was upside down and confused. She thought of the phone call earlier, as she’d been trying to make some order out of the chaos of the condominium. It was the house phone that rang, and she’d rushed to it, not recognizing the 604 area code.
“Hello?” she’d said.
“Carrie, it’s your mother.”
“Mom?” she had nearly screeched. “What’s happening? I saw the news—you’re in Canada? Is Jessica okay? What happened to her?”
“Slow down, Carrie,” her mother had said, even as the other sisters crowded around Carrie. Then Mother began to speak, but Carrie missed the first few words, because something was different about her mother. She sounded—not strained, or panicked. She didn’t know what she sounded like.
“… so for now we’re just outside of Vancouver, and I think we’ll be here for some time. Jessica’s in intensive care.”
“What happened? Did she get shot? I heard there was some kind of shootout?”
Her mother had sighed. “No. Your sister is very sick, Carrie. She—she got into using meth somehow. She’s addicted.”
Carrie winced and almost doubled over, involuntarily clutching her stomach with one hand. Julia, alarmed, put her hand on Carrie’s shoulder. Carrie waved Julia off, then said, “Mother, how—when— I don’t understand.”
“It happened this winter, when your father was locked up in his office.”
Carrie had gone cold. “He’s not my father.”
Silence for a moment. Carrie’s sisters, Julia, Alexandra, and Sarah, blanched. They all expected the same thing Carrie did—a hysterical rage response.
Instead, her mother had simply said, “No, he’s not. Your father is Prince George-Phillip.”
Carrie had put her hand to her mouth and sobbed. Then she had whispered, “Why did you lie to us?”
Her mother gave the strangest answer, an answer that made no sense, an answer that she couldn’t understand. Her mother had answered, “To save your lives.”
Now, hours later, she still didn’t understand. And she didn’t know if she ever would.
Carrie unconsciously slid down into her seat a little when she saw the two news vans parked in front of the British Embassy, and the crowd of reporters and cameras arrayed along the sidewalk. She knew they couldn’t see into the SUV—the tinted windows were so dark you had to press your nose into the glass in order to make out anything. But all the same, the sight of cameras, of reporters—it took her right back.
The driver swung the car into the driveway of the Embassy, making no concessions to the reporters who had to scramble out of the way.
“Jesus Christ,” Alexandra muttered, unconsciously echoing Dylan.
The clamor outside the car was crazy. The guard cracked the window, rolling it down just a few inches. He spoke with the Royal Marine who guarded the gate, then a moment later, the gate opened. The SUV and chase car entered the Embassy compound, pulling to a stop in front of a three-story red brick building. Half a dozen Royal Marines in uniform were at the front of the building. Two of them approached the car, one opening the door almost immediately as it came to a stop.
“Doctor Sherman? Mrs. Paris? Come this way, please. Quickly, we’re still in sight of the reporters.”
Alexandra got out on her side, and Carrie slid across and followed her out. Quickly, they followed the Marine up
the steps. Almost one hundred feet behind them, at the fence, she could hear shouting. The reporters called her name.
She hustled inside, entering a well-appointed, air-conditioned room. The anteroom had highly polished marble floors, the center covered with a beautiful Persian carpet. Across the room from her stood Prince George-Phillip, holding the hand of a precociously tall six or eight-year-old with raven hair and blue green eyes. An older version of that girl—Carrie’s sister Andrea—stood a few feet away.
Alexandra didn’t wait for introductions. She launched herself at Dylan, who gasped as he touched her, his face the expression of a drowning man who’d just gripped a life preserver.
“I missed you,” Alexandra sobbed. “God, I missed you.”
At the same time, Andrea ran to Carrie and the two women embraced. Carrie gripped Andrea tightly, as if she could somehow know by touch whether or not Andrea was well.
George-Phillip gave Alexandra and Dylan a brief, kind smile. Immediately Carrie liked him better. Then he looked back at Carrie.
“Carrie,” he said, tentatively. “I’m George-Phillip.”
Carrie’s eyes darted to the little girl, then to Andrea.
“You’re my father,” Carrie said.
He nodded slowly. “I am. I’m so sorry I couldn’t tell you before.”
She walked closer, as if to study him. “We shook hands the day of my graduation from Columbia.”
“We did,” he said. “It was one of the proudest days of my life.”
Carrie felt as if she were swimming in uncontrollable currents. She’d once thought she was closer to her father than her mother. But so many things made no sense. His remote behavior. His long absences, both traveling and locked up in his office.
She remembered discussing Ray’s trial with her mother, and her father saying, Perhaps we can find a more suitable topic for discussion. I find this entire subject distressful on the day my daughter got married. She remembered when she found out her father had hired detectives to run background checks on Dylan and his mother. So much never made sense.
Abruptly she said, “I don’t know if I’m prepared for any more terrible revelations. It’s been a tough week.”
He held out a hand. “I understand, Carrie, and I’d like to—I don’t even know where to begin.”
Girl of Vengeance Page 7
