For that matter, who had hunted down Adelina Thompson and tried to kill her not once, but twice? Had Thompson finally grown tired of her and decided to have her killed? Was it more sinister, and he was somehow trying to frame Collins?
Everything was falling apart. Collins stood, inevitably attracting the attention of the legion of reporters and photographers who were encamped on the floor between the dais and Richard Thompson.
It didn’t matter anymore. He was shaking as he walked out of the hearing room. He needed to somehow get a grip on this situation. Maybe it was time to flush out Roshan. Or have him killed before he somehow dodged responsibility and tried to blame Collins for his activities.
Outside the hearing room, he was mobbed by reporters shouting unacceptable questions.
Were you responsible for the massacre at Wakhan?
Who kidnapped Andrea Thompson?
What was your role in the cover up, Director?
Collins pushed his way through. How dare they? No one understood. They didn’t understand that you couldn’t make an omelette without breaking some eggs. You can’t defend a nation without doing some things that nice calm people in their living rooms couldn’t stomach. Right after September 11, Americans had cried for blood. But they had no strength, and when they saw actual blood, they shied back.
It took men of Collins’ stature, willing to do whatever it took, to keep the nation safe.
He left the crowd of reporters behind, making his way to the underground garage. He would go home and get some rest. He would plan. He would get through the rest of this awful week, and go forward with dignity.
But he would also start making contingency plans.
George-Phillip. May 7.
As the small twin-engine jet left the tarmac at Washington Reagan National Airport, brilliant red and orange light flooded through the small windows. The sun was setting over Washington, DC and the view from the air was amazing.
Jane was excited. She sat in a window seat this time, looking far down at the ground as the plane banked to the right, staying on a course over the Potomac River.
George-Phillip leaned forward next to her and pointed out the Washington Monument and the White House. Jane clapped her hands and bounced in her seat. Ahead of them, through the open door of the cockpit, he could see the crew managing the instruments.
Her pure joy in the view helped assuage some of the sting of O’Leary’s betrayal and escape.
Less than ten minutes after he’d ordered O’Leary’s detention, the captain of the Royal Marines guarding the Embassy returned with the news. Oswald O’Leary had driven out of the Embassy grounds less than one minute before George-Phillip placed the call. Where had he gone? And why? Why all of it? The story Anthony Walker had told, of secret phone calls and threats, attacks in the middle of the night—it was alarming in the extreme. He would never have suspected O’Leary, who he’d trusted for more than thirty years.
O’Leary had never hidden his disdain for her. As far back as 1984, he’d said, You should stay away from that Thompson woman. The Queen would not be happy. But disdain was a far cry from murder.
George-Phillip leaned toward the window again. He could see the heavy Washington traffic below, swollen like something alive. Clogged arteries, a disease-ridden old man.
The flight attendant, a young woman who likely had only recently graduated secondary school, approached their seat. “Please continue to keep your seat belts fastened until we reach cruising altitude. In the meantime, can I get you a drink, sir?”
“Orange juice for both of us, please.”
“Why are you having juice, Daddy?” Jane asked.
“Because I want to,” he replied, casually. Jane was at a stage where she asked a lot of nonsensical questions.
The flight attendant turned away and began walking toward the front of the plane when a sudden jerk of the jet seemed to lift her into the air for just a second, then she fell flat to the floor. George-Phillip felt intense G-forces pulling at his stomach as the plane banked hard to the right. Below, facing the window, George-Phillip could see Northern Virginia countryside spread out perpendicular to the plane. They were tilted up almost vertically. He twisted his neck, trying to see what was going on, and then caught sight of it.
Behind them, coming up fast. A bright light with a white contrail.
A missile.
Adriana and Jane screamed.
Dylan. May 7.
Dylan Paris looked up from the textbook he’d been studying when the Captain of the Royal Marines walked into the room. After four days basically hiding at the Embassy he’d grown restless, and despite all appearances to the contrary, he’d held out hope that he and Alex would make it back to Columbia in time for final exams.
That increasingly seemed less likely. All the same, yesterday she’d taken the metro out to Bethesda and picked up their textbooks and brought them back to the Embassy. For the time being, he was still in legal limbo. Not officially a refugee or asylum seeker—nor would he be willing to become one. He’d served his country in wartime, and all he’d done the previous Friday night was protect his family from attackers.
However, the fact was, one of those attackers was an armed federal agent. Never mind that Ralph Myers had been shot by a defending federal agent, Leah Simpson. Never mind that Dylan Paris had taken on the other two attackers—both criminals—with nothing more than a knife. The fact was, Dylan was a suspect in the killing of a federal agent, and when he walked out the doors of the Embassy—if he walked out—he was subject to arrest.
Alex had left an hour before, not long after Prince George-Phillip hastily made his exit for the airport. He knew she would be back later, but for now her trips outside the Embassy were their only real contact with the outside world.
I only expect to be in London for a few days. Just stay here until we manage to sort out what is happening. You’re safe here.
But was he? A killer had attacked Adelina and three of her daughters as far away as Abbotsford, British Columbia just that morning. Only after that had he learned why Andrea had so abruptly—and secretly—fled the Embassy earlier in the week. She’d been attacked in her room by a man George-Phillip said was his longtime personal aide.
Why?
Dylan didn’t know. But he knew he was restless. Being cooped up in the Embassy, with nothing to do and nowhere to go, was driving him over the edge.
Consequently, it was with more than a little interest that he looked up when the Marine Captain entered the room. Over the previous days Dylan had gotten to know some of the Royal Marines, several of whom had served in Afghanistan. They spoke the same language he did.
“Mister Paris,” the Captain said.
“Hey,” Dylan responded.
Visibly disturbed, the Captain said, “I’m afraid the Ambassador has ordered your eviction from the Embassy, sir. If you’ll gather your things and accompany me, I would appreciate it.”
George-Phillip. May 7.
When the obsolete Stinger missile hit the right engine of the jet, it felt as if a giant had grabbed hold of the plane in its fist like a toy, then slammed them into the ground. George-Phillip felt his neck wrench and his head hit the back of the seat hard and his vision went dark for a moment.
The engine, mounted on the right side of the tail of the plane, instantly exploded, sending hundreds of metal shards ripping through the rear cabin of the plane. George-Phillip grabbed for his daughter as a fragment of shrapnel punched a fist sized hole in the cabin no more than a foot in front of him. The screaming from Adriana and Jane didn’t stop as the plane tipped over, the ground now above their heads, now below them, as the plane went into a dangerous spin and began to dive for the ground.
The flight attendant didn’t scream. Thrown to the floor of the cabin by the intense G-forces, her neck was broken.
Air bellowed through the cabin, an animal cry of pain and rage as the plane strained to keep itself intact as it raced for the ground. George-Phillip floundered for bre
ath. Next to him, Jane’s head was canted forward and her hands were covering her face. She shrieked in short, extremely high-pitched bursts with gasps of air in between.
He leaned toward her, wrapping his arms around her and began to sing the first thing that popped into his mind, a lullaby his governess had once sung to soothe him.
Bah, Bah a black Sheep,
Have you any Wool?
Yes merry have I,
Three Bags full,
One for my master,
One for my Dame,
One for the little Boy
Who lives down the lane.
The words came out naturally and he sang them in a strong voice, desperate to overcome the terror that gripped Jane. Her shrieking continued, but it began to abate as he sang the lyrics as loud as he could.
Then the air masks popped out of the ceiling compartment and began flapping around in the air, buffeted by the terrible winds and crosswinds as the plane tilted this way and that. George-Phillip could see the ground getting closer and closer outside the plane, but it was no longer spinning around them. Rather, the plane had stabilized upright, more or less, pitching and yawing to the left and right drunkenly. Jane’s shrieking subsided, though Adriana’s hadn’t.
But the ground was getting closer and closer, trees and houses and swimming pools and schools and shop racing by below, first on one side of the plane, then the other. George-Phillip thought he was going to vomit, but then a loud thump threw the cabin again.
Dylan. May 7.
Dylan was calm, though his mind raced, as he stuffed his books, cash and medication into a bag. The Captain had already informed him that federal agents were at the gate of the Embassy, ready to take custody of Dylan.
Once he finished packing his bag, he turned to the Captain.
“May I call my wife?”
“Of course.” The Captain’s expression wavered. He looked at the door, then to the window, then to Dylan. He met Dylan’s eyes. “Do I have your word you won’t try to escape? That you won’t attempt to go out the window?”
Dylan met his eyes. Then nodded. “Yes.”
“Then I’ll leave you some privacy.” He stepped outside into the hall, closing the door behind him.
Dylan took out his cell phone and dialed Alex’s number. It went directly to voicemail. She must still be on the metro.
“Alex, it’s Dylan. Listen to me carefully. The Embassy is turning me over to the feds. That’s happening right now. I’ll call you as soon as I know anything, but I don’t know how long that will take. Have Carrie call Bear and Prince George-Phillip as soon as possible.”
He paused, eyes darting to the window. He’d promised.
“I love you,” he said. Then he hung up the phone and opened the door.
The Captain stood there, waiting for him. His face was unreadable, but Dylan was grateful he’d been given a chance to make a phone call.
“I’m ready,” Dylan said.
He felt grim as he followed the Royal Marine out of the residence and toward the front of the ground, the reverse of the walk he’d made escorted by other Marines just a few days before.
Outside the Embassy gates, he saw a man and a woman, both in suits. On the left, the man was stout, his face almost chiseled, an unmistakably Irish face. Beside him a woman, taller, with almost-white hair.
“Dylan Paris?” the man said as the Marines opened the gate and escorted him outside.
Dylan said, “Yes.”
“I’m Scott Kelly. Diplomatic Security Service. You’re under arrest.”
George-Phillip. May 7.
George-Phillip’s teeth collided as the plane lurched up with a loud bump, and a rush of blood poured into his mouth. He’d bitten his tongue. Outside, the world swung wildly as the plane continued to swing left and right.
“We’re going to attempt an emergency landing. Everybody make sure your belts are tight. Take the brace position, hands on your heads, lean forward and touch the seat in front of you, feet flat on the floor. Landing in seconds.”
George-Phillip pushed Jane forward, helping her into the position, then leaned his own head against the back of the seat in front of him. The plane had leveled out, and outside he could see lights flashing by. The sky was still rose above them, but it was noticeably darker this close to the ground. Then the lights disappeared, and he could see water, racing underneath the jet.
He felt an inhuman thrust as the plane hit the water, nearly throwing him from his seat, belt or not. A crash, then another crash, the plane went skipping along the water like a flat stone thrown against the surface of the pond.
The plane hit the water again, tilting to the right as the nose swung left. A moment later the plane was stopped.
The pilot was in the doorway immediately. “Everybody to the front door!”
Ahead of him, Adriana unbuckled her seat and lurched toward him. “Jane!” she called.
George-Phillip had already unbuckled Jane’s belt and swung her to his hip. “She’s all right. We have to go before this thing sinks.”
Water was already pouring into the cabin from a dozen or more holes in the aft of the cabin. The flight attendant’s body was nearly covered with water now.
The pilot threw open the front door and a moment later a large yellow raft filled with air just below the door.
“Come on, then!” the pilot shouted. “Go! Go! Get on the boat!”
Adriana went first, then George-Phillip strained to pass Jane to her. Jane wasn’t moving, she seemed almost catatonic, her eyes wide open, her face frozen. He leaned forward, holding the girl out the door of the plane to the life raft. A wave separated them for a moment, leaving a gap of black river water beneath Jane just as he began to lose his grip.
Then Adriana was there, her arms glued around the little girl. She sank to her knees in the center of the boat.
George-Phillip boarded next, followed by the navigator, two other crewmen, and finally the captain.
“Row, sir. Row.” That was the captain, who was holding an oar out to George-Phillip. The Prince took the oar and began to paddle, opposite the crewmen across from him. Not far upriver, a huge bridge, and to their left George-Phillip could see emergency vehicles, lights flashing, along the edge of the water. The pilot had managed to maneuver them not only to the river, but back toward the airport.
Behind them, the plane sank into the river, marked only by a gush of bubbles as water rushed into the cabin of the plane.
Adelina. May 8.
Dreams.
Adelina knew she was asleep in the dead of night, even as she stared around her at the fog clouding her world. She hadn’t slept well, nightmare visions of her daughters attacking an assassin from behind flashing repeatedly in her brain.
Andrea. Sarah. The two girls had acted instinctively and viciously to protect their mother and sister.
She tossed and turned, the painful crick in her neck taking on titanic proportions, a swollen red throbbing welt of rage flooding from her heart to her soul.
The rage would never dissipate. It would never scatter or melt away. Thirty years was too long to contain the lies. Thirty years was too long to hold that rage. Now was the time for her rage to become vengeance.
A flash of memory.
George-Phillip, twenty-one years old. A baby, younger than three of her daughters were now. He’d swept her up in his arms. They’d been stupidly reckless, stupidly open.
The Cherry Blossom Festival, spring of 1984. She’d worn a scarf over her hair and he’d worn sunglasses, but neither of them took any other steps to hide their identity. In a haze of drugged love they’d walked around the tidal basin near the Jefferson Memorial, hand in hand as the beautiful white and pink petals rained down around them. He’d pinned a flower in her hair, and they stood looking out to the water.
In her dream they lay down in the grass and he ran his fingers through her hair. She closed her eyes, a shiver of goose bumps running down the back of her neck as he kissed her.
O
blivious. Stupid.
Because it was an outing like that which had brought the attention of Oz.
George-Phillip was swept away, and she was walking barefoot along the cracked sidewalk in Bethesda, the condominium she’d hated so much towering above her. Her prison. The place she’d given in to despair. She walked up the stairs of the building, her feet moving through sludge and dirt, until she reached the penthouse floor. Walking down the hall, her footsteps left thick black footprints on the carpet.
The front door was open, and she walked into the condo like it was the gateway to hell. Julia was on the floor, two years old, her curly brown hair hanging in her eyes, wailing, and her face red. Above her, pinned to the wall with a steak knife, a note.
I told you to stay away from him!
Without transition she was in the formal dining room of the San Francisco home. Julia was older now, standing across from Adelina, her face twisted in rage, her teeth visible.
Yes, you do! You’ve treated me like dirt for the last eight years! Her shout was a dagger. When I came home from that hideous abortion clinic in Beijing, you never even asked me what was wrong or where I’d been! Didn’t you notice all the blood on the sheets, Mom? Didn’t you notice how sick I got? I needed a mother and all I had was…
Adelina wanted to cry, I didn’t know! I didn’t know!
Her eldest daughter, her first love, shook her head. Nothing. Not once were you there when I needed you. When Lana sent that picture out, you didn’t offer to help. You didn’t hug me, and tell me it was going to get better. Someone in Bethesda Chevy Chase made copies and stuffed them in people’s lockers at school. They tortured me, Mother. To the point where I couldn’t see any way out but suicide. And what I’ve never understood, to this day, was why? Why wouldn’t you help me? Why weren’t you there when I needed you?
Girl of Vengeance Page 24
