George-Phillip was troubled. He didn’t like coming home after Jane’s bedtime, regardless of the reasons.
Unfortunately, today at least he had good reasons to be so late. The news from the United States had been increasingly grim as the day went on. George-Phillip spent the day on the phone, his number one focus the shooting of Charlie Frazier. The good news was that Frazier was going to recover—the gunshot wound was serious, but not critical. He would be out of the hospital in a few days.
But not on his way home, most likely.
George-Phillip hadn’t received any official enquiries yet about Charlie’s status, but he knew it was coming. At some point, the United States government would formally ask the British government if Charlie was an intelligence agent, if only because of the circumstances of the shooting. When that moment came, the British ambassador wouldn’t have to lie, because he wouldn’t know.
George-Phillip had been called to speak with the Prime Minister, who wanted an explanation of why a British citizen—and employee of the Secret Intelligence Service—had been shot in Washington, DC. That discussion had been unpleasant, but George-Phillip made it absolutely clear. Charlie Frazier’s employment was and must remain a secret. He was fairly certain the American government would jerk them around for a few days, asking a lot of questions and delaying Charlie’s departure. But in the end they would let it go. As friendly nations, the United States and the United Kingdom maintained a polite fiction that they didn’t spy on each other. But everyone in the intelligence community recognized that for what it was—fiction.
In practice, in the years since the September 11 attacks on the United States, intelligence budgets for both the United States and the United Kingdom had ballooned, with each government employing tens of thousands of intelligence employees, military, civilian and private contractors, often in overlapping roles. The United States was clearly worse: George-Phillip had read a report indicating that the US had more than 800,000 individuals with secret clearances, most of them employees of private companies. Undoubtedly some of those were employed spying on the United Kingdom. And, George-Phillip thought, no doubt some of them were using their access to secret funding and information to further their own personal aims rather than their government’s.
George-Phillip shook his head. Even here, in the doorway to his daughter’s room, he couldn’t clear his head of work. He straightened himself, stretched a little, then walked out of the room, gently closing the door behind him. He walked down the hall to his office and mixed himself a whisky and soda.
For a minute or possibly two, he looked out at the square. The trees and shrubbery at the corner were overgrown, obscuring the center of the square with its garden and tennis court.
He sat down at the desk with his drink and began to scan through the evening’s accumulated emails.
Five minutes later he sat up, alarm bells ringing in his head. Now that was interesting. A report indicated that Vasily Karatygin had turned up in Kabul. The former Spetsnaz major had defected from the Soviet Union in the early 80s and later became a deputy leader in Ahmad Massoud’s militia in Afghanistan. It was unclear where his loyalty lay now, if any—but it was clear that he ran a huge opium smuggling operation centered in Badakhshan Province.
Karatygin had been on George-Phillip’s radar for thirty years because of his involvement in the massacre at Wakhan. He wasn’t one to show up in the Afghan capitol for any reason. It was too dangerous, too many competing interests, not to mention the fact that the Americans had a price on his head.
Was it connected?
George-Phillip had to assume it was. Someone—possibly Leslie Collins, possibly Prince Roshan, possibly even Richard Thompson—was making an aggressive move. But who? And why? Why now?
The phone rang. It was O’Leary.
“George-Phillip here.”
“Sir, news.”
“Go.”
“It looks like our player is Leslie Collins. Surveillance picked him up giving orders. He’s going after all of the Thompsons, anyone who can even potentially give information on Wakhan.”
George-Phillip muttered a curse. “All right. Even Richard Thompson?”
“As far as we can tell, yes, sir. And—you, sir. I’ve already mobilized an extra protective detail, they’ll be on their way shortly.”
“I don’t need a protective detail, O’Leary, we’ve been through this.”
“Beggin’ your parson, sir, but you do, and they’re on the way whether you like it or not.”
“Fine. O’Leary, you know what to do? Start making arrangements.”
“Yes, sir.”
George-Phillip hung up the phone and looked out at the square. Adelina Thompson and her daughters were likely in a great deal of danger. They were the wild card, and in some ways that was his fault. He shook his head, and reached for the phone again.
He didn’t hear the gunshot in Belgrade Square before the bullets hit the glass.
2. Dylan. 6:26 pm
Dylan Paris leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Carrie, Sarah and Alex had all left the condo about forty minutes before.
It was the first time he’d had any peace in days. He felt as if he might pass out any second, but for the moment he wanted to just rest his mind. Sarah’s words the day before had been weighing on him. His best friend weighed on him.
Ray would have said something like, Man up, Studmaster, and tell her. Ask her for help. He would have. But asking for help, that was the hardest thing in the world. The thing was, he was stuck. He remembered the moment he’d decided to do it. It wasn’t that night in the dorms. It wasn’t even at the funeral. It was before Ray had even died. He’d been at the hotel with the rest of the Thompson clan. Alex’s dad was there, and he had a gin and tonic, and Dylan couldn’t keep his eyes off that drink.
He wanted one so badly right now he could taste it.
You’re turning into your dad, Dylan.
Fucking asshole.
But it was true.
“Dylan? Can you come here a second?”
Dylan’s eyes popped open. Andrea was standing in the hallway, a confused look on her face. He stood and walked toward her. “What is it?”
“This…” she said, pointing in her room. “I went to check out some of the clothes Carrie loaned me, and…”
Dylan frowned. Inside the closet, underneath the pile of clothes, was a cardboard box. Several plastic baggies were in it, filled with white powder.
“What the fuck?” he asked. He walked closer, and picked up one of the bags. Underneath the plastic bag—money. A lot of it. Twenty-dollar bills, stacked.
“Something’s wrong,” he said.
“Those are drugs,” she said.
“Yeah.”
“A lot of them.”
“Yeah,” he replied.
Her face was pale. “Those weren’t in here yesterday, or this morning. I know—I went through the closet before I left to get the blood test this morning. Who was in here?”
Dylan tried to think back. That morning, he and Alex had gotten breakfast at the corner diner while Andrea went with Sarah to get the blood test and Carrie went to the Pentagon. The condo was empty except Rachel and the nanny. And their guards.
“I don’t get it,” he said. “I think we need to call the cops.”
“What? Are you sure?”
“I don’t know what’s going on, Andrea.”
Both of them froze when the phone rang. Neither of them had ever heard it before—it was the house landline.
3. Adelina. 3:30 pm Pacific
Adelina knew exactly when they drove into cell phone range again, because both of their phones started to ring with message after message.
Jessica said. “We’re popular, aren’t we?”
“It was like this when I drove to town last Friday to talk to Julia,” Adelina said. “Sometimes I wish I could just get rid of the damn thing.”
But of course, she knew she couldn’t.
“I got like
fifty text messages from Sarah,” Jessica said. She frowned as she scrolled through the messages then sat up straight. “Mom!” she said in a squeal.
“What is it?” Adelina said, alarmed by the sudden note of urgency.
“Pull over, Mom. Check your messages!”
“I’m sure there’s nothing that urgent—”
“Mom! Do it!”
Adelina didn’t argue. She pulled the car to the side of the road and pulled up her messages.
Julia had sent her two dozen text messages. Carrie just as many. One message from Richard. It simply said, “Call me.”
“Oh my God,” she said, when she saw the message from Carrie: Andrea kidnapped. Call. Now. She looked over at Jessica and said, “Call Carrie now. I’m getting us home. I’ll call Julia.”
She put the car in gear and began to drive, too fast, out of the mountains. She reached for her phone again to dial Julia’s number, when it rang.
She stopped the car again as she recognized the beginning of the incoming number.
She answered it. “Hello?”
“Adelina Ramos, please.”
Adelina Ramos. Of course he wouldn’t use her married name.
“This is she.” Her voice shook. She hadn’t heard that voice in years except once or twice on television, and it shook her to her core. A yearning she didn’t think she was even still capable of washed over her, along with fear, because this phone call could only mean one thing. He’d said he would never call again, unless it was the end. He’d said—to forget about him. To forget about what could have been.
“You need to get them out,” the voice said. Them meaning her children.
“Are you sure?” she said.
“We intercepted some calls. You need to act right now, you’re all likely in danger.”
Adelina gasped. “All right. Where do I go?”
“Try to make it across the border. I may be able to get you more help there.”
She sobbed. Then she threw caution to the wind and whispered, “I still love you.”
There was a long pause. Then the response.
“Always, Adelina. Always.”
The phone disconnected. In the seat next to her, Jessica was talking too rapidly. “Yes, of course I’m okay, I’ve been up in the mountains with Mom. Yeah, at a retreat. It’s… complicated. But Andrea… she’s okay?”
Adelina dialed Andrea’s phone without hesitation. She would be the first and most in danger, followed by Carrie.
Andrea’s phone went straight to voicemail. She tried again. No good. Was she back in Spain?
No. The text messages from Carrie were clear. She leaned toward Jessica. “Who are you talking with? Is Andrea with them?”
“No,” Jessica said. “Andrea’s at the condo. I’m on the phone with Carrie, she’s out to dinner with Sarah and Alexandra.”
Adelina nodded. “Tell Carrie to make sure she’s in a public place with lots of people. Tell her she’s in danger.”
Jessica’s eyes widened in confusion. “What?”
“Just do it.”
Jessica started speaking rapidly into the phone again. Adelina dialed the condo.
It rang. Three. Four. Five times. Six.
A moment later a voice answered, a male voice with a voice bordering on a Southern accent.
“Hello?”
“Dylan Paris? This is Adelina Thompson.”
“Mrs. Thompson? Everyone’s been looking for you!”
“No time for that now. Is Andrea there with you?”
“Yeah…”
“Get her out. You’re in danger. Do you understand me? Whatever you do, you need to get her out of that building.”
“I don’t understand—”
Dylan’s voice cut off suddenly. At the other end of the line she heard something terrifying. A loud crack.
A gunshot.
1. Julia. 3:30 pm Pacific
“TROUBLE,” Crank said.
Julia looked up from the file. Crank was standing against the window, his face looking tense and alarmed. “What is it?” she asked.
He shook his head slightly then raised a finger across his lips. Quiet. Then he whispered. “Two guys. Suit jackets. They’re armed. I don’t think they’re cops.”
Julia stopped breathing. It never occurred to her that they might be in danger. But the last forty-eight hours had changed a lot. Andrea had been kidnapped. Her father worked for the CIA. Her mother had been attacked.
She didn’t move. A drop of sweat rolled down her forehead. She whispered, “Crank, I’m worried.”
“Out the back door,” he said. “Grab the file.”
She scrambled to gather up the police report describing her mother’s assault. Crank grabbed her hand, pulling her toward the door. A deep anxiety lined his face like nothing she’d ever seen before.
He paused at the door to the office, listening. Anthony also stood stock still, face frozen.
“They’re messing with the front door,” Anthony whispered.
“Go. Back door,” Crank replied, his voice urgent.
They moved quickly, Crank in the lead, pulling Julia by the hand, Anthony following behind. Julia winced at the sound of boards shifting and creaking under Crank’s boots.
They heard a loud crack downstairs, and a male voice muttering.
Crank didn’t say a word, moving now through the kitchen to the back door. Anthony eased the kitchen door closed behind them.
Eyebrows narrowing, Crank twisted the knob, but the back door didn’t budge. The deadbolt, which required a key inside and out, was locked.
“Shit,” he whispered. He looked desperately toward Julia.
Footsteps up the front stairs. Hands shaking, she got her keys out of her purse. She only had one key to the house and had never tried the back door. Did it use the same key? She had no idea. She got the key out, and tried to fit it in the lock.
It didn’t fit.
The intruders had made it up the stairs. Julia imagined them at the landing, trying to decide whether to move toward the office, the stairs, or the kitchen.
Then she heard a man, cursing, and rapid steps toward the other side of the house. Office it was.
“Block the door,” she hissed. She turned toward the kitchen window and unlocked it, then tried to raise it. It didn’t budge. Damn it. She had to get it open, and get the bars open, quickly.
While she tried again to raise the window, Crank and Anthony lifted the kitchen table and slid it to the door.
“That’s not going to hold them long,” Crank whispered.
Footsteps in the dining room. Julia grimaced and let out a groan as she tried again to raise the window.
“Oven,” Crank said.
Anthony looked at Crank, then to the oven, and nodded. The two of them raced to that side of the kitchen, then slid the oven out, away from the wall. A loud squeal rose from underneath as the metal scraped against the stone tiles.
Julia heard a shout, then footsteps pounding through the house. At that sound, Crank let out a loud cry as he and Anthony lifted the stove in the air. The gas line stretched to its length, then cracked and broke away from the wall at one of the joints.
“No!” Julia cried.
It was too late. They dropped the stove, blocking the table, just as the intruders tried to open the kitchen door. Julia waited for an explosion, a hissing, but nothing came. Instead, Crank dove for the wall and disconnected
the gas.
The kitchen door banged against the table, once, then twice, then again.
“Let’s go,” Crank said. He lifted a chair, and swung it, wide and fast, at the window. With a crash, the glass shattered, just as a hole was blown through the door. A bullet! Julia let out a scream.
“Fuck me fuck me fuck me,” Crank said, fumbling for the lock for the barred windows.
“Got it!” he said a second later. The cage lifted wide, and he lifted Julia off her feet and to the window.
“Go!” Anthony yelled.
The
three of them tumbled out the window and onto the stairs, then ran for the gate in the back yard. Beyond was the alley going half a block down a public street. Crank held Julia’s hand the whole way, tugging her along behind him.
Less than a minute later, they were out onto the street. Crank led them to the corner and stuck his head out for just a second.
“Gone. They’re already gone.” He sagged for just a second. Julia collapsed against him.
Five seconds later, with a loud crash, an explosion blasted the house, spewing flame and debris out into the street.
2. Leah Simpson. 6:31 pm
One minute later and three thousand miles away, Leah Simpson stood at the door of the Thompson condominium, a frown on her face. Mick Stanson sat at the desk twenty feet down the hall, cleaning his service weapon.
“What? Who is here?” she asked over the radio again.
John Lochlear, the agent at the front desk, said, “Our relief.”
She sighed. What kind of fuck up was this? “They’ve got valid ID?”
“Yeah.”
She frowned in frustration. They weren’t supposed to have a relief team here until midnight. “Hold them there,” she said into the radio. “Let me call Bear. This is bullshit.”
She didn’t wait for an answer, instead reaching for her cell phone and speed dialing Bear. The phone rang once, twice, a third time.
“Yeah, Bear speaking.”
As Bear answered the phone, she saw the light appear above the elevator. She tensed, even as she said the words, “Bear, is there supposed to be a relief team here?”
His response was instant and vociferous. “No! Keep your guard up, someone just tried to assassinate the head of MI-6.”
Leah’s first response, before she could even think properly, was to crouch and reach for her weapon. The crouch saved her life—when the elevator door opened, a tall man stepped out and sprayed the hallway with bullets. The burst missed her, but took the top of Mick Stanson’s head off, spraying the hallway with his blood.
Girl of Lies (Rachel's Peril) Page 26
