Girl of Lies (Rachel's Peril)

by Charles Sheehan-Miles

  Collins had been forced to personally break the news in 2008. Filner had been quietly booted from the agency. Since then, Filner had transitioned into a world even more shadowy than the Agency. He was a private contractor, sometimes providing services via contacting outfits like Blackwater, but sometimes directly.

  Right now he was on a private assignment. Off the books.

  “Collins.”

  “Filner.”

  Filner’s eyes scanned the room again then looked at Collins’s half-finished plate. “Sorry I’m late.”

  Collins’s eyebrows pulled together. He leaned forward and said, “I’m not concerned that you’re late, Filner. I’m concerned about the situation with Richard Thompson.”

  Filner shrugged. “It was unexpected.”

  “It’s a disaster. I give you the job of quietly making that girl disappear. Instead, we’ve got a massive media fiasco. How the hell did Koury end up dead?”

  “Dumb luck, Collins. You know that happens sometimes. The cops saw something they didn’t like and pursued them.”

  “You sent two seasoned killers to pick up a sixteen-year-old girl, and somehow she not only gets away, but also kills both of them.”

  “She didn’t kill them. The cops did.”

  Collins waved his hand. “Semantics. And here’s the thing. She’s under the eye of the media now, and Diplomatic Security is lining up to give protection to the entire family. You fucked up, Filner. You blew it.”

  “We can still take her out.”

  Collins shook his head. “Too late. It was one thing for her to disappear. It’s another thing for something to happen now with the entire world watching. We’re going to have to wait and see. I expect you to pull together whatever assets you need. Every member of that family needs to be watched. Where the fuck is the mother?”

  Filner shrugged. “Don’t know. Nobody seems to. Wherever she is, she hasn’t used her credit cards in the last few days.”

  Collins muttered. “And the other twin is with her?”

  “We assume so.”

  “Has MI-6 moved on this?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. My source there says there’s nothing he knows of related to this. But you know how it is. It’s all compartmentalized. England probably has more spies in the U.S. than Russia.”

  “We need someone closer to Windsor. He’s the one person who could blow everything.”

  Filner nodded. “Normal rates still apply?”

  Collins leaned forward, spearing another fork of pasta and turning it over, examining it before he placed it in his mouth. He chewed for a few seconds before answering. “Emergency. I don’t care what assets. I don’t care how many hours. Your mission in life is to make sure Richard Thompson’s secrets never come to light, Filner. At all costs. This was all supposed to be nice and quiet, and now it’s not, and it’s your fault. I want it fixed. I want it to go away. Am I clear? If this problem doesn’t go away, then you will.”

  “You’re clear, Collins. But let me be clear. You better have some contingency plans in place. If you’d taken care of this problem fifteen years ago, no one would have noticed. A simple house fire would have wiped them all out. Now you’ve got Thompson up as the next Secretary of Defense and one of his daughters is married to a rock star. Anything happens to them and it’s visible.”

  Collins shook his head. “I can manage Thompson. And rock stars die in plane crashes all the time. You worry about the rest.”

  1. Andrea. April 29

  IT TOOK ANDREA several minutes to compose herself, rinse her mouth and wash her face. Her heart was racing, and she felt tension in her chest, but she forced herself to calm down and focus.

  Once she was calm, she opened the medicine chest in hopes of finding a hairbrush. Instead, she was faced with a shelf of medications. Zoloft. Andrea felt a morbid fascination and didn’t want to touch it or look, because it was none of her business. But she couldn’t stop herself, and she turned the bottle. The prescription was two weeks old and was written for her sister Carrie.

  She tried to imagine what it must be like for Carrie. Andrea hadn’t known Ray well, but she’d been impressed with him. A handsome and tall soldier, he’d been brave, incredibly brave, and that courage had directly resulted in his death. When Andrea flew into Washington last summer, she’d had little opportunity to speak with the devastated Carrie, lost in the debris of a life Andrea knew nothing about. They’d barely spoken half a dozen words, Carrie overwhelmed by the stress of the accident and the court martial. It was all just too much. Way too much.

  Was this stuff even safe to take during a pregnancy? Andrea didn’t know, but presumably the doctor did.

  Whatever the answer was, Andrea wasn’t going to second-guess or judge. She took out the hairbrush and carefully brushed her hair, then put it away, the brush and the medicine now out of sight.

  Finally composed, she stepped out of the bathroom and walked back toward the family room. As she walked down the hall, she heard a phone ringing in the kitchen. She stopped in place and sagged against the wall, overcome by a wave of exhaustion. It hadn’t even been a day since she landed in the United States. Not even twenty-four hours since two men had attempted to kidnap and possibly murder her. She didn’t know why. But, despite the presence of federal security guards at the door, she felt afraid like she’d never felt before.

  The phone stopped ringing, and she heard Carrie’s voice. Quiet. Words, then more words, unclear, out of focus. Then, “Andrea! Phone!”

  Andrea swallowed. Was it one of her sisters? Her mother? Julia and Crank were in Los Angeles this week, she knew that. Crank’s band, Morbid Obesity, was recording a new album. She had no idea what was going on with Alexandra or Jessica.

  She walked into the kitchen and promised herself one thing. She was going to get to know all of her sisters. She was fed up with secrets and isolation.

  Carrie had the baby on one shoulder and the phone at her ear. “Sí,” she said nodding. “Sí.” Then in terribly accented Spanish, she said, “Adios.” Grinning, she passed the phone to Andrea.

  “Hello?”

  “Andrea! Como estas?”

  “Luis!” she replied, delighted. Uncle Luis owned a growing marketing design firm in Barcelona, and often visited with his mother, and therefore Andrea. Over the last three years he’d become a trusted figure in her life. A father in many ways.

  “Andrea, why didn’t you call me? I wake up this morning to the news that thugs kidnapped you? Mother will have a heart attack when she watches the news.”

  Andrea whispered, “Does she know yet?”

  “No,” he said. “She thinks her television is broken, no thanks to your resourceful uncle. I should be at work today, but the minute I saw the news I got on the road to Calella.”

  Andrea breathed a sigh of relief. Then she said, “It was scary, Luis. But it’s over. I’m all right. There’s no need to tell Abuelita.”

  “I see how it is, Andrea. You want the old women at Church to tell her, and then she’ll say, Luis, why do you keep secrets from me? No. No. Who were these thugs?”

  “The police here are investigating. And they’ve given me bodyguards.”

  “It’s because of your father? I saw in the paper he’s to be the new Defense Minister.”

  “It might be that,” Andrea said. “I don’t know.”

  “You should come home,” he said.

  Andrea swallowed. “I will soon, Uncle, I promise.”

  “Okay. And next time you tell me when you’re leaving the country, and if you’re planning to mix it up with kidnappers. You understand?”

  She giggled, feeling tears forming at the edge of her eyes. “I promise.”

  “Okay, Muñequita. Let me talk to my sister, por favor.”

  Andrea blinked and said, “She’s not here.”

  “What? Your mother isn’t there? Where is she?”

  “I… I don’t…”

  Luis muttered a series of curses, and then in an angry voice, said,
“What about your father? No doubt he’s off saving the government instead of taking care of you.”

  She didn’t want to lose it. She didn’t want to respond that way. She didn’t want to do anything. But involuntarily, Andrea burst into tears. “I don’t know!” she cried. “He was here last night, but not this morning. I don’t know where he is.”

  “Muñequita,” he said in a quiet voice. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “It’s not your fault,” she replied.

  “No, it is. Maybe not my fault your parents are no-good, but it’s my fault I lost my temper. Andrea, just… I know your parents are loco, but they love you in their own way. And more importantly, I love you, little doll.”

  She sniffed back tears. Then said, “Thank you, Luis.”

  After she said goodbye, she stood there, looking at the counter, a growing rage spreading in her chest. Where was her mother? Why the hell had she left her to be cared for by her brokenhearted and injured sisters? She didn’t care if Carrie were thirty or fifty. She’d lost her husband and had a sick daughter. Sarah was technically an adult now, but she’d only been eighteen for four weeks.

  All of which took Andrea back to the same question again. Where the hell was her mother?

  She walked out of the kitchen into the living room. Sarah was still sitting, staring out the glass at the balcony, arms wrapped around her legs. Carrie rocked the baby in her arms, a nursing cloth draped over her shoulder.

  The phone rang again. Carrie stirred, and Andrea said, “I’ll get it.”

  Carrie gave her a relieved smile, and Andrea picked up the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, this is Sergeant Gorman, with the security detail. We have a couple of people here to visit. Dylan and Alexandra Paris. Okay to clear them in?”

  “Yes!” Andrea cried.

  2. Carrie. April 29

  Oh, thank God, Carrie thought.

  The minute the AMBER Alert went out the night before, Carrie had called Alexandra and Julia, and kept them updated during the terrorizing ninety minutes before Andrea was found again. Both had agreed to come as soon as possible. Alexandra and Dylan were coming in on the train from New York, and Julia on a flight from Los Angeles later in the day.

  “I didn’t know they were coming,” Andrea said.

  Carrie frowned. “Of course they are. We’re your sisters.”

  Andrea gave her a weak smile. A doubtful smile. “I just assumed they were all busy.”

  Carrie sighed. She couldn’t stand up easily, Rachel was still breastfeeding, but as she shifted in frustration, Sarah unfolded herself and stood. She looked almost comical as she reached her arms up to her much taller sister. But her expression was fierce. “We take care of each other, Andrea.”

  Andrea looked doubtful. And really, why shouldn’t she? It’s not like they’d done anything to seek her out. Carrie had planned to last summer. She’d even talked with Ray about it. Then everything in her life went horribly wrong. And it was just exhausting, because she wanted to watch out for Andrea. She wanted to know why she’d spent most of the last years in Europe. She wanted to be there for her. But she couldn’t be everywhere. She couldn’t be the only one. Especially not now, when she had a young daughter to care for. She’d been a surrogate mother at one time or another to every single one of her sisters but Julia.

  It was time for someone else to pick up that mantle. She was a real mother now, to a helpless little girl—Ray’s daughter—and she’d be damned if she’d let anything interfere with that.

  Sarah and Andrea both walked to the door of the condominium when they heard the knock. Then, a moment later, Sarah opened the door.

  Outside, in the hall, stood twenty-two-year-old Alexandra and her husband Dylan Paris. Alexandra looked weary. Her honey-brown hair was windblown, a little tangled, and she had circles under her green eyes. Carrie sat up a little at the sight of her. This wasn’t a night’s lost sleep. Alexandra looked like she’d been going without rest for a while.

  Dylan was in worse condition. His eyes were bloodshot, hair unkempt, several days’ growth of beard on his chin and neck.

  The worst part was that Dylan and Alex weren’t touching anywhere. A solid inch of space divided them, but it might as well have been a mile. Neither of them seemed conscious of it.

  Alexandra’s eyes teared up at the sight of Andrea, and then they were embracing.

  Dylan gave a wry smile to Sarah. She returned the smile, then said, “Hey Dylan, show me your scars later?”

  He shrugged. “Only if you show me yours.”

  They hugged, then all four of them moved back into the apartment.

  Objectively, Dylan looked awful. Carrie had a sinking, dreadful feeling tied up in her throat. Dylan had been a heavy drinker in high school, but he quit. But the last couple years had been tough on him. Wounded in Afghanistan, then his best friend murdered. She watched him closely, worried. She’d never seen him looking this disheveled.

  Dylan approached Carrie. She studied him. She was assuming too much. Exams at Columbia would be in another week or two. Dylan and Alexandra were probably just tired. This was Alexandra’s last term at Columbia—she would be graduating in a few weeks.

  Rachel had fallen asleep. Carrie smiled then whispered, “Give me just a second to put her down.” Very carefully she unlatched the baby, covered herself, then stood and carried Rachel into the bedroom and lay her in the crib.

  She felt Dylan’s presence behind her. He was silent, as was she, but his eyes were on Rachel. Carrie looked over at him. He was somber. Dark circles under his eyes were accentuated by the growth of stubble all over his face. It had been several months since she’d seen him. His hair had grown down well past his collar, and she couldn’t help but wonder if he’d had a haircut since Ray died.

  She swallowed. Ray had loved Dylan. Brothers, in so many ways.

  He whispered, “She looks like both of you. She’ll be like ninety feet tall when she grows up.”

  She gave him a crooked smile, and then backed out of the room, switching out the light. “She’ll stay out for a couple hours,” she said.

  Dylan followed her back down the hall. “How is she doing?”

  She shrugged, moving down the hall. As she passed by the living room, she saw Andrea, Sarah and Alexandra huddled near each other on the couch talking. She paused for just a second. Even there, on the couch, she could see the separation. Sarah and Alexandra sat close to each other. Andrea was a few inches away… just enough that they didn’t accidentally touch.

  Carrie sighed. She couldn’t fix everything. But she’d keep trying. She kept on going into the kitchen.

  “Coffee?” she asked, taking down a mug for herself.

  “Please.”

  She took down a second mug and busied herself pouring coffee. Dylan knew where the sugar and cream were. He’d been here often, both before and after Ray’s death.

  Dylan repeated his question. “How is she doing?”

  Carrie shrugged. “Rachel? Or Andrea.”

  He gave her a gentle smile. “Both, I guess. Rachel first.”

  Carrie crossed her arms over her chest, the coffee mug in her left hand. “She’s not in any immediate danger. We have a blood transfusion scheduled for next week… she’ll have to get them weekly for now.”

  “And… finding a donor?”

  Carrie shook her head. “I’ve been tested and I’m not a match. But I’m close. Neither is Sarah. We should have Julia’s and Alexandra’s results back today, and Andrea gets blood drawn tomorrow.”

  “I’m surprised she didn’t get the testing done in Spain,” he said.

  Carrie shrugged. “I asked her to come. And then… well, you know what happened.”

  “No one could have predicted that, Carrie. Give yourself a fucking break.”

  She bit her lip and looked away. Abruptly, she set the coffee cup down, spilling a little on the counter. “Damn it,” she said. She reached for the paper towels, but Dyl
an grabbed her wrist.

  “Carrie. You don’t have to shoulder everything, okay?”

  Horrified at herself, a sound escaped from her throat, somewhere between a hiccough and a scream. She covered her mouth, but said through her fingers, “I have to stay strong for Rachel.”

  “Christ,” he muttered. Then he pulled her to him, wrapping his arms around her in a warm hug that locked her in like a vice.

  She kept her arms across her chest, in between her and Dylan, shielding herself somehow. “I can’t. If I let go of control I’ll never get it back together.”

  “I know,” he said, his voice raw. “It’s okay. I miss him too. But you gotta know he’s out there somewhere looking out for you and Rachel.”

  She sobbed. “Stop,” she said.

  “Carrie, we’re here. I’m here, and Alex, and your other sisters, and we won’t let you fall.”

  Carrie nodded viciously. And then dropped her arms and wrapped them around him. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I miss him so much sometimes.”

  And then she felt other arms on her shoulders. Andrea had squeezed beside her, wrapping an arm around her. She whispered in Carrie’s ear, “We’ll take care of you, Carrie. I promise.”

  3. Bear. April 29

  Bear Wyden had spent his entire career in the Department of State, and had always thought the large four-winged building at Foggy Bottom was a huge, messy maze.

  It had nothing on the Pentagon. He’d shown up fifteen minutes early, and needed that much time just to clear security. It troubled the Pentagon employees mightily that an investigator from the Department of the State would actually have a sidearm. After all, interagency cooperation only went so far, and arming diplomatic personnel was akin to arming the enemy. Several phone calls to increasing levels of seniority later, he’d finally been cleared into the building, and provided an escort to get him through the maze to the Secretary’s office.

  Forty-five minutes after his arrival, he was escorted into the office of the Secretary of Defense. It was a large office, nearly fifty feet along one wall, with plush blue carpeting. A nine foot long teak desk faced the room. Behind it, an equally ornate and large credenza was the Secretary’s workspace. Two computers, three separate phones, and a scattering of papers. Above the desk, huge portraits dominated the room. On the left, General Dwight Eisenhower, on the right General George Marshall. In between, a family portrait showed Richard and Adelina Thompson, surrounded by their six daughters. To the left and right, the desk area was flanked by an American flag and the flag of the Department of Defense.