Sarah said, “I don’t know. Maybe sometimes you have to trust something.”
Andrea stared at her sister, letting her big green eyes stare. Then she nodded, once. “Maybe you’re right. But how do you know when?”
Sarah shrugged. “I’ve got a lot of questions for Mother.”
“Me too.”
“There are a lot of things I feel like I should know about you. What’s your favorite color?”
“Blue,” Andrea replied. “You?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Sarah asked, gesturing to her all black clothes.
Andrea chuckled. “How come you and Jessica are so different now?”
Sarah’s mouth turned up in a half-smile. “We always were. I think she felt like she had to somehow compensate for … something. I don’t know what. It seemed like I constantly got in more trouble while she constantly became more prim.”
Andrea said, “I don’t see how she got mixed up with drugs.”
Sarah shook her head. “I don’t either. I feel like I missed something crucial, and it pisses me off. We haven’t gotten along the last couple years, but she’s still my twin. I should have known.”
The waitress arrived with their breakfast. They stayed silent as their food was arranged, then Andrea said, “I don’t want to stop long. Let’s sleep a couple hours then get on the road again, okay?”
Sarah nodded. “Yeah. It’s a long way before we’ll get there.”
“You could have picked a more practical mode of transportation,” Andrea said.
“More practical than a Harley?” Sarah asked. She grinned. “What country have you been living in?”
Two hours later, they were driving west again.
George-Phillip. May 6.
It was a little after four in the morning when George-Phillip awoke, fully awake though it was still very dark. He was already an early riser, and the addition of jet lag guaranteed insufficient sleep for the next several days. He stumbled out of bed and took care of his morning routine, then glanced into Jane’s room. His daughter—youngest daughter—thankfully could sleep anywhere, any time. She would still be out for at least a couple more hours.
He closed the door, then stepped out of the suite, intending to head downstairs for a cup of coffee, a habit he’d picked up during his first time in Washington, DC thirty years before.
A Captain of the Royal Marines was waiting for him along with O’Leary when he got downstairs.
“Your Highness,” the Captain said, coming to attention.
“Good morning, Captain,” George-Phillip said, his eyes moving to O’Leary in question.
“George-Phillip, I’m afraid we have bad news,” O’Leary said.
“Sir, the young lady ran last night. She climbed over the fence and ran.”
Stunned, George-Phillip asked, “Which young lady?”
“Andrea Thompson, sir,” O’Leary said.
George-Phillip shook his head. “When did this happen?”
“Just after midnight, sir.”
“And you’re just telling me now?” George-Phillip shouted.
The Captain looked at O’Leary, confused. O’Leary looked uncomfortable. “Sir, that was my order—we couldn’t get her, someone met her with a motorcycle and she was gone before our men even made it to the gate. Nor could we pursue her—after all, she wasn’t a prisoner.”
“She is my daughter!” George-Phillip shouted
The Captain’s eyes widened and he took a step back. O’Leary, however, stepped forward, placing a hand on George-Phillip’s arm. “Your Highness, I’m well aware of that. But you are also the Chief of the Secret Intelligence Service. You can’t allow your personal considerations to interfere with that, sir.”
Rage gripped George-Phillip. His response was delivered in an icy tone. “You take too much liberty, Oswald. I can’t even imagine what you were thinking. Do we have any idea where she went? Who she went with? Why she left?”
The Royal Marine Captain shook his head. “No, Your Highness. Her room was locked from the inside, and while the bedclothes were a mess, there’s no sign of a struggle. She took her bag and went out the window, sir, then ran for the fence.”
George-Phillip said to the Marine Captain, “Go wake up Dylan Paris. And I want to see the video from the security cameras. Has anyone told the Ambassador?”
O’Leary said, “Is that wise, sir?”
George-Phillip said, “Twice now, a sixteen-year-old girl has evaded our security. Think about it, Oswald. I want to know why she ran. We just had dinner last evening and agreed that it would be safest for her to remain on the Embassy grounds.”
He half turned away from O’Leary, but O’Leary grasped his arm. “Sir—have you considered that maybe some of what they are saying in the media about her is true?”
George-Phillip said, “I’m well aware that you always opposed my involvement with Adelina Ramos—”
“Thompson, Your Highness. Her last name is Thompson.”
George-Phillip turned back to O’Leary, jamming his index finger into O’Leary’s chest. “O’Leary, we’ve been friends and colleagues for thirty years. But I’m telling you now that you are pushing this too far.”
“Yes, Your Highness. Of course.”
“You may go. I want an update as soon as possible. O’Leary—don’t fail me. I want my daughter found and protected.”
O’Leary said, “Yes, Your Highness.” Then he turned away. He stumbled once as he stepped away.
“Oswald? Are you all right?”
O’Leary looked back. “Of course, sir. I turned my ankle when I was inspecting where she went over the fence.”
Richard. May 6.
The Central Hearing Facility in the Hart Senate Office building was the largest hearing room on Capitol Hill, with seating for up to several hundred spectators. The seal of the United States Senate, which displayed a flag with thirteen stars over a ribbon labeled E Pluribus Unum, dominated the marble wall at the head of the room behind the dais where thirteen Senators were seated. On either side, wood paneled walls were punctuated with openings behind which reporters with cameras were preparing to film the hearing.
The room was full, every single seat taken. Unlike the typical Congressional hearing where one or two members of Congress showed up to make a few comments for the cameras, for this hearing every single Senator was already seated and ready to begin their questioning.
“The hearing is about to come to order, sir,” said the nameless intern who had accompanied Richard Thompson to the anteroom. “You can go in now.”
Richard didn’t bother answering. Instead, back straight, head high, he walked down the aisle at the center of the hearing room. A hush fell on the room as the hundreds of spectators realized he was approaching the witness desk that faced the Senators on the dais. Much as had been the case fourteen years before, when Senator Chuck Rainsley sat at the head of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee blocking Richard’s appointment to Moscow, Rainsley was back, now as head of the Senate Armed Services committee. The turncoat had even politically survived the switch from Republican to Democrat in 2003, just after the invasion of Iraq, and despite his obvious leftist leanings, had managed to claw his way to the head of the most important and most powerful committee in Congress. Richard remembered all too well the political circus of his confirmation hearings as Ambassador to Russia more than a decade ago. Rainsley had put every possible obstacle in his way, dug deep into his personal life and then blindsided him with closed, classified hearings where his CIA career was examined.
Richard hated this oppressive, noxious room and the chairman who sat at the head of the table. For thirty years Chuck Rainsley had been his nemesis. Richard didn’t allow himself to blink as he walked up the aisle, meeting Rainsley’s eyes defiantly. Despite the flashes of dozens—possibly hundreds of cameras—Richard made his way up the center of the aisle without pausing or even noticing the barrage. None of the people out there really mattered. Now it was between him and Rainsley.
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“All right,” Rainsley said, his appalling Texas drawl elongated for the cameras. He looked at the other Senators and said, “Y’all all right?”
When there was no response, Rainsley banged a gavel on the table. “Good morning, everybody. This committee was originally scheduled to consider the nomination of Ambassador Richard Thompson to be Secretary of Defense. As I’m sure y’all are aware, yesterday the President withdrew the nomination. However, this committee still has business to address with Ambassador Thompson. Now, for the moment, we’re going to skip right over the reports of drug money laundering and corruption, as well as the reports of millions of dollars of assets secreted away in the Caymans.”
Richard seethed at Rainsley’s response. In one sentence, Rainsley had dismissed any possible discussion of the lies he’d been accused of, even as he gave credence in a public hearing to those accusations. Rainsley, once a straight shooting Marine (or so he claimed) had become familiar with the wily, slippery ways of Washington. It made Richard sick enough that he wanted to walk out and go wash his hands.
“Today,” Rainsley said, “we will begin by addressing a report which appeared in The Guardian newspaper in London the day before yesterday.”
Rainsley paused for a full twenty seconds to allow the reporters to get a better angle with their cameras. Then he said, as dramatically as possible, “Thirty years ago, in one of the bloodiest incidents of the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan, a tiny village in an out of the way corner of the furthest province from the Afghan capitol was gassed with sarin, the deadliest nerve gas ever invented.”
Richard felt his lip turning up in contempt of Rainsley. He forced it down. It was essential to maintain his diplomatic facade.
“For those of you not familiar with the military,” Rainsley said, emphasizing (for the three people left in remote rural Alaska who didn’t know) that he’d once been a Marine, “just a single drop of sarin is deadly enough to kill a person instantly. In this incident in Afghanistan, two helicopters delivered the chemical weapon in the dead of night and dropped it on unsuspecting villagers. According to Human Rights Watch, more than two hundred and thirty men, women and children were killed. Even the dogs died, as did a Human Rights Watch investigator who came into contact with the poison three months later.”
The room was silent. Rainsley had absolute mastery over his audience, his words articulate and persuasive. Those words were being broadcast across the nation and the world. If Richard couldn’t counter them effectively, it didn’t matter what he did. His career would be over irrevocably.
Rainsley spoke again, this time his voice loud, outraged. “Ladies and Gentlemen, colleagues of the Senate—for thirty years we have believed that the Soviet Union was responsible for this massacre of innocents. Who here doesn’t remember President Reagan citing the massacre when he described the Soviet Union as an evil empire? And yet … how shocked we would all be to learn that it wasn’t the Soviet Union at all who was responsible for the massacre. Instead—a rogue CIA operative, operating with little or no oversight.”
Richard normally had complete control over his facial expressions and responses. But at the phrase “rogue CIA operative,” he shook his head with contempt.
Rainsley pointed a finger. “According to a report leaked this week to a British newspaper, this man, former Ambassador, most recently acting Secretary of Defense, was responsible for procuring the weapons. He was responsible for delivering them to the Afghan militia, which then dropped them on unsuspecting civilians. Instead of protecting the civilians of Afghanistan, we did just the opposite. We laid waste to them.”
Rainsley shook his head, sadly. Then, just in case no one knew, he said, “When I served in the Marine Corps, we knew a different kind of war. We learned to face our enemies. We learned to protect innocent civilians. The deadliest mission I ever served on, our job was to keep the peace, not to make things worse.”
Rainsley was working himself up into one of his trademark tantrums, his face turning bright red. One of these days, he’d have a stroke. When that day came, Richard hoped he’d be there, to help Rainsley along to the other side. For the time being, he tried not to roll his eyes.
“I must not go on,” Rainsley said. “My outrage knows no boundaries.”
Your morals know no boundaries, Richard thought, staring at the man who had violated his wife, impregnated her not once but twice. He should have insisted Andrea be aborted. Adelina would have refused, but enough sedatives could approximate consent.
Rainsley yielded to the ranking member, a nonentity from the minority party. The tea party might hold sway in the House of Representatives, but here in the Senate, liberal democrats had a grip on all of the gears of government, especially the most powerful committees. Richard listened to Lewis’s opening statement with complete indifference. This committee might think it was important, but in fact all it did was rubber stamp the President’s nominations. Instead of listening, Richard looked up at the ceiling. The room had acoustical tiles in the ceiling to ensure those in the back could hear. Unlike the ancient hearing rooms in the other office buildings on Capitol Hill, this one was modern, sleek, as was the building that housed it. Richard preferred the original buildings. Whoever had commissioned this glass and concrete monstrosity ought to have been shot.
An interminable period of time later, Richard glanced at his watch. It was almost 11 am, and the members of the committee still hadn’t finished their opening statements. He reminded himself that the entire purpose of this hearing was to show the constituents back home that the Senators were doing something. That’s why they were taking all the time. He looked behind him for a moment, at the large crowd.
Richard blinked. In the front row, in the rows reserved for journalists … it was that bitch Maria Clawson. No longer a too-thin social climbing gossip columnist, she was now old, angry and bitter. When she saw Richard looking at her she raised her notebook in the air, just slightly, then smiled at him, as if to say, I’m going to screw you all over again. Yeah, he remembered her. He remembered her poison pen, her sourceless blogs that implicated him in supposedly forcing Julia to get an abortion. As if he’d had any clue the girl had gotten herself pregnant. He’d made it clear to Adelina thirty years ago that his name should never again appear in one of Clawson’s columns, and she failed to prevent it. He’d made sure Adelina regretted that failure. But the satisfaction of seeing her cringe, the pleasure of her capitulation, had done nothing to relieve the seething anger and blackness that stirred inside of him.
He turned back to the front, taking his eyes from the noxious woman.
Finally. Richard snapped back to reality as Rainsley was saying, “Richard Isaiah Thompson, raise your right hand and repeat after me. Do you swear to tell the truth…”
Richard repeated the words mechanically. He didn’t care for the use of his middle name. The name Isaiah was marble and ice, it was murder, it was private. Never in his life had he used his middle name. He didn’t even know how Rainsley knew his middle name, unless Adelina had told him during one of their trysts.
“Do you have an opening statement, Mister Thompson?” Rainsley said. Dispensing with the honorifics.
“I do, Senator.” Richard’s voice was cold as he spoke.
“Please proceed.”
Richard stared up at the dais. Rainsley was in the center. To his left and right were six Senators on each side. This committee (like all of them) tended to be white, male and wealthy. Richard’s natural constituency. But he couldn’t discount the fact that 7 out of 13 members of the committee were Democrats, who would gladly throw him to the wolves if it meant they could extort one more dollar out of the government. The Republicans on the committee weren’t allies either—they were weak, ineffectual, divided and terrified of losing their seats to Tea Party insurgents.
“Mister Chairman, distinguished members of the committee, please allow me to state, first of all, that the charge I was in any way involved in the Wakhan massacre is not only unfou
nded, but a grave injustice. In my detailed comments I will make it clear to you that not only am I completely innocent of these charges, but, in fact, I tried to prevent the massacre and reported it through official channels after the fact. Second. I will demonstrate that the ludicrous charges currently being examined by the grand jury and the special prosecutor are manufactured by the very man who committed the massacre and is now attempting to destroy me in order to save face.”
“That will be quite the feat, Mister Thompson,” Rainsley said. “However, your money laundering activities, or lack thereof, are not of interest to this committee. I’m certain the grand jury will take care of that. This committee is interested in those matters that affect the national security of the United States. Clearly, the provision of weapons banned under the Geneva conventions to terrorist organizations is one of those matters. You’ll restrict your answers to that.”
Terrorists? Rainsley managed to escalate with every word he spoke. The mujahideen of the early 1980s were American allies, regardless of the atrocities they committed in 2001. Richard leaned forward and said, “Senator, official US policy in the 1980s was to assist the mujahideen. While I gave no one chemical weapons, you can hardly retroactively label them terrorists.”
Rainsley smiled, as if to say, Checkmate. “Mister Thompson, the same allies you speak of killed thousands of Americans on September 11. Call them whatever you like, but the fact is those Americans are dead.”
“Mister Chairman,” called out the ranking member, Senator Lewis. “In the interest of time, can we skip the bandying of words back and forth and deal with facts?”
Rainsley nodded. “Of course, Senator. I will concede to you—please ask the first question.”
Lewis nodded, then leaned forward. Based on the opening statements, it appeared that the Republicans on the committee were tentatively supporting him—most likely because doing so allowed them to oppose the administration, which had dumped him like a piece of garbage. Lewis’s glasses hung at the end of his nose, his bald head glaring under the bright lights. His blue eyes looked at Richard over the top of his glasses.
Girl of Vengeance Page 13
