“But why do you have to go?” Jane asked. She was still in her Hello Kitty pajamas, eyes blurry from sleep. Adriana hovered near the door of the room. It was four in the morning, and George-Phillip was dressed in a badly fitting Royal Air Force flight suit.
“Because the Queen and Prime Minister have asked me to, and you don’t tell the Queen no,” George-Phillip replied. “I’ll be back by Sunday evening at the latest.”
“But I’m scared,” Jane said. Her face contorted. She was about to start crying.
George-Phillip kneeled beside Jane and put his arms around her. “Adriana will take good care of you. And so will Captain Forrester. I’ll be back very soon.”
“Can we go see my sisters soon?”
George-Phillip smiled. “Of course. I’ll speak with Carrie about it as soon as I get back to Washington.”
“Carrie’s sad about the baby.”
“She is. Rachel’s very sick and that makes her mother frightened.”
Jane pouted. “Can’t she get her some medicine?”
“Well, Rachel needs a special kind of medicine that comes from another person.”
Jane looked confused and skeptical. “Medicine comes from bottles.”
Adriana chuckled.
George-Phillip smiled. “Some medicine comes from bottles. But Rachel needs a bone marrow transplant. That’s something that comes from deep inside your bones, and there aren’t many people who can give her what she needs.”
“Would they die? The people who give their bones?”
George-Phillip felt his eyes water. “No, Jane. They don’t give their bones, just part of the insides of them. They wouldn’t die. Jane, I really have to go.”
“I could give her some of my bones.”
He winced. “No, Jane, I don’t know about all that.” He looked at Adriana, then back at Jane. “I must go now. The plane will be waiting for me.”
He leaned close and kissed her on the forehead.
Thirty minutes later, he arrived at Joint Base Andrews just outside Washington, DC. The entire drive he fretted about Jane’s declaration. For one thing, it was unlikely that she was a donor match anyway. Rachel was his granddaughter, and Jane his daughter with another woman. They didn’t share much genetics.
On the other hand, George-Phillip would ensure he had himself tested as soon as he returned to Washington. The driver pulled to a stop at the gate and conferred with the US Air Force guard. Moments later they were moving again, following the careful directions of the guard.
He hadn’t wanted to make this flight at all. Certainly not without Jane. But he had little choice. He’d done the best he could to ensure her safety, including substantially increasing the security detail at the Embassy. Unlike the charter flight which he had previous taken to Washington—and the one which was shot down—this flight was being paid for out of public funds as a national security matter. The attempted assassination of the head of the Secret Intelligence Service was a security crisis. The fact that a foreign intelligence service had been responsible for that potentially made it an act of war.
As a result, the Prime Minister had called for an emergency cabinet meeting. He wanted George-Phillip there in person. A grim George-Phillip had extracted one concession—he would be flown back just as quickly as the trip over.
The car pulled to a stop in front of the main tower next to the runway. A military officer in fatigues stood there with a small escort. One of the men in the escort approached and opened the car door for George-Phillip. Fifty feet away, George-Phillip saw what was almost certainly his plane—a Tornado Air Defense Fighter, the long-range mainstay of the Royal Air Force.
“Prince George-Phillip? I’m General Hainey, US Air Force. I wanted to extend my welcome to Joint Base Andrews, I’m the base commander here.”
“A pleasure to meet you, General. You didn’t have to arise this early to meet me.”
The general smiled. “I’m always up this early, Your Highness. Let me walk you to the plane.”
“Of course.”
George-Phillip turned toward the aircraft and walked beside the Air Force general, who began speaking. “We’ve been running a continuous combat air patrol since your flight was shot down the other night, and the FBI is trying to track down who did it. In the meantime, I want to let you know how grateful we all are that you survived the crash.”
“Thank you,” George-Phillip replied.
They reached the aircraft. A crew was running through a series of checks, and the pilot approached.
“Your Highness? I’m Captain Warfield. You’ll be riding in the back here. Climb on up, we’re just finishing pre-flight checks.”
George-Phillip climbed the rickety ladder up to the top of the aircraft. He’d never been this close to one, and was surprised to find how large the aircraft was close up. He threw one leg over the side, then the other, and slid into the bucket seat. He started to puzzle out the tangle of straps.
“Here, Your Highness, let me help.”
Captain Warfield leaned over the side and attached the harness, then tightened the straps.
“Put your helmet on, sir, and we’ll get going. The oxygen mask is here.”
The captain showed George-Phillip how to get the helmet and oxygen mask adjusted then cautioned him not to touch any of the buttons in the back. “Those are the weapons systems, sir, so that would be a bad thing.”
“I wasn’t planning to, Captain.”
The pilot had the audacity to wink at him. “You never know with passengers, sir. Or civilians.”
George-Phillip grumbled, “I’ll thank you to remember that I was a Royal Marine.”
“You weren’t eligible for the Air Force? So sorry, sir, that must have been disappointing.” The pilot said the words in a deadpan voice as he dropped into the front seat and lowered the canopy. Before George-Phillip could think of an appropriate reply, the pilot said, “Have you ever flown in one of these, sir?”
George-Phillip coughed then said, “No.”
“Just hold on tight then, sir. It’s a little like flying with a jet up your arse.” With that, the twin engines fired up, starting with a low moan, then a loud screaming roar that vibrated the interior of the fighter. For just a second, George-Phillip felt some level of panic. He was going to cross the Atlantic
in this?
It was too late. The pilot continued to monologue as they taxied to the runway. “The flight will be about two and a half hours sir, we’ll be traveling at a little over one thousand four hundred miles per hour, except during the mid-air refueling.”
George-Phillip swallowed. “Mid-air refueling?” He was familiar with the concept, but had never seen the execution.
“That’s right, sir. The yanks have a carrier group in the Atlantic right now, and they’re being right hospitable.”
With that, George-Phillip heard the words over the radio. “Royal Air Force One-oh-five, you are cleared for takeoff.”
“There we are, sir,” Captain Warfield said.
Then George-Phillip felt his entire body sinking into the thick padding in the bucket seat as the plane seemed to leap forward, the ground suddenly racing by beneath them. The plane bounced crazily on the tarmac until, fifteen seconds later, it left the ground.
“We’ll be going to altitude right quickly, sir. Just relax.”
The angle of the aircraft leaned further and further back, until it was almost climbing at a sixty degree angle from the earth. George-Phillip looked out. Already, the ground was far below, and ahead he could see the Atlantic Ocean. In three hours, he would be in London.
Dylan placed his hand on the glass and spread his fingers out. On the other side of the window, Alex did the same.
“I think they’re going to let me go soon,” he said. “The questioning—they can’t possibly believe I did anything wrong at this point.”
Alex sniffed and said, “I miss you, Dylan.”
“Hey … it’s gonna be fine. I promise. I won’t let you down.”
She smiled.
“Time!” The jail guard in the public area outside shouted the word.
Alex jerked a little, and a tear ran down her face. “I love you, Dylan.”
“Love you too,” he said.
She stood, then leaned forward and blew him a kiss. He gave her a wry smile.
After his breakdown the night before, he somehow felt better than he had in—months, really. He felt calm and at peace. And he knew what he had to do when he got out of here. He stretched and stood up to turn away from the seat.
“Paris, wait there. You’ve got another visitor.”
Another visitor?
He couldn’t imagine who it could be. Dylan had finally been allowed to call Alex that morning, but he hadn’t expected her to show up, and didn’t know the routines for visits yet. But she had made the trek to the FBI’s temporary holding facility in Greenbelt, Maryland to see him. She told him that the newspapers had somehow learned of his incarceration, and several confused news reports discussed his connection to the Thompson clan and what, if anything, he might be guilty of.
He sank back into the seat, wondering who the visitor could possibly be.
Dylan’s eyes widened when he got his answer.
He was five-nine and a half inches. Hair a little longer than was in style these days, and greying at the temples. His face was weathered from years of too much drinking and too much smoking, and his hands had the rough look of a manual laborer. His clothes were clean, but threadbare—either very old, or he had gotten them at a thrift store. A bushy mustache, shot with grey, hung over his upper lip like a big furry caterpillar.
He smiled uncomfortably, revealing a gap between two of his teeth. “Hey, Dylan.”
It was Larry Paris. Dylan’s father.
It took Dylan almost twenty seconds to croak out the words, “Hey, Dad … what are you doing here?”
“That ain’t the way to greet your dad, Dylan.”
Dylan started to stand, “I don’t know why you’re here.”
“Now wait one second—give me a chance, boy.”
Dylan paused. He felt rage like he hadn’t experienced since the night Randy Brewer had assaulted Alex. He took a deep breath. And another. His therapist at the VA had said over and over again,
slow down your breathing and think before you react.
He sighed, then turned and sat back down.
“What do you want, Dad? I haven’t seen or heard from you in almost ten years. Why are you here now?”
His father’s mustache twitched. He said, “I miss you, boy. I’ve missed you horribly. But I didn’t know where you was.”
Dylan said, “Bullshit. You never even sent a letter. You never called.”
“That’s cause your mother kicked me out. Look … Dylan. You’re my son. I’m sorry. I wish I’d gotten in touch. After your mom kicked me out, I was in jail for a while, and I’ve been knocking around for a bit. I’m working now, though, I got a job landscaping in Manassas. I’m trying to clean up my act. I ain’t had a drink in a year.”
Dylan snorted. He found that hard to believe. Visions of his father swept through his brain. Larry Paris had been a nasty drunk, a
mean
drunk. He’d casually and regularly hurt Dylan’s mom and sometimes Dylan. Jabs and twisted arms and slaps across the face weren’t uncommon in his home. Nor were the kind of words you couldn’t take back.
I ain’t had a drink in a year.
The words sounded hollow, but they also reminded Dylan of the words he’d said to Alex. That he
would
get help. Was Dylan any better than the man who sat on the other side of the glass?
“I’m listening,” Dylan said. He crossed his arms over his chest.
“I hear you live in New York City now. That you’re going to some fancy college. Columbia? And you’re married. That was in the paper.”
“Yeah, I’m married. I love her.”
“Paper said she’s from a rich family—she the one paying for college?”
“No, Dad. The Army’s paying for it.”
His father’s face fell. “You got hit in the Army. Paper said you were injured real bad.”
Dylan was intensely uncomfortable that anything in the news was about him. Somehow he’d avoided much in the way of media coverage during Ray’s court martial. But now anything and everything related to the Thompson family was being picked over by the media.
“Yeah, Dad. Roadside bomb. I nearly lost the leg.”
“Well, it’s a blessing you didn’t, son. It’s a blessing.”
Dylan just nodded, waiting for his father to get to the point of his visit.
Larry Paris looked down at the floor, then back up at his son. “Son, I’d like to come back into your life, if you’ll have me. I know I don’t live in New York, but you could visit sometimes. I’d like to meet your wife one of these days.”
Dylan shrugged. “I don’t expect to be in this jail much longer. It was self-defense. But when I get out, I’m probably headed back to New York right away. We’ve missed exams and we’re going to have to go beg for a second chance from the university.”
“Well. Will you give me a call when you get out? I’ll leave my number with you.”
Dylan swallowed. He was trying to figure out if he had any feelings for this man other than disdain.
Was this what he was headed for? Was he going to be like his father?
His father spoke again. “Son, I got one other question for you.”
Dylan sighed. “What’s that?”
“Well, you see, I’m not comfortable with this, but I know you’re married into a rich family and all. I’m—in a tight financial spot. You see, I lost my driver’s license last year when I had a DUI. And I haven’t been able to work much—”
“I thought you had a job landscaping.”
“Well, I did until I lost the job. Anyways, I’m just wondering it you can maybe help—”
Dylan stood up. “Dad—”
“Now hold on—”
“Dad—”
“Dylan, I’m just asking for—“
“Dad! Stop! First of all, we probably don’t have any money. If you’d bothered reading more in the papers, you’d know the IRS has been busy seizing everything the family has. And second—you haven’t seen me in ten years. And you show up here asking for money? When I’m in trouble? Why don’t you ask me how I am, Dad? Why don’t you ask me how Mom is? Why don’t you show me you give just one shit?”
Dylan turned away. Behind him, he heard his father shout, “Son! I’m asking you to forgive me. That’s all in the past!”