“Bastards,” George-Phillip muttered. “All right. Keep going.”
“Yes, sir.” O’Leary started to turn away, then put a hand to the earpiece he always wore. His face tensed, a look of concern flashing across it.
“O’Leary?”
“A disturbance at the gate, sir. Nothing to worry about.”
Jessica. May 4
“Here,” Jessica’s mother said.
Here was a muddy field, knee-high grass mostly trampled by cattle or illegal aliens or who knew what. What Jessica did see was obvious. A small concrete pillar about three feet high on the other side of the field marked the border. A road and some houses were just beyond.
A loud honk down the street caught Jessica’s attention. She looked that way. Three blocks away, back at the intersection near the border station a gleaming black sports utility vehicle—a Hummer, she guessed—was nosing its way into traffic and snarling traffic. Her mom stopped and looked too.
“What the hell?” Jessica gasped as the Hummer bumped into another car, shoving it out of the way.
Her mother stood for just a moment, both of them tense.
The Hummer slowly pushed another car out of the way. The honking was coming from multiple vehicles now.
Jessica looked across the field, then back at the Hummer.
“Mom,” she said, her voice quavering. “Run. Let’s run. Now.”
Adelina, suddenly breathing rapidly, nodded.
Jessica grabbed her mother’s hand and pulled, plunging off the street into the muddy field. Instantly her canvas shoes soaked through, the cold mud gripping at her feet like the undead trying to pull her under. Her heart sank. If the entire field was this muddy, it would take them all day to make it across.
More honks from the intersection.
Jessica felt panic descend. In the last few days someone had kidnapped her sister, attacked her other sisters, and bombed their house. Something had gone terribly wrong.
“Run!” she screamed as Adelina stumbled. She leaned down, putting her arms underneath her mom’s and tugging her back to her feet. Hand in hand, they began to run across the field.
Thirty feet into the field, Jessica’s left shoe was yanked off her foot by the mud. She didn’t stop to do anything about it, because the Hummer was free of the traffic now, and speeding up the three blocks toward them, engine roaring. Instead, she kept moving as quickly as possible. Somewhere behind the Hummer and toward the border station, she heard a police siren.
They had at least seventy-five yards to go across the field. Jessica felt pain in her forehead as she ran, staggering, pulling her mother. Adelina was only fifty, but she wasn’t athletic and had suffered a lifetime of stress. She struggled to make it across the field, her face turning red.
The sirens were getting louder behind them. Jessica hazarded a look behind her when they’d made it halfway across the field. The Hummer had bounced to a stop just off the road. The driver’s side window rolled down.
Another police car appeared on the Canadian side of the border, screeching to a stop in the road. Two police officers got out of the vehicle.
Jessica screamed, “Help us!”
A loud crack sounded behind them, and a splat just to her right as a bullet struck the ground.
The two Canadian police jumped behind their car as the rifle shot rang out. The pain in her forehead sharpened, blooming down her neck and into her right arm. Jessica staggered.
Adelina. May 4.
Adelina cried out when Jessica suddenly faltered beside her, sinking to her knees in the mud. Panic flooded her. Had her daughter been shot? Where? Behind her, she heard another shot, and a bullet grazed her arm. She pulled Jessica to the ground, then lay down on top of her, putting her body between the shooter and her daughter, praying the grass would be enough to stop the bullets.
“Help us!” she screamed.
More shots rang out, this time from the Canadian side of the border. These gunshots were higher pitched, not the deep bass of the rifle.
Jessica’s face was grey, and her eyes were wide open. Her left eye was dilated, rolling around independently of her right eye, which was focused on Adelina. She was breathing heavily, her mouth moving, but no sound was coming out other than a high-pitched breathy wail. Her right eye was wide, terrified. Adelina couldn’t see any injuries, no blood. What was wrong with her?
“It’s going to be okay,” Adelina whispered. “I’ll protect you.” She began to recite a prayer as she held her daughter’s hand and looked in her eyes. “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures … he leads me beside still waters; he restores my soul. He leads me in right paths for his name’s sake.”
Adelina flinched at the sound of another rifle shot. The bullet slammed into the mud six feet away from her. Another hit three feet away.
“Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I fear no evil … for you are with me … your rod and your staff—they comfort me…”
Sirens went off somewhere behind her, and she heard the rumble of the Hummer turn into a roar. Suddenly it was receding, and the sirens were following. She lifted her head and looked around, then directly at the Canadian police.
“Help me! My daughter’s hurt!”
Across the field, two U.S. Border Patrol vehicles were parked, even as two police cars raced after the speeding Hummer.
Three Border Control officers were getting out of the vehicles and stepped into the field.
Adelina began to panic. She couldn’t let the Border Patrol take her or Jessica. She leaned down, putting her arms underneath Jessica’s armpits, and lifted her to her chest, backing toward the Canadian border.
She continued the prayer, silently, even as she pulled her daughter away from the Border Patrol, who began to run.
You prepare a table before me
In the presence of my enemies;
You anoint my head with oil;
My cup overflows,
Surely goodness and mercy will follow me
All the days of my life,
And I shall dwell in the house of the Lord
My whole life long.
Adelina staggered as she bumped into the concrete post marking the border. She fell to her back, dragging Jessica with her.
“I’m Adelina Thompson,” she gasped. “My husband is the Secretary of Defense of the United States.”
She saw the Canadian officers look stunned, even as the Border Patrol officers stopped just on the American side of the border.
“I claim political asylum. I need urgent medical care for my daughter. Please help me.”
She looked the officer in the eyes.
He nodded then said to his partner, “Call for an ambulance,” as he kneeled beside Jessica.
George-Phillip. May 4.
“What sort of disturbance?” George-Phillip asked. He glanced out the window. He could just barely hear the sound of a horn and the awful bass sound of a car stereo. The music sounded obnoxious, low and grating.
“Some drunk American crashed into the gate, sir. Nobody hurt. The security guards are dealing with it.”
“Well, then. Keep me updated. It’s Sunday, and I need to be with my daughter.”
“Very well, sir.”
George-Phillip left the small office. The official residence, which was reserved for visiting dignitaries, had four bedrooms on the first floor, plus several other assorted rooms—sitting rooms, offices and kitchens, along with a small locally hired permanent staff.
He walked down the hall by himself as O’Leary turned toward the exit. He reached his left hand out and opened the polished hardwood door to the playroom.
Jane was on the floor, humming to herself as she played with a doll set. Adriana was across the room from her, knitting a scarf or something.
As the door opened, Jane’s face brightened.
“Daddy!” she cried, jumping to her feet.
She ran to him and he lifted her into the air. She threw her arms ar
ound him. He was always surprised by how solid she was, and tall for a girl her age. He held her in his left hand and tickled her, causing her to convulse with giggles.
“Miss Poole, I thought I would take Jane to the zoo this afternoon. You may come along if you’d like, or if you wish to have the day off to explore the city, that’s fine as well.”
Adriana stood and said, “If it’s all the same to you, sir, I’ll come along.”
“The zoo? Take me to the zoo? Zoo!” Jane crooned.
“Yes. We’ll go see the pandas, I think.”
“And the lions!” Jane threw her head back and roared.
“She should have a bit of a snack first, sir, begging your pardon. She usually has a snack about 2:30.”
“By all means,” he said, sharply bothered by the fact that he didn’t know that. He spent far too little time with Jane. It was time to rectify that.
He opened the door. At that moment one of the security guards appeared, running down the hall.
“Your Highness, please stay in the room for the moment.”
“Excuse me?”
“There’s an intruder on the grounds, sir.”
At that moment he heard a shriek, then a loud thump just down the hall. A high-pitched voice, female, shouted, “Don’t shoot! I’m looking for asylum!”
A male shout, then another thump, then he heard a scream. Then words he was stunned to hear, shouted down the hallway.
“I’m Prince George-Phillip’s daughter!”
Silence. It sounded as if they had the female intruder subdued.
I’m Prince George-Phillip’s daughter! It couldn’t be. Could it?
“Step out of my way, please,” George-Phillip said to the guard.
“Your Highness, wait until the area is cleared—”
“You heard me,” George-Phillips said. He set Jane down, and said, “Stay back.” Then he pushed his way past the guard.
At the end of the hall, two security guards had wrestled a young woman to the floor. One kneeled on her back, preparing to tie her hands with plastic zip-ties.
She looked up at him with big blue-green eyes.
“Let her go,” George-Phillip said.
One of the security guards looked up at him, stunned.
“Let her go, right now,” he commanded.
Both guards stepped back. Slowly, Andrea Thompson came to her feet, her wary eyes on George-Phillip and Jane. She was mussed, a little bit of dirt on her face, her black and turquoise hair tangled from wrestling with the security guard. He thought about what he’d read about her. How she fought her way free when she was kidnapped, and somehow climbed down from a twentieth floor balcony when killers were after her. This young woman, his daughter, had far more internal resources than he could have ever imagined.
Thirty years of painful regret welled up in George-Phillip at that moment. Thirty years of regret that he’d not been able to protect Adelina, that he’d never known Carrie or Andrea, and that he’d never been a part of their lives. Worse, he saw all the pain and fear in her face. Fear that he would reject her, that she’d be alone, fear that he wouldn’t admit the truth. He felt his cheek suddenly twitching, his uncontrollable damned eyebrows working their own dance on his face, and then a tear ran down his cheek.
“Jane,” he said, his voice low, shaking. He motioned for her to come out into the hallway. “I’d like you to meet your sister. Her name is Andrea.”
Andrea’s eyes widened and began to water.
Jane clapped her hands together. “Sister!” she shouted. She stepped fully into the hallway and ran to Andrea, wrapping her arms around the sister she’d never met.
Dylan. May 4.
I thought the British didn’t carry guns. Dylan’s brain was foggy. He hadn’t been driving that fast when he hit the gate, maybe 15 mph, but the sudden impact had still jolted him hard. The music was still blaring out of the speakers, THUMP THUMP THUMP, obscene lyrics, booty calls, talk dirty.
He shook his head and looked back up into the barrel of the pistol.
“Step OUT of the CAR!” shouted the man with the gun.
“WHAT?” Dylan shouted. “I can’t hear you!”
“Step out of the car now!”
Dylan heard sirens in the distance. Lots of them. The music changed. Pitbull and Ke$ha. Timber. Yelling. Going down. Twerking. What is all that noise? Dylan reached out and turned the stereo off.
“No need to be so freaked out,” he said. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to fuck up your gate—”
“Get out!” shouted the guard.
“Okay, okay, okay…” he said. He opened the car door and stepped out.
Immediately one of the guards slammed him up against the car. Dylan felt his ribs bruise. He didn’t resist as they pulled his arms behind him.
He felt his mouth curl up in a slight smile, remembering Alex muttering, What is it with you and cops?
He needed to stall them and keep their attention for a few minutes, and give her some time to get into the residence. He didn’t know if she’d made it yet—probably not, it was too quick.
Slurring his words, he said, “Where’s Harry?”
“There’s no one named Harry here, you wretch—”
“What do you mean?” he asked, still slurring his words. “Captain Harry. Er … Captain Wales, I think they called him. I was in Afghanistan with him.”
Take that, motherfuckers. Actually, he’d never been anywhere near Prince Harry, though he’d been in Afghanistan at the same time, at least from what he’d read in the papers at the time. But this was a good time to stretch the truth.
“I didn’t mean to break your gate. He tol’ me to stop by. He said any time.”
The guards went into a huddle. Traffic on Massachusetts Avenue was at a complete stop now. Gawking drivers who were already slowed by the protest at the Japanese Embassy were now presented with even more of a spectacle with the fluorescent green Oldsmobile in the driveway of the British Embassy.
Good. Dylan was hoping this would all be sorted before the DC police arrived.
That’s when he heard one of their radios. Shouts.
“Intruder spotted entering the residence. Full alert. Full alert.”
The bad news was, that prompted the guards to knock Dylan straight to the ground. One of them kneeled on his back, his knee grinding into Dylan’s spine.
“Take it easy, bud, I’m not resisting,” he murmured.
Two extremely long minutes later, a radio call came. He heard an argument, but couldn’t see anything with his face pressed to the grass. It was getting itchy down here. He hoped he wasn’t going to jail again.
Then he heard a voice. “Let him up. We’ve got orders to let him in.”
“What?” one of the other guards said. “Bullshit.”
Mutters. More argument. Then he was hauled to his feet, and the guards were opening the gate.
“I’ll drive your … your … car … inside,” one of the guards said.
Their leader said, “Follow me, sir. You’re to be taken to see the Prince, God knows why.”
Dylan coughed, then composed himself. Unable to help himself, he winked at the security guard, and then followed him into the Embassy compound.
Adelina. May 4.
Adelina clutched the coat the police officer had lent her. It was cold, especially with the water and mud soaked through her clothes. The ambulance was so loud she couldn’t hear what the emergency medical technicians were saying. But it didn’t sound good. They’d run an IV and were checking Jessica’s vitals as the ambulance raced down the highway.
One of the EMTs leaned close to her and said, “We’re going to Abbotsford Regional Hospital.”
“What’s wrong with her? She wasn’t shot.”
“Ma’am, it looks like a stroke. How old is she?”
“Eighteen! She can’t have had a stroke.”
“There are good doctors at Abbotsford, they’ll do their best to help her. But I need to ask some questions, all right?”
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Adelina nodded, clutching the coat.
“Is she doing any drugs? Or alcohol?”
“None right now. She just got out of a drug detox.”
The EMTs looked at each other, then back at her. “What was she using?”
“Alcohol. And … crystal meth.”
The EMT nodded. “That might explain the stroke. Is she taking any medication?”
“Ibuprofen. She’s had terrible headaches. And she’s eating enough for three people. I thought she was getting better!”
“She probably was. But your run across the border may have just been too much exertion. Meth can damage the blood vessels in the brain, unfortunately. How long have you two been on the run?”
Adelina sighed and thought back. Three days? Four? She couldn’t even remember. “A few days.”
The EMT nodded. “All right. An immigration officer will meet us at the hospital to discuss your asylum application. In the meantime, she’ll be getting the best care possible. I promise we’ll do our best.”
Adelina nodded, looking at her daughter. Jessica’s skin was grey, her eyes staring up at the ceiling. She was still awake and obviously frightened out of her wits.
Adelina didn’t know what was going to happen from here. But she knew no matter what, she was never going back to Richard. She’d do everything she could to protect her daughters. She’d find Andrea. And for Jessica, right now, all she could do was comfort her. She reached out and took Jessica’s hand.
Author's Note
When writing a work of political fiction, sometimes the parallels to real life are inescapable.
Ronald Reagan, Eugene Jackson, Henry Kissenger are all known historical personages. However, their roles in this story are completely fictional.
The Wakhan Corridor largely missed the violence of the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan, just as it has missed most of the violence of the current war in Afghanistan. However, the fighting has laster 35 years, more than a generation--first with the Soviets, then the Taliban, and finally the United States. Much of the violence I described was typical, including massacres of civilians. There was no use of chemical weapons as described in this book.
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