Girl of Vengeance

by Charles Sheehan-Miles

  Collins jerked in his seat when the phone rang.

  The secure line.

  Hand shaking, he reached out and picked it up and put the receiver to his ear. “Collins.”

  “Leslie, it’s Ralph Williams.”

  Collins closed his eyes. Ralph Williams was former Senator Williams, former head of the Select Committee on Intelligence, and now Director of Central Intelligence. Williams was the highest ranking Intelligence official in the United States, and Collins’ boss.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Don’t come in this morning. I’ll be sending around a classified documents officer to collect anything you have in your safe at home.”

  “Sir?” Collins let a little outrage creep into his voice.

  “Let me be clear, Collins. You aren’t coming back. Now, or ever. You’ll be lucky if you don’t land in prison, but I guarantee you’ll never work in public office again. I suggest you get started writing your memoirs if you have any hope of protecting your reputation.”

  Williams didn’t even use common courtesy. He simply hung up the phone, leaving Collins with a clicking silence.

  Collins put the phone down.

  He took a deep breath. Thompson was equally implicated in the story, which detailed far too much of what had happened over the years. There would be congressional hearings, and if the newspaper story was accurate, the grand jury might well indict Collins. But that wasn’t the biggest danger.

  Prince Roshan was the biggest danger. Collins knew that if Roshan saw this article, he would likely send assassins immediately, lest Collins or Thompson implicate him. Roshan was ambitious—one day he hoped to be King. But there were more than 200 Royal Princes in Saudi Arabia—he was but one. A scandal would wipe out his chances for good.

  Killers might already be on the way.

  Christ. Swallowing the lump in his throat, Collins picked up the phone and dialed a number.

  “Hello?” The answer at the other end of the line was terse.

  Leslie coughed and his voice cracked when he spoke. “This is Mister Collins. I know it’s late, but I’m hoping to get a ride to see my friend.”

  There was a long silence at the other end. The code phrase was simple enough. It was a panic signal, a signal designed long ago to allow for his quick departure from the country when and if needed. He’d had that insurance set aside for more than ten years. Now it was time to use it.

  The man at the other end finally returned. “Ten am. Stafford.”

  Damn it. Stafford Regional Airport was forty miles south of Washington, and rush hour would be coming soon. They needed to get out of the house right away. He stood and walked out of his office, shouting, “Meredith! Meredith!”

  He stomped down the hall to their room, still shouting her name. She let out a panicked shriek when he switched on the bedroom light, then she cried, “What? What is it?”

  “Pack one bag with your most valuable possessions and get dressed in something comfortable. Comfortable shoes. You’ve got ten minutes and we’re leaving.”

  “What?” she cried, sitting up in the bed.

  He reached down and grasped her shoulders and leaned forward, nearly touching his nose to hers. “Pack. Bags. Get. Dressed. I’m leaving in ten minutes. With you or without you.”

  When he let go, she sagged back onto the bed, horror on her face. He didn’t care. He marched into the walk-in closet and tore off his bathrobe, then began getting dressed. He rarely wore them, but today he put on a pair of tough jeans and a thick shirt. Then he took a backpack off the top shelf and began stuffing clothes into it.

  “Leslie, you must explain right now!” Meredith cried out.

  “No time. We’re in danger. We’re leaving.”

  “What about the twins? What about Susan?”

  “The kids will be fine. But we won’t, if we don’t get out now. Get. Dressed.”

  She started moving, throwing clothes on—her gardening clothes. Good. No heels or dainty dresses. Then she started packing a bag.

  George-Phillip. May 12.

  “Prince George-Phillip? I’m Bear Wyden. Diplomatic Security Service.”

  The man who approached was of medium hight—considerably shorter than George-Phillip and stocky. George-Phillip suspected the Bear moniker came from the copious amount of hair the man seemed to have.

  “Hello, Mister Wyden. I understand arrangements have been made for me to meet with O’Leary.”

  “Yes, sir. But—first—do you have a moment?”

  George-Phillip raised his eyebrows. “Yes?”

  “Sir, you should know I’ve been assigned to your daughter’s case since the day she was kidnapped. Andrea’s, that is. I’ve come to know her and Carrie pretty well, along with Adelina. I knew Adelina many years ago, too, in Belgium.”

  George-Phillip let out a sigh. “Yes … I see. What can I do for you?”

  Bear’s mouth twisted a little. Then he said, “Those girls deserve a good father. They never had one. And Adelina Thompson has been tortured for decades. I don’t trust anyone in the Intelligence business, but you seem like a decent sort. I just…”

  George-Phillip let out a breath, then reached out and took Bear’s shoulder. “I’ll do my best, Mr. Wyden.”

  “Bear.”

  “I’ll do my best. I promise.”

  “In that case, sir, I’ll take you in to see O’Leary.”

  Minutes later, George-Phillip found himself in a room, accompanied by Wyden. O’Leary sat across from them. His feet were chained to a steel table. He had a serene expression on his face.

  “Oswald,” George-Phillip said.

  O’Leary nodded. “Your Highness.”

  George-Phillip asked one question. “Why?”

  O’Leary shook his head. “You still cannot see it? My job was to protect you and the Royal family, Your Highness. It always was.”

  “Protect me from what?”

  “From scandal, sir. Surely you must realize. Prince Andrew was dating a porn star in 1982, and then that lunatic Fagan walked right into Buckingham Palace and sat down at the end of the Queen’s bed. Princess Margaret and Lord Snowden divorced, and your own father died in a drunken accident. Is it any wonder the Queen wanted you protected?”

  “The Queen?”

  O’Leary nodded rapidly. “Of course, sir. I was detailed by the Queen herself to protect you from scandal.”

  George-Phillip sank into a chair across from O’Leary. Oz.

  “You took it upon yourself, with this assignment, to break into Adelina’s home. In 1983?”

  “Of course, sir. To warn her away. I had no idea she was pregnant with your child sir, not then. But it wouldn’t have made any difference.”

  “And you did it again in 1996, in China.”

  O’Leary nodded. “Yes, sir. For your own good.”

  “And you hired assassins to kill her. And her daughter.”

  O’Leary shrugged. “I’m loyal to the Crown, sir. Not to some whore you decided to sleep with.”

  Rage swept over George-Phillip. He stood and swept his hand back to strike O’Leary in the face, but Bear was quicker than he. Bear grabbed his wrist and said, “No, sir, I’m afraid you can’t do that.”

  George-Phillip gasped. He took a deep breath, suddenly flooded with adrenalin. He couldn’t believe the Queen would sanction murder. “O’Leary. When was the last time you spoke—with the Queen? Or anyone in her household? Anyone related to this … assignment.”

  O’Leary said, “Why … when you returned from Washington to London, sir. Officially the assignment was over then.”

  George-Phillip closed his eyes. Never in his life had he wanted to hurt someone as bad as he did right now. The betrayal shook him to his core.

  He took a deep breath, his voice shaking, and said, “You are finished, O’Leary. I’ll be speaking with the Home Office to have your diplomatic immunity revoked. You’ll go to prison for hiring that assassin.” He turned, still gasping for air.

  “Your Highnes
s! I only did what was right! What you didn’t have the courage to do!” O’Leary’s face was bright red. “I did everything to protect you!”

  Without responding, George-Phillip stepped out into the hall, with Bear on his heels.

  Outside, in the hallway, he saw Linda Happer. “Miss Happer. Please take me to the Embassy. I must get ready for my meeting with the Secretary of State.”

  Bear said, “I’m sorry about that, sir.”

  George-Phillip shook his head in disgust. “I—I’m appalled. And … incredibly disappointed. I’ve known O’Leary for thirty years.”

  Bear said nothing.

  George-Phillip reached out and took his hand and shook. “Thank you, Mister Wyden.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  George-Phillip followed Happer out of the police station.

  Leslie Collins. May 12.

  Ten minutes after he’d awakened Meredith, Leslie Collins jerked opened the side door; backpack slung over one shoulder, and walked toward his car. It was dark, but a waxing gibbous moon low in the sky illuminated the driveway and side of the house. Collins could hear birds beginning to chirp, even though the sun hadn’t begun to rise. It would be sunrise soon enough. He needed to be well on his way toward Stafford before the sun was up—otherwise traffic would delay them past the departure time for his flight.

  The car chirped when he disabled the alarm and unlocked it, and then reached out for the door.

  Meredith let out a shriek. Movement. A man, stepping away from the shadows of the unused garage.

  “Mister Collins.”

  Collins jerked back. The man who faced him in the darkness was short. Short cropped hair. Unshaven, unkempt. He had dark skin. His accent was clearly Arabic.

  “Mister Collins, I have a parting gift from a mutual friend. Bit-tawfiq.” Collins recognized the words. Arabic for best of luck. The man moved quickly, raising a pistol to Collins’ forehead.

  The man pulled the trigger and everything went black.

  Richard. May 12.

  Richard Thompson shook with the most powerful rage he’d ever felt as he continued reading the pages of the special report.

  According to a source in the Special Prosecutor’s office, Julia Wilson has been cooperating with the IRS investigation. She wore a wire to her last meeting with her father, capturing an audio recording where he admitted to procuring the weapons for the massacre. Mrs. Wilson is scheduled to testify before the grand jury Monday morning, followed by her mother.

  How could she? Richard raged. His daughter. The one he’d cultivated. The only one he really loved. He felt a strange, twisted aching, an unfamiliar feeling; a feeling he hadn’t really touched since his brother hung himself in the attic of their childhood home.

  Grief.

  He opened one of the cabinet doors and took out a glass. He hated this place. The President had given him two weeks to find a new place to live. He was being thrown out. Good riddance. These rat-infested quarters weren’t fit for him. The building, formerly Quarters 2 at Fort Myers, had been the home of a two-star General before Richard was here. A large white structure with southern colonnades and French windows, Richard hated it. Hated it. He took out a glass from the cabinet, turned it in the light, and flung it across the room.

  It shattered against the wall, a curiously satisfying sound. He took out another glass and flung it. Glass flew across the room, and a tiny fragment hit his arm.

  On the top shelf was a set of wine glasses. He flung them, one after another, each of them shattering. Glass was now scattered all across the kitchen floor.

  It was Adelina’s fault. He was losing everything. He’d even lost his favorite daughter. And it was that Spanish whore’s fault. He slid a drawer open and eyed the kitchen knives greedily.

  No. Not sure enough. He had a gun in his study, a .45 calibre Colt M1911A1 pistol. Big fat bullets to shoot through her big fat head. There was nothing else to be done. As his father would say (if the old bastard were still alive), he was a disgrace. Just like his brother.

  Mrs. Wilson is scheduled to testify before the grand jury Monday morning, followed by her mother.

  He stalked toward his office to get his gun. Poor Julia was going to be an orphan in a few hours.

  Carrie. May 12.

  “You’re sure you’re okay?” Carrie asked for the fifteenth time.

  Alexandra nodded. “I’m fine. You stay with Julia and Mom, okay? They need you. I’ve got Andrea and the twins here, and I’m pretty sure Andrea can take on anything.”

  Carrie’s eyes darted to her mother’s, then Andrea’s. Andrea’s lips held the barest of smiles. As if she were thinking she could take on anything. Carrie turned back to Alexandra and handed over Rachel. The baby didn’t stir. Her fever had dropped back to normal overnight.

  “She’ll likely be awake in another two hours. There are four bottles of breast milk in the freezer and one in the fridge, you can warm—”

  “Carrie!” Alexandra said. “I’ve got this!”

  Dylan pulled his phone out and checked the time. “Mrs. Thompson … Carrie and Julia. Time to go.”

  Carrie said, “I still don’t think you need to come along, Dylan. We’ve got armed guards.”

  “Carrie,” Alexandra said. “Shut up. Stop fretting.”

  She closed her eyes. “All right. In that case, let’s go.”

  Dylan led the way out of the condominium, followed by Adelina and Julia. Carrie looked back at Alexandra and said, “Thank you. I don’t know what’s going on with you and him but … it’s better. It’s better, isn’t it?”

  Alexandra nodded, her eyes glistening. “It is,” she whispered.

  Carrie smiled and walked out the door, following her mother and sister down to the elevator. They still had ninety minutes before they had to be at the Federal Courthouse, but traffic in Washington was unpredictable. The four of them rode down the elevator in silence, flanked by two armed guards. In the lobby different guards took over and escorted them outside. Pale light shone down from a purple sky.

  They climbed into a large SUV, Adelina in the center, her daughters on either side, and Dylan in the front passenger seat next to the driver. Guards loaded up in another vehicle. They weren’t taking any chances. The small convoy set out into traffic, which was heavily snarled. Rush hour.

  Carrie sat staring out the window as Julia and their mother spoke quietly. She half paid attention to the words. Mother and daughter were catching up on events of the last two weeks. Jessica’s health, the assassination attempts, the IRS investigation. Julia had kept it secret that she’d worn a wire and met with her father.

  Carrie sighed. Why had she kept it secret? She looked over at her sister. Julia’s hair was natural again; it had been some time. Shoulder length, the brown locks curling around her face. She looked sad.

  Then it hit her. She thought about what she knew about her sister. About Julia’s high school experiences, both in China and in Bethesda. The harassment and teasing. Her suicide attempt.

  Julia hadn’t said anything because she was ashamed. Ashamed that somehow her sisters would think less of her. Ashamed that she’d done the wrong thing.

  Carrie took a deep breath. “You did the right thing, you know,” she said.

  Julia looked at her, eyes suddenly wide. “What?”

  “You heard me. You did the right thing. I know he’s your father. But you did the right thing.”

  Julia swallowed, her face swimming with emotion.

  Adelina took Julia’s hand in her left and Carrie’s in her right and said, “This will all be over soon.”

  George-Phillip. May 12.

  From the outside, Blair House consisted of four townhomes across the street from the White House, the central one of white brick and fronted with a columned portico. George-Phillip knew that inside, however, the four homes were seamlessly connected. With dozens of rooms and a large staff, the house served at the guesthouse of the President of the United States, and hosted visiting dignitaries and other even
ts. George-Phillip had attended many events there over the decades.

  This morning, he was met by a US Navy Commander.

  “Your Highness. The Secretary is waiting for you in the dining room. Please follow me, sir.”

  George-Phillip was no longer in the flight suit he’d worn across the Atlantic and to the jail. He’d changed into a formal suit with highly polished shoes and cufflinks that had once been owned by his father. He’d had long enough while changing to have a very brief breakfast and a hand of Go Fish with Jane before he’d left again.

  That wouldn’t go on much longer. He’d handed his resignation to the Prime Minister while in London.

  George-Phillip followed the Naval officer down the entry hall and to the small private dining room. As he entered, Secretary Perry stood. Both men were of similar height, though Perry, as always, looked dangerously gaunt.

  Perry gestured to The Washington Post, spread out on the table amidst pitchers of orange juice and carafes of coffee.

  “Have you seen this?” Perry asked.

  “I have,” George-Phillip said. “It’s quite comprehensive.”

  “Have a seat, Your Highness. It’s a pleasure seeing you this morning.”

  George-Phillip smiled. “And you, Secretary. Our mutual friend is on the way?”

  “He is. But I asked him to be here a few minutes later so we could talk.”

  “Excellent,” George-Phillip replied.

  “I understand you’re resigning.”

  George-Phillip smiled. “Word gets around fast, doesn’t it? It’s true. I need to spend more time with my children. Especially now that I have two more daughters I need to get to know. And several more … surrogate daughters, I suppose. I feel equally responsible for them.”

  “Thompson was really a piece of work, wasn’t he? I had no idea you were involved with Adelina, though. Is it true, what the article says?”