Girl of Vengeance (17 page)

Andrea opened the door for her, and Sarah limped into the restaurant. Then the two of them waited at the front door.

Immediately she saw herself in the large mirror near the hostess station at the front of the restaurant. Both of them with dark hair, almost black, with streaks, Sarah’s white and Andrea’s turquoise. Both of them wore mostly black, though Sarah’s skirt was plaid over black leggings. In the mirror, they looked a little comical—Andrea was a full foot taller than Sarah.

Andrea grinned at Sarah in the mirror as the hostess led them to a table. For the next several minutes, they both studied the menu, ordered their food and drinks, then sat back and looked at each other.

Sarah said, “I feel kind of awkward. I mean, we’re sisters, but we don’t know each other very well, do we?”

Andrea nodded, her expression a little sad.

Sarah said, “Thanks for calling every week after I got hurt. It meant a lot to me.”

Andrea shrugged. “You needed it. I could tell.”

“I felt so alone. Especially at first, when I thought I was going to lose my leg. And I thought I was going crazy sometimes, with just me and Carrie and Mother. Your calls helped ground me.”

Andrea said, “I wish we could have spent more time together. You know—growing up.”

Sarah said, “Me too.”

“Do you remember going to the zoo? When we were little?”

“Yeah. Carrie used to take us all the time. And to Golden Gate Park.” Sarah studied her sister for a moment. They both shared facial features from their mother—the same small, slightly upturned nose, the green eyes and nearly black hair. But Andrea and Carrie had gotten some serious mutant tall genes from their father.

It felt weird to say that word in reference to someone else. “What was it like? Meeting your … your dad?”

Andrea sighed. “I don’t know really. He seemed really nice. But you can’t trust that, can you?”

Sarah said, “I don’t know. Maybe sometimes you have to trust something.”

Andrea stared at her sister, letting her big green eyes stare. Then she nodded, once. “Maybe you’re right. But how do you know when?”

Sarah shrugged. “I’ve got a lot of questions for Mother.”

“Me too.”

“There are a lot of things I feel like I should know about you. What’s your favorite color?”

“Blue,” Andrea replied. “You?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Sarah asked, gesturing to her all black clothes.

Andrea chuckled. “How come you and Jessica are so different now?”

Sarah’s mouth turned up in a half-smile. “We always were. I think she felt like she had to somehow compensate for … something. I don’t know what. It seemed like I constantly got in more trouble while she constantly became more prim.”

Andrea said, “I don’t see how she got mixed up with drugs.”

Sarah shook her head. “I don’t either. I feel like I missed something crucial, and it pisses me off. We haven’t gotten along the last couple years, but she’s still my twin. I should have known.”

The waitress arrived with their breakfast. They stayed silent as their food was arranged, then Andrea said, “I don’t want to stop long. Let’s sleep a couple hours then get on the road again, okay?”

Sarah nodded. “Yeah. It’s a long way before we’ll get there.”

“You could have picked a more practical mode of transportation,” Andrea said.

“More practical than a Harley?” Sarah asked. She grinned. “What country have you been living in?”

Two hours later, they were driving west again.

It was a little after four in the morning when George-Phillip awoke, fully awake though it was still very dark. He was already an early riser, and the addition of jet lag guaranteed insufficient sleep for the next several days. He stumbled out of bed and took care of his morning routine, then glanced into Jane’s room. His daughter—
youngest daughter
—thankfully could sleep anywhere, any time. She would still be out for at least a couple more hours.

He closed the door, then stepped out of the suite, intending to head downstairs for a cup of coffee, a habit he’d picked up during his first time in Washington, DC thirty years before.

A Captain of the Royal Marines was waiting for him along with O’Leary when he got downstairs.

“Your Highness,” the Captain said, coming to attention.

“Good morning, Captain,” George-Phillip said, his eyes moving to O’Leary in question.

“George-Phillip, I’m afraid we have bad news,” O’Leary said.

“Sir, the young lady ran last night. She climbed over the fence and ran.”

Stunned, George-Phillip asked, “
Which
young lady?”

“Andrea Thompson, sir,” O’Leary said.

George-Phillip shook his head. “When did this happen?”

“Just after midnight, sir.”

“
And you’re just telling me now?”
George-Phillip shouted.

The Captain looked at O’Leary, confused. O’Leary looked uncomfortable. “Sir, that was my order—we couldn’t get her, someone met her with a motorcycle and she was gone before our men even made it to the gate. Nor could we pursue her—after all, she wasn’t a prisoner.”

“She is my daughter!” George-Phillip shouted

The Captain’s eyes widened and he took a step back. O’Leary, however, stepped forward, placing a hand on George-Phillip’s arm. “Your Highness, I’m well aware of that. But you are also the Chief of the Secret Intelligence Service. You can’t allow your personal considerations to interfere with that, sir.”

Rage gripped George-Phillip. His response was delivered in an icy tone. “You take too much liberty, Oswald. I can’t even imagine what you were thinking. Do we have
any
idea where she went? Who she went with? Why she left?”

The Royal Marine Captain shook his head. “No, Your Highness. Her room was locked from the inside, and while the bedclothes were a mess, there’s no sign of a struggle. She took her bag and went out the window, sir, then ran for the fence.”

George-Phillip said to the Marine Captain, “Go wake up Dylan Paris. And I want to see the video from the security cameras. Has anyone told the Ambassador?”

O’Leary said, “Is that wise, sir?”

George-Phillip said, “Twice now, a sixteen-year-old girl has evaded our security. Think about it, Oswald. I want to know why she ran. We just had dinner last evening and agreed that it would be safest for her to remain on the Embassy grounds.”

He half turned away from O’Leary, but O’Leary grasped his arm. “Sir—have you considered that maybe some of what they are saying in the media about her is true?”

George-Phillip said, “I’m well aware that you always opposed my involvement with Adelina Ramos—”

“
Thompson,
Your Highness. Her last name is
Thompson.
”

George-Phillip turned back to O’Leary, jamming his index finger into O’Leary’s chest. “O’Leary, we’ve been friends and colleagues for thirty years. But I’m telling you now that you are pushing this too far.”

“Yes, Your Highness. Of course.”

“You may go. I want an update as soon as possible. O’Leary—don’t fail me. I want my daughter found and protected.”

O’Leary said, “Yes, Your Highness.” Then he turned away. He stumbled once as he stepped away.

“Oswald? Are you all right?”

O’Leary looked back. “Of course, sir. I turned my ankle when I was inspecting where she went over the fence.”

The Central Hearing Facility in the Hart Senate Office building was the largest hearing room on Capitol Hill, with seating for up to several hundred spectators. The seal of the United States Senate, which displayed a flag with thirteen stars over a ribbon labeled
E Pluribus Unum
, dominated the marble wall at the head of the room behind the dais where thirteen Senators were seated. On either side, wood paneled walls were punctuated with openings behind which reporters with cameras were preparing to film the hearing.

The room was full, every single seat taken. Unlike the typical Congressional hearing where one or two members of Congress showed up to make a few comments for the cameras, for this hearing every single Senator was already seated and ready to begin their questioning.

“The hearing is about to come to order, sir,” said the nameless intern who had accompanied Richard Thompson to the anteroom. “You can go in now.”

Richard didn’t bother answering. Instead, back straight, head high, he walked down the aisle at the center of the hearing room. A hush fell on the room as the hundreds of spectators realized he was approaching the witness desk that faced the Senators on the dais. Much as had been the case fourteen years before, when Senator Chuck Rainsley sat at the head of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee blocking Richard’s appointment to Moscow, Rainsley was back, now as head of the Senate Armed Services committee. The turncoat had even politically survived the switch from Republican to Democrat in 2003, just after the invasion of Iraq, and despite his obvious leftist leanings, had managed to claw his way to the head of the most important and most powerful committee in Congress. Richard remembered all too well the political circus of his confirmation hearings as Ambassador to Russia more than a decade ago. Rainsley had put every possible obstacle in his way, dug deep into his personal life and then blindsided him with closed, classified hearings where his CIA career was examined.

Richard
hated
this oppressive, noxious room and the chairman who sat at the head of the table. For thirty years Chuck Rainsley had been his nemesis. Richard didn’t allow himself to blink as he walked up the aisle, meeting Rainsley’s eyes defiantly. Despite the flashes of dozens—possibly hundreds of cameras—Richard made his way up the center of the aisle without pausing or even noticing the barrage. None of the people out there really mattered. Now it was between him and Rainsley.

“All right,” Rainsley said, his appalling Texas drawl elongated for the cameras. He looked at the other Senators and said, “Y’all all right?”

When there was no response, Rainsley banged a gavel on the table. “Good morning, everybody. This committee was originally scheduled to consider the nomination of Ambassador Richard Thompson to be Secretary of Defense. As I’m sure y’all are aware, yesterday the President withdrew the nomination. However, this committee still has business to address with Ambassador Thompson. Now, for the moment, we’re going to skip right over the reports of drug money laundering and corruption, as well as the reports of millions of dollars of assets secreted away in the Caymans.”

Richard seethed at Rainsley’s response. In one sentence, Rainsley had dismissed any possible discussion of the lies he’d been accused of, even as he gave credence in a public hearing to those accusations. Rainsley, once a straight shooting Marine (or so he claimed) had become familiar with the wily, slippery ways of Washington. It made Richard sick enough that he wanted to walk out and go wash his hands.

“Today,” Rainsley said, “we will begin by addressing a report which appeared in
The Guardian
newspaper in London the day before yesterday.”

Rainsley paused for a full twenty seconds to allow the reporters to get a better angle with their cameras. Then he said, as dramatically as possible, “Thirty years ago, in one of the bloodiest incidents of the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan, a tiny village in an out of the way corner of the furthest province from the Afghan capitol was gassed with sarin, the deadliest nerve gas ever invented.”

Richard felt his lip turning up in contempt of Rainsley. He forced it down. It was essential to maintain his diplomatic facade.

“For those of you not familiar with the military,” Rainsley said, emphasizing (for the three people left in remote rural Alaska who didn’t know) that he’d once been a Marine, “just a single drop of sarin is deadly enough to kill a person instantly. In this incident in Afghanistan, two helicopters delivered the chemical weapon in the dead of night and dropped it on unsuspecting villagers. According to Human Rights Watch, more than two hundred and thirty men, women and children were killed. Even the
dogs
died, as did a Human Rights Watch investigator who came into contact with the poison three months later.”

The room was silent. Rainsley had absolute mastery over his audience, his words articulate and persuasive. Those words were being broadcast across the nation and the world. If Richard couldn’t counter them effectively, it didn’t matter what he did. His career would be over irrevocably.

Rainsley spoke again, this time his voice loud, outraged. “Ladies and Gentlemen, colleagues of the Senate—for thirty years we have believed that the Soviet Union was responsible for this massacre of innocents. Who here doesn’t remember President Reagan citing the massacre when he described the Soviet Union as an
evil empire
?
And yet … how shocked we would all be to learn that it wasn’t the Soviet Union at all who was responsible for the massacre. Instead—a rogue CIA operative, operating with little or no oversight.”

Richard normally had complete control over his facial expressions and responses. But at the phrase “rogue CIA operative,” he shook his head with contempt.

Rainsley pointed a finger. “According to a report leaked this week to a British newspaper,
this
man, former Ambassador, most recently acting Secretary of Defense, was responsible for procuring the weapons. He was responsible for delivering them to the Afghan militia, which then dropped them on unsuspecting civilians. Instead of protecting the civilians of Afghanistan, we did just the opposite. We laid waste to them.”