Girl of Vengeance

by Charles Sheehan-Miles

  Bear grunted. He was driving at least four miles an hour now—maybe even five. “At twenty-something years old? I must be in the wrong line of work.”

  He thought through the implications. Tyler Coleman “retired” from the CIA in 2011. Something stank. “What did the IRS say about his income since 2011?”

  Kelly replied, “He reported less than thirty thousand in income in 2012 and 2013. The IRS might have never noticed—we’re talking about rural Idaho, the median income out there is pretty low. But here’s the kicker, Bear. I talked with the Sheriff out there. Coleman’s been arrested for disorderly conduct, public drunkenness and assault in the last three years. He beat up some guy in a bar and did three months in the county jail. His fingerprints should have come up in the National Crime Information Center, Bear. But his record was wiped from there too. And that was after he left the Agency.”

  Bear gripped the steering wheel with both hands. He was moving at a good clip now, almost as fast as a bicyclist. Uphill. With a flat tire.

  Maybe not. Brake lights came on in front of him again. Bear sighed as he came to a stop. He was a tenth of a mile from the exit. He could walk faster than this.

  “Okay. So the CIA was somehow involved in kidnapping Andrea. Or maybe a rogue element inside CIA. What else?”

  Kelly said, “You won’t like the next part.”

  “I didn’t like the last part. What is it?”

  “The guy Leah tagged the other day, before—” Kelly didn’t finish the sentence. Before she got shot.

  “Yeah,” Bear said. “Go on.” Kelly was talking about the bizarre melee that had happened in the street in Bethesda the day before the condominium was attacked. A British tourist had been shot, and one of the shooters killed. The other one was tackled by Dylan Paris and then arrested by Diplomatic Security.

  Kelly said. “Two things. First, the British tourist? He wasn’t a tourist.”

  “Who was he?”

  “Name is Charlie Frazier. We’re certain he’s MI6.”

  Bear let out a curse. “What the hell?”

  “Yeah, exactly. And here’s where it gets really strange, Bear.”

  “It’s not strange yet?”

  “The shooter was Saudi Mukhabarat.”

  Bear didn’t answer. He just sat breathing. In his mind, he thought back to the photograph. 1983. Leslie Collins, Prince Roshan, Richard Thompson. All three were in Afghanistan together.

  “Kelly. Listen to me. I got it. I know what’s happening now.”

  “Well don’t keep it to yourself.”

  “It’s not one group of bad guys here, Kelly. It’s two. Or more. One side is Collins and Roshan and Thompson. They were involved in the Wakhan massacre, Kelly. I bet they engineered it. And now, their mutual paranoia is taking them down. Collins thought if Andrea Thompson’s parentage came out, it would be enough of a scandal to bust the whole story open. But his actions precipitated that instead of preventing it.”

  “What would her parentage have anything to do with it? She’s a bastard child of a prince. It’s not unique.”

  “Her father conducted the formal investigation into Wakhan for the British government, Kelly.”

  Bear was missing something. Who the hell was Oz? Did he work for Thompson like Adelina thought? Or worse, did he work for George-Phillip? Maybe Adelina was all wrong about her former lover. Maybe he’d kill his own children to keep a scandal from happening.

  “Kelly, you ever hear of an intelligence operative who goes by the name Oz?”

  “Oz? Like the Wizard?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Nah.”

  Yes! Bear had a clear path to the exit. Or close enough. Less than two hundred yards down the emergency lane. He slipped the car into the emergency lane and sped up, ten miles an hour, then twenty, then thirty, the cars to his left flashing by.

  Bear spoke again. “Kelly, look into it. This guy’s nasty, and he’s been trying to keep Adelina Thompson away from Prince George-Phillip for thirty years. I don’t know what else he’s done, but he’s the guy who hired the gunman who went after her on the border.”

  “All right. I’m on it.”

  Blue flashes. Shit! Bear saw the lights in his rearview mirror as he pulled off onto the exit. The police car rode up right on his bumper. Damn it. Looks like a State trooper.

  “Kelly, I’m being pulled over.”

  On the other end of the line, Kelly let out a guffaw. He silenced himself for just a moment then burst into heavy belly laughter.

  “Shut up, Kelly.” Bear pulled to a stop, then reached for his wallet and folded it to show his diplomatic security ID and badge.

  Then he waited. The cop was still sitting there behind the wheel, probably watching the end of his movie on the computer in the car.

  Bear waited another very long minute, then opened the car door and started to step out.

  “Sir! Get back in the car!”

  “I’m with Diplomatic Security—” He raised his hands in the air, one of them holding the badge and ID.

  “I don’t care who you’re with, get back—is that a gun?”

  Instantly the situation became much more serious. The State trooper pulled his sidearm and pointed it at Bear. Bear didn’t move a muscle.

  “I want you to place your hands on the roof of the vehicle sir. Do not make any sudden movements.”

  Bear rolled his eyes, then slowly turned to the car and put his hands on it. “I’m not dangerous, officer. I’m an agent of the Diplomatic Security Service. My ID and badge are in my—”

  “Shut up.”

  “Well, that’s not polite,” Bear muttered.

  The officer took Bear’s pistol from his shoulder holster then took the badge and ID from his right hand.

  Then he left Bear standing there and walked back to his cruiser. Bear started to grumble, but then another cruiser pulled up, lights flashing. What the hell?

  From the inside of the car, Kelly’s disembodied voice sounded out.

  “Bear, you still alive?”

  Bear didn’t dare move. But he shouted into the car. “I think I’m under arrest!”

  Kelly didn’t answer, instead bursting into laughter. Again.

  Bear sighed. Then he called into the car, “Look into Oz, will you? I’m on my way to Leah’s if the cops ever let me go.”

  “I’m on it!” Kelly replied, chuckling.

  With friends like that, who needed enemies?

  George-Phillip. May 7.

  Wednesday morning’s Guardian carried a giant headline.

  AFGHAN GOVERNMENT FILES COMPLAINT WITH WORLD COURT

  Prime Minister tells Guardian, “Being a Royal won’t protect Prince George-Phillip from prosecution.”

  The article was filled with dozens of manifest falsehoods. Some were simply from ignorance—such as mistaking the International Criminal Court with the World Court—two very different bodies with very different jurisdictions. But some of the mistakes in the article were clearly otherwise motivated. Whoever had leaked information to The Guardian had a copy of the report George-Phillip had filed in 1984, but it was clearly filled with distortions.

  George-Phillip was considering leaking the actual report. He wasn’t sure what else would accomplish the job of clearing the air. And he couldn’t very well protect his daughters if he was facing a trial.

  He set the paper down on the expansive desk. The office in the family quarters at the Embassy was quite nice, bigger than George-Phillip’s office in London and certainly far more traditional. He’d never cared for the steel and glass headquarters of MI6. Outside the window, he could see the crowd of protesters outside the fence. Dozens of them, and the crowd was growing every minute.

  Justice for Afghan Civilians, one sign read. Civilian Blood is on Your Hands! said another.

  He studied the protestors for a moment. They were young and old. Big and small. A broad range of people who were genuinely outraged that the facts of the murder of hundreds of civilians had been covered up for
so many years. He felt sympathy for them. He’d felt the same outrage. He remembered that day in Miss Thatcher’s office. Shaking.

  It’s a miscarriage of justice. Prime Minister, if we sit on this it will tell the world we approve.

  Prime Minister Thatcher had merely shook her head. No, Your Highness. As it is, the world believes the Soviets are responsible. If they learn the truth, it will be a massive victory for Chernenko.

  Chernenko is an old man! George Phillip had replied. He’ll likely be dead within the year.

  But the Soviet Union will still be there, Your Highness. For now, the truth must stay hidden.

  George-Phillip had collapsed into a chair. In a quiet voice, he’d said, And what of Richard Thompson and Leslie Collins? Prince Roshan and Vasily Karatygin? They’ll just go free after such a massive crime?

  She’d shrugged then said, God will deal with them.

  Perhaps God would, George-Phillip thought. But he also thought that God mostly worked through human agencies.

  A knock on the door. George-Phillip turned away from the protestors and said in a loud voice, “Come in.”

  The door opened. It was Oswald O’Leary.

  “Come in, old friend,” George-Phillip said. “I suppose you’ve heard the news I’m recalled to London.”

  “I have, Your Highness. No doubt you’ll put an end to all of this when you arrive.”

  “Do you see them out there?” he asked, pointing to the street.

  O’Leary’s nose wrinkled, as if he smelled something bad. “It means nothing. There’s a protest every day in Washington.”

  “It means something,” George-Phillip said. “Those people in that village. Their blood cries out from the ground.”

  “Very poetic, sir. But not practical.”

  George-Phillip shook his head. “Always practical, my friend. I’ve known you thirty years and little changes.”

  “Always the idealist, sir. I’ve protected you from yourself for more years than you know. What will you do now?”

  “I will tell the truth. My daughter called me not long ago. She’s asked me to speak with a reporter from The Washington Post.”

  O’Leary’s eyes widened. “Your daughter, sir?”

  “Carrie, of course.”

  “I wouldn’t advise it, sir. I truly wouldn’t. I know Carrie and Andrea are your daughters, but clearly Andrea doesn’t want to be. She ran away when you provided her shelter. And the other one … she was married to a war criminal.”

  “Oswald,” George-Phillip said, an edge forming in his voice.

  “Sir, you know I’ve never approved of your affair with Adelina Thompson. If she knew, the Queen would—”

  “You go too far, Oswald.”

  O’Leary faced him without flinching. “I look out for your best interests, Your Highness. I always have. You realize that none of this would be an issue if you hadn’t had that affair in the first place. Sir, I’m begging you. Do not talk to this reporter.”

  George-Phillip shook his head. “I admire your conviction, but this is the course I must take. In the meantime, I have a task for you, O’Leary. And there could be none more important.”

  O’Leary sighed heavily. Then he said, “Yes, sir. What is it?”

  “Oswald, I’d like you to go to British Columbia, to carry my best wishes to Adelina. I want you to ask her and her daughter—all of them, if she wishes—to join me in London. And if she agrees, I want you to escort her and keep her safe.”

  O’Leary looked stunned. “Sir? You can’t be serious—”

  “I’ve never been so serious, Oswald. I know you don’t approve of her. I know you disagree with me. But you’re also my most trusted aide. You’re my most trusted friend, Oswald.”

  O’Leary closed his eyes. Then he nodded, once. “Of course, Your Highness. Whatever you wish.”

  Adelina. May 7.

  Adelina Thompson stared at her temporary cell phone as if it were a snake about to betray her. It lay on the plastic tray table, amidst the debris of Jessica’s breakfast. Adelina had bought coffee and a croissant at the coffee shop in the lobby of the hospital. After days here, she was ready for a hotel room, a bed and a shower. But she wouldn’t leave Jessica alone here. Not after all that had happened.

  Jessica didn’t appreciate it, of course. She was eighteen, and what eighteen-year-old appreciates their mother? Certainly none of Adelina’s daughters had. Except Sarah. Sarah, who had surprised her. Sarah, who had pulled through such incredible and excruciating pain and become a stronger woman for it.

  Sarah … who had whispered in her mother’s ear, just before Adelina left for California after Christmas, “I’ll miss you, Mom. Thanks for everything.”

  One day, though, Jessica would understand. Jessica wanted nothing more than to be left alone. But the fact was, she’d been left alone too much, too long.

  So, for the time being, they were staying here. They had the security guards Julia had hired, and Jessica was recovering in a safe place now. Safe physically, anyway. Every few minutes she looked back at the phone.

  Carrie had sent her a text that morning. It was brief and to the point.

  Mom. Prince George Phillip would like to speak with you.

  Following that sentence was a telephone number. 202 area code. Washington, DC. George-Phillip was staying at the Embassy. Her daughters had visited him.

  She wanted to call. She didn’t dare.

  Except for the phone call before she fled the Bay Area, they’d exchanged no words since before Andrea was born. What reason did he have to call her now? And what would she have to say to him? She still loved him, but what did that really mean, when she’d rejected him in order to protect her children so many years before?

  He’d married. Adelina had watched from afar, but even minor royalty had media coverage of their weddings—especially when they were prominent diplomats. His wedding to Anne Davies had been covered in the celebrity magazines and gossip blogs, and Adelina had read every word, studied every picture.

  Lady Anne was much younger than George-Phillip. She had blonde hair and blue eyes and was nothing like Adelina. She looked … wholesome. Beautiful, well-bred, almost certainly well educated. Adelina felt a painful mix of emotions when she looked at the photographs. Pain. A vague warm happiness for George-Phillip that he had finally found someone to love. But also a stabbing pain. All those years he’d stayed single … more than twenty years after they’d met. But marriage. Marriage meant he’d given up. That he’d moved on. That he’d finally let go of their shared dream together. The night of the wedding, after spending hours locked in her room looking at the photos online, she’d collapsed into her bed and wept, because that was it. She’d lost all hope.

  Two and a half years later, the poor woman succumbed to pancreatic cancer. A hideous and aggressive disease.

  He must have been heartbroken. The news media had reported they had a single daughter, Jane. But she’d been unable to find a single photograph of the girl. George-Phillip must keep her tightly under wraps.

  Adelina picked up the phone. She turned it over in her hands, trying to decide. She should call. She wanted to call. But she was terrified. Would he only talk to her out of some sense of duty to the past? She couldn’t imagine it would be anything else. But she couldn’t let her life be driven by fear anymore. She dialed 1-2-0-2-

  Then one of the security guards knocked. A moment later he ducked his head into the room.

  “Mrs. Thompson? Two young ladies here, they said they’re your daughters.”

  Adelina gasped and stood up. “Let them in, please.”

  A few seconds later Andrea and Sarah walked into the room. Andrea wore tough blue jeans and a T-shirt. Her hair had been dyed, black and turquoise. Sarah wore her customary black, with fishnet stockings and combat boots.

  The three of them stood, frozen, the two girls facing their mother. To the side, not forgotten, Jessica slept peacefully.

  “Hello, Mother,” Andrea said.

  Ade
lina sniffled, trying to hold back tears. She approached Sarah and Andrea and said, “I’m so glad you’re here. I’ve missed you terribly.”

  Sarah approached and put her arms around Adelina. “I’ve missed you too, Mom.”

  Adelina squeezed her arms around Sarah tightly. Then she looked up at Andrea. Her youngest daughter. The daughter who had born the price, more than any of the others, of Richard’s sickness and violence and Adelina’s terror. She whispered, “Andrea.”

  Andrea walked toward her and put her arms around both Sarah and her mother. They stayed that way for a long time, swaying slightly, until Andrea broke off the hug and stepped back. Sarah followed suit.

  “Have a seat,” Adelina said. “How did you get here?”

  The two girls looked at each other and exchanged a secret look. Then Sarah said, “The first half by Harley, but we took Amtrak for the second half.”

  Adelina looked at Andrea. “I understood you were safe at the British Embassy. Why did you leave?”

  “Someone attacked me … and … I had a lot of questions.”

  Adelina sat up. “In the Embassy?”

  Andrea nodded. “Yeah. I was getting ready for bed and texting with Sarah. A man came in and tried to—I don’t know if he was trying to hurt me or kill me or what. But I pushed him off, and Sarah picked me up.”

  Adelina closed her eyes. “I’m so sorry, Andrea. For everything. But especially for you being in that kind of danger. Everything I ever did was to protect you girls. But I’ve not exactly succeeded there, have I? Tell me what you remember about the attack.”

  Andrea began to describe what happened. What the room was like. The man’s smell. Then she said, “He had a thick Irish accent. Deep voice.”

  “Oz,” Adelina whispered.

  “What?” Sarah asked.

  Adelina explained. As she finished telling the story, she said, “I always thought he worked for Richard. But now I’m beginning to doubt.”