Girl of Vengeance

by Charles Sheehan-Miles

“So the last question,” Bear said. “Who is Oz?”

  Anthony answered that. “We know who it is now. Oswald O’Leary. Prince George-Phillip’s assistant. What we don’t know is why.”

  “Where is he now?” Schmidt asked.

  Carrie said, “He got away. George-Phillip gave me photos and descriptive information to pass on to our security people. In case he shows up.”

  Schmidt said, “So what next? Adelina Thompson and our other key witness are testifying on Monday morning for the grand jury.”

  “I’m running my story Monday morning,” Anthony said. “We’ve got everything we need. I’d love it if I could get some quotes from you, even if they are anonymously attributes. But the story’s happening no matter what.”

  Schmidt said, “We’ll give you some quotes. Thompson and Collins are guilty of mass murder, but you and I both know they may never go to jail.”

  Anthony said in a calm voice, “I can still publicly hang them.”

  “You’re all forgetting one thing,” Carrie said. “What about Dylan? He’s sitting in jail for killing a man who was attacking his family.”

  Schmidt said, “Mrs. Sherman—just before you got here, we’d already determined to let Mr. Paris go and drop any charges.”

  Carrie closed her eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  Dylan. May 10.

  Dylan’s release from the federal lockup happened quickly and later he would remember little of it. What he did remember was when the guard escorted him to the front door, back in his street clothes. Alexandra was waiting outside, along with Bear Wyden.

  She flew to him, a flash of brown hair and green eyes and then he was enveloped in her arms and Dylan knew that at least for that moment, right now, everything was going to be okay.

  “God, I missed you,” he whispered, ignoring the people who walked past on the sidewalk, some of them less savory than others.

  “Come on, kids. Time’s a wasting.” Bear’s tone was gentle as he said the words.

  Dylan and Alex pulled away from each other, and Dylan said, “Do I owe you for getting me out?”

  Bear shrugged. “Nah, I’m just the delivery boy. You can thank the IRS.”

  “Oh, well that’s weird. Bear—thanks.”

  Bear grinned. “Let’s get going.”

  Five minutes later, they were driving on the Capitol Beltway back to Bethesda. In the car, Bear kept up a running patter about his opinion of DC cabbies (low), his opinion of the federal government owned car they were driving (even lower) and especially his opinion of the increasingly humid weather (lowest). Alex sat in the front passenger seat, and Dylan leaned forward in the seat behind her, keeping a hand on her shoulder.

  When Bear came up for air, Dylan said, “So am I in the clear?”

  Bear glanced over his shoulder at Dylan for just a second, and then his eyes were back on the road. “Yeah. You’re not going to face any charges. You did the right thing after all. What you did was heroic, and almost certainly saved Andrea’s life. Twice really, because when you took down that guy in Bethesda, he was almost certainly gunning for her or Carrie.”

  Dylan said in a low voice, “Thanks.”

  The ride was nearly thirty minutes. Dylan never took his hand off of Alex.

  After a long period of quiet, Bear said, “You know, Alexandra—for what it’s worth—I’m sorry that things came down the way they did. That you had to learn the things you did about your father.”

  Dylan felt Alex’s muscles tense as Bear spoke. Then, just like that, she sagged into her seat. “It’s okay,” she said. “I always knew something was wrong. Sending Andrea away never made any sense until this.”

  Dylan squeezed her arm. Traffic was getting heavier as they approached the center of Bethesda. The sun was going down, the sky brilliant reds and oranges.

  They came to a stop in the parking area at the base of the building Dylan had last seen when he was walking away, blood still on his hands and the bottom of his shoes. He stepped out of the car almost unconsciously, and reached for Alex’s hand when she got out. He tilted his head back, looking up the side of the building, at the balconies, all the way to the nineteenth floor. He didn’t want to go up there. He didn’t want to walk into the place where he’d killed two men.

  He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and said, “Let’s go.”

  They rode up the elevator in silence, but it was a heavy silence. Dylan knew what he needed to do, but he was afraid. He was afraid to admit weakness. He was afraid to admit he’d lost control. He was afraid to admit to Alex that he’d failed again. But if there was anyone in the world who would understand and be there for him, it was Alex. He knew that.

  He gripped her hand a little tighter and said, “What’s the plan tonight? Who is here?”

  “Just us and Carrie and Rachel. Julia and Crank are flying down from Boston in the morning, and—Mother and the others will be here very late tonight. Why? What do you need?”

  Dylan swallowed. Then he said, “I need to call my mom.”

  “Yeah?” she said. Her voice cracked a little.

  He nodded. “I’m gonna find out where to get to an AA meeting around here.”

  Instantly, Alex’s eyes went red. She pulled Dylan close to her, and spoke in a broken voice. “Dylan. I’m so proud of you.”

  Anthony. May 11.

  After Anthony Walker handed the car keys to the valet at the entrance to the condominium, he turned around and stumbled face to face with Crank and Julia Wilson. She was dressed in a white A-line dress with deep red flowers splashed across it. He wore jeans and a black T-shirt with the words, “Bullet for my Valentine” written in gothic red letters.

  Her eyes narrowed a little. Something was off with her expression. “I wasn’t expecting to find you here, Anthony. Don’t you think you could leave the story alone for Mother’s Day?”

  He grinned. “I’m here by invitation, actually.” Then he followed her and Crank into the building, ignoring the flashes of cameras and the shouted questions of other reporters. The security guards at the door cleared the three of them in.

  The elevator ride up was awkward. Anthony swallowed uncomfortably, pursed his lips, and looked at the ceiling.

  Crank clapped him hard on the shoulder. “No need to be awkward, Anthony. If Carrie invited you, that’s all that matters.”

  Anthony coughed and said, “I think she felt sorry for me. My mom passed away a few years ago so I didn’t have any plans this morning.”

  “My condolences,” Crank said.

  “Thanks.”

  The elevator doors opened. Anthony waited until Julia and Crank stepped out then followed them. Their identification was checked again by another guard and then they walked down the hallway.

  Julia knocked. Anthony heard a shout, and moments later the door was opened.

  It was unmistakably Sarah Thompson who answered the door, right down to the dyed streak in her hair. But instead of the black and grey she normally wore, today she was in a bright yellow taffeta dress.

  Julia and Crank both looked stunned. Sarah ignored their expression and simply grabbed Julia and hugged her, then did the same with Crank. She gave Anthony a look he was unable to interpret—almost like she was keeping some sort of secret, then turned and walked into the condominium.

  “Come on in, there’s coffee and orange juice. Breakfast isn’t ready yet, but will be soon.”

  The first impression Anthony had was of minor chaos. Jessica—still looking pale, but not as bad as she had when he met her in British Columbia a few days before—sat on the couch, with her feet up on a coffee table. Alexandra sat in another chair holding the baby, who giggled periodically but looked pale. Anthony was no expert on babies, but he’d seen enough to know that Rachel did not look well. Standing near Alexandra was a stocky man with broad shoulders, neatly shaven but with hair grown just over his collar. Anthony recognized Dylan Paris from the many photos he’d seen in the news. It would be a long time before Dylan would be anon
ymous again. Right now he nervously flipped a small white disk between his fingers.

  Julia and Carrie immediately embraced. Carrie wore a turquoise dress that nearly matched Sarah’s. Anthony didn’t catch the words that passed between them, but Carrie almost immediately turned to Anthony and took his hand. “I’m glad you could make it,” she said. “Please don’t be too uncomfortable.”

  Anthony shrugged. Of course he was uncomfortable—who wouldn’t be, attending someone else’s family’s Mother’s Day celebration. Especially when it was this family, with this mother.

  There were two conspicuously missing women. Andrea. And her mother.

  Adelina. May 11.

  Adelina’s nerves were as taut as they’d ever been, the muscles in her neck stiff, her hands lightly shaking as she finished applying her mascara. The anxiety was a pit in her throat, slow burning and twisting like a rabbit on a spit. She was back in the same room she’d occupied off and on for more than thirty years. The room where she’d cried and wept. The room where she’d tried to nurture and protect her daughters, and the room where she gave up her dreams. The room where she’d waited all night after her 1 am arrival, tossing and turning, worried about what the morning would bring.

  She sighed. She was afraid to go out there. Afraid to see all of her daughters. She was afraid of their judgment and their anger.

  It didn’t make any sense, really. She’d presided over a thousand family functions over the years. Birthdays and graduations, marriages, Christmas and Thanksgiving meals. She’d never been perfect, but she’d always done her best.

  But inside, she was consumed by shame. Shame that she’d stayed married to Richard so long. Shame that she’d listened to his threats and his abuse. Shame that she’d let her daughters be exposed to such things.

  Above all, shame that she had sent Andrea away. Even if it was to save her life.

  So she stayed in her room and fretted. She prayed and wrote in the journal Julia had returned to her. She tried to build up the courage to face them.

  And then, a knock on the door.

  Adelina sat straight in her chair. “Yes?” she called. “I’ll be ready in a moment.”

  Silence. Breathing outside the room. Then the words, “Mother, may I come in? It’s Andrea.”

  Adelina sniffed. She looked at herself in the mirror. She was strong enough to do this. She could do it. She could do it.

  “Come in,” she said. Her voice cracked.

  The door opened and Andrea slipped inside.

  Andrea wore one of Carrie’s dresses, a professional looking knee-length black affair with a wide belt.

  She stepped into the room and said, “Won’t you come out?”

  Adelina swallowed. Then she whispered, “You know I didn’t want to let you go. But I was afraid Richard would harm you. He told me he would, and I believed him.”

  Andrea nodded. “I know.”

  “Can you ever forgive me?”

  Andrea walked close to her mother and rested her hands on her shoulders. Then she said, “Yes. I forgive you. You gave me my life. And my faith. Then you saved my life, and I didn’t even know it. There’s nothing to forgive, Mother. I’m your daughter and I always will be.” As Andrea spoke, tears began to run down her face. Then she whispered, “I’ve always wanted to have my mother. And now I do. Now come out. The rest of your family is waiting for you.”

  Adelina whispered, “Okay.”

  Andrea turned and opened the bedroom door. Quivering with apprehension, Adelina followed. Out into the hallway, the hallway she’d walked through literally a thousand times. But never, not even during the worst of times with Richard, had she walked down the hallway with this much fear.

  Her daughters were in the living room. As she entered, Julia came to her feet, followed by Carrie. Her two eldest daughters held hands and watched her with concern in their faces. Alexandra was close by, her husband’s arm around her shoulders. Even Jessica came to her feet, Sarah beside her.

  Carrie’s eyes were wet. She reached out and took Adelina’s hand. Julia said, “Mom … welcome home.”

  George-Phillip. May 12.

  “Welcome back, Your Highness.” The speaker was US Air Force General Hainey, who had arrived at Andrews Air Force Base once again to meet George-Phillip. This time, George-Phillip had just arrived on a return flight, which had raced the sun around the earth. He’d left London at 5 am—midnight in Washington—and arrived at Joint Air Base Andrews just before 3 am.

  He shook hands with the General, the General’s aids, and got in the car that had been provided by the Ambassador.

  Inside the car was Linda Happer. Officially a translator with the Embassy, Linda was actually the MI6 Chief of Station in Washington, DC.

  “Good morning, Chief,” Linda said. “Nice flight suit.”

  “That’s questionable,” he replied. “What’s the news?”

  “That’s the key question, sir. There’s a lot—first this.” She handed across a copy of The Washington Post. Splashed across the front page in two-inch high type was the headline: GRAND JURY OPENS WAR CRIMES PROBE. Beneath, the subheadline said: Richard Thompson, Leslie Collins implicated in poison gas massacre. Underneath the headline, taking up nearly half of the top half of the front page was a color photograph of the inside of a cave. Arm in arm, with wide grins on their faces, were a much younger Leslie Collins, Richard Thompson and Vasily Karatygin.

  “Well. That’s something,” he said.

  He scanned through the article, then flipped to the second page and his eyes widened. The headline on page two said, Former headquarters of CIA officials became a crypt. A photograph showed a cave scattered with bones and bodies. A cabinet was overturned, and papers were scattered about the room.

  The cave had been sealed for thirty years following the massacre.

  “We used dynamite to blast the opening to the cave,” said Vasily Karatygin, the former Soviet defector and conspirator who is now dying. “It was the only way guaranteed to keep the secret. Everyone who assisted us died. But the documents, and the weapons, were all left behind. It was death to go back in that cave.”

  By the time I entered the cave last week, the sarin had long since dissipated, leaving behind a monument to monstrosity. Inside the cave were twenty-two bodies, both men and women, all of whom presumably worked for the conspirators. I also photographed and examined dozens of documents and papers, which are depicted in this report. The most damning: a letter from Adelina Thompson to her husband. The letter is terse and unemotional, consistent with the background of their marriage (see A Marriage Forged in Revolution, page A6), and demands that Thompson release sufficient funds to pay for renovations to the Thompsons’ San Francisco home and for their daughter to attend day care. The letter (pictured below) is the clearest and most damning evidence placing Richard Thompson at the scene of one of the most notorious war crimes of the twentieth century.

  “You’re mentioned in the reporting, Your Highness. In the story about the Thompsons’ marriage. You’re discussed in there quite a bit. The Ambassador is livid.”

  George-Phillip murmured, “I’m sure he is.” He felt at peace. If he had to resign his position today, he would be quite content.

  She grinned.

  “One more bit of news, sir.”

  “Yes?”

  “The Virginia State Police caught up with Oswald O’Leary, sir. He’s being held at a precinct in Alexandria for the time being. American Diplomatic Security is on their way to question them, but they gave me a courtesy call.”

  “I see. Are we invited, do you think?”

  Linda nodded. “Yes, sir. If you’d like to question him, we can go right now.”

  “Let’s go then. I have a meeting with the US Secretary of State at 10 am, so we’ll need to make this quick and get back to the Embassy. I’m going to need a shower, that cockpit is cramped.”

  Leslie Collins. May 12.

  This was a disaster.

  Leslie Collins sat in his office, s
till in his bathrobe, reading the special report in The Washington Post, which had been delivered less than twenty minutes before.

  A disaster. Bad enough that his photograph was splashed across the front page. The interior of the special report was much worse. Photographs of bodies. Their headquarters in the mountains of Afghanistan, bodies still scattered inside the cave, along with gear and personal property that clearly belonged to both Collins and Richard Thompson.

  A timeline of Andrea Thompson’s kidnapping. Links between Leslie’s holding company and the kidnappers.

  He was finished. Destroyed.

  He turned the pages, growing more and more distressed with each word he read. This morning his colleagues would be reading this report. His children would be reading it. The news media would circle like sharks, searching for weaknesses, smelling the blood, and then they would attack, sawing their teeth into his hide, ripping him limb from limb until there was nothing left.

  The article was so damning.

  A senior source in the investigation told The Washington Post that investigators now have strong evidence Collins ordered the kidnapping and murder of Andrea Thompson. Sources speculate that Collins was concerned that once it became public that Andrea Thompson was not related to Richard Thompson, the resulting questions would quickly lead to the exposure of their involvement in the Wakhan Massacre.

  Worried about that eventuality, Collins had a series of accounts opened in the Caymans in Richard Thompson’s name. Initially, investigators believed the accounts were what they appeared to be, and opened an investigation into both Thompson and his eldest daughter Julia Wilson.

  “The trail didn’t make sense,” said the Post’s source in the investigation. “Once we obtained Julia Wilson’s cooperation, the story quickly unraveled.”

  According to senior officials, Wilson will testify before the grand jury on Monday morning.

  He leaned forward and placed his forehead on the desk. There had to be a way to survive this. There had to. He’d survived worse. He’d controlled lives. He’d run spies in a dozen countries; he’d protected his nation for a career spanning forty years. Why? This was terrible.