The Thompson Sisters
A Song for Julia
Falling Stars
Just Remember to Breathe
The Last Hour
Rachel's Peril
Girl of Lies
America's Future
Republic
Insurgent
Nocturne (with Andrea Randall)
Prayer at Rumayla: A Novel of the Gulf War
Saving the World on Thirty Dollars a Day
for Andrea
The Thompson Family
Richard Thompson
Adelina Thompson
Julia Wilson (Thompson)
— Crank Wilson
Carrie Thompson-Sherman
— Ray Sherman
— Rachel Sherman
Alexandra Paris (Thompson)
— Dylan Paris
Sarah Thompson
Jessica Thompson
Andrea Thompson
The Wakhan File
Roshan al Saud
Leslie Collins
Mitch Filner
Vasily Karatygin
George-Phillip Patrick Nicholas
Chuck Rainsley
Diplomatic Security
John “Bear” Wyden
Leah Simpson
The Washington Post
Anthony Walker
ANDREA THOMPSON shivered as Javier’s hands slid up the back of her shirt, his fingers curled, raising goose bumps and sensation as they ran down her spine. She gasped a little as his lips touched her, his stubble rough against her neck.
“Te quiero,” he said as her back arched, pressing her chest against him. I want you.
“No,” she replied. “Abuelita expects me home.”
He sighed, lifting his head. His eyes were dark, too dark, easy to get lost in. “You know you’re the only girl I want, ever.”
She put her lips to his ear, the faint, aquatic smell of his cologne gratifying her senses. “You say that because your verga is hard and I’m in the car with you. You want every girl you see, Javier. Take me home.”
He smiled, his full lips curving up a little more on the right side, and said, “Sí, Andrea.”
One second later, she felt the buzzing of her phone in her pocket, and then the ringtone that represented her sisters.
He sighed, and broke away from her, his smile wistful. She returned the smile as she dug in her jacket pocket for her phone. As Javier started the car, she got the phone out. Mierda! She wasn’t in time.
“Which one of your sisters is it?”
“Carrie,” she said as she unlocked the phone. “She lives in Washington, DC.”
As Andrea dialed the phone, she counted the hours back. It was close to ten pm in Calella, so that would make it about four in the afternoon in Washington. She hadn’t expected to hear from Carrie. Truthfully, she hadn’t expected to hear from any of her sisters. Julia, the oldest of her sisters at thirty-two years old, was the only one who called her regularly.
“Hello?” Carrie’s voice. A little breathy.
“Carrie? It’s Andrea.”
“Andrea! Thank you so much for calling back so quickly! Your number didn’t show up on my phone.”
Andrea shrugged. International calls could be weird sometimes. “How are you? How’s the baby?”
Silence. Just long enough that Andrea sat up straight in her seat, her eyebrows scrunching together, and then she said, “Carrie? What’s going on? How’s the baby?”
Andrea felt a shiver down her spine at the sound of a sniffle from Carrie. Carrie, the foundation of her family, the daughter who’d always taken care of all of them. Carrie, who lost her husband to murder and tragedy less than a year ago.
“Andrea… I need help. Rachel needs help.”
“Anything,” Andrea said without thinking.
“Can you come? To Washington?”
Andrea swallowed. “I have school…”
“Andrea. Rachel is very sick… she needs a bone marrow transplant. And I’m not a close enough match. I just… will you come get tested? Please?”
Andrea had seen little Rachel’s pictures on Facebook. A beautiful, tiny, five-week-old baby. Carrie and Ray’s daughter, who would never know her father.
Carrie couldn’t take any more pain.
“Of course I’ll come.”
Andrea shivered at the sound of a sob on the other line. She looked up and met Javier’s eyes. He raised his eyebrows, and she mouthed the words llévame a casa. Take me home.
Javier nodded and put the car in gear. A moment later, he was driving through the narrow streets of Calella. “I’m going home now, Carrie. I’ll talk with Abuelita and get a flight home right away, okay? I promise.” As she spoke the words, she couldn’t help but see in her mind how much of a mess her sister had been eight months ago. Everything had been a disaster. Her husband Ray was in the hospital alongside their sister Sarah, both of them badly injured in a car accident that turned out to be intentional.
Murder. That’s what it had been. Ray, her brother-in-law who she barely knew, had been brutally murdered. And now his daughter was sick.
Andrea sighed. She would figure out something for school. Right now she needed to make arrangements to get back to the United States.
Javier turned the car onto Carrer Diputatio, the tiny one lane street two blocks from the beach. Abuelita, her grandmother, had her flat here, a third floor apartment above the don Panini snack bar. The snack bar was still open when Javier pulled the car to a stop in front of it, and patrons were crowded into the open restaurant and spilling out onto the sidewalk. Bared midriffs, short skirts, coverall dresses, sweat and carnal intentions. Loud music blasted out of the Isard restaurant and pizzeria across the narrow lane. A car came to a stop behind Javier’s and the driver immediately honked the horn as more traffic backed up behind it.
“You’re going away?” Javier asked, ignoring the honking.
She signed. Then nodded. “I have to go to the United States.”
“You’ll be careful?”
She thought the question seemed odd. Of course she’d be careful. “I’ll be back soon. My niece needs a bone marrow transplant. I’m probably not even a match. But I have to go to my sister.”
The driver behind them honked his horn again, shouting obscenities out the open window. The street was too narrow for him to drive around unless he went onto the sidewalk in front of the Gaviota bar, which had a crowd of twenty or more people crowded outside.
“I have to go,” she said.
“Te amo,” he said softly.
Andrea shivered, even though she knew he didn’t mean it. Because… what if he did? She leaned forward and kissed him goodbye.
“Despedida,” she said. Farewell. Then she slipped out of the car, shutting the door behind her.
The driver behind Javier, an angry, frustrated man in his mid thirties with a remarkable mustache, had laid on the horn, letting it continuously sound. She gave mustache-man a scornful look, slapped her left bicep with her right hand and raised her left fist in an obscene gesture. Then she slipped into her grandmother’s apartment building.
1. Andrea. April 28. 11:30 am EST
“IS WASHINGTON your final destination?” the man asked. He wore a black suit with a white shirt, the collar open. Medium brown skin with a hairy chest, Andrea thought he looked Arab, possibly from Egypt or Saudi Arabia. His eyes danced a little, from her face to the swell of her breasts, and he spoke too loud, even over the whine of the jets. A creeper, probably. He wore cologne, too much of it, and Andrea was disturbed to notice that it was the same scent as Javier’s, but not exactly the same. The man next to her smelled earthier, almost musky. Disturbing.
She shifted in her seat
, hoping the questions were friendly, but not too friendly. She didn’t relish an eight-hour flight with someone hoping to get lucky.
“It is,” she said.
“Business? Vacation?”
“Personal,” Andrea answered, looking him straight in the eye. “I don’t have any business, I’m sixteen. My father’s an American diplomat and I’m flying home.”
The creeper swallowed. “I’m headed that way for business,” he said. Then his eyes darted to her legs.
Damn it. Her sister Julia had made her travel arrangements, and she was flying first class. So far as she could see there weren’t any other first-class seats, and as much as she didn’t want to ride all the way to the United States with this guy checking her out, she also didn’t want to ride in the back of the plane, jammed in like commuters on a Tokyo subway.
She reached into her purse and took out a paperback guide to backpacking in Italy, which she was planning to do that summer. More importantly, the book would act as a shield, hopefully fending off a too friendly conversationalist. Once the flight was in the air, she would switch to her laptop. She wanted to research beta thalassemia major, a rare genetically linked condition that could result in severe anemia. Failure to thrive. Bone malformation. Early death.
Rachel had it.
How was that even possible?
She certainly didn’t know of anyone in the family with thalassemia. What little she’d had time to read while waiting for the cab to take her to the airport hadn’t reassured her. The lifetime prognosis wasn’t good unless they could find a matching donor.
She tried to bend her mind away from her niece’s health condition and back to the book. Her creeper kept his distance while she read. Or pretended to. Her mind wasn’t really focused on the intricacies of the youth hostels of Italy, and what she really wanted to do once the plane was in the air was put her seat back and take a nap. She’d barely made the last non-stop out of Barcelona and would arrive in Baltimore late in the afternoon. But if she caught a short nap now, she’d be able to stay up most of the flight. Or… something. Jetlag was hell.
In any event, within half an hour the flight was in the air, the seat belt signs were off, she had cup of tea and her laptop was open, earbuds plugged into her phone and music playing.
Her first stop was Wikipedia, where she began reading about genetic blood disorders. She found it interesting that Queen Victoria of England had apparently spontaneously carried hemophilia as a mutation, which she’d then passed on to her children and ultimately several European royal houses in Russia, Spain and Germany. The Royal Disease, it had been called. Thanks to all the inbreeding. But thalassemia was primarily seen in people with Mediterranean and Asian backgrounds, which of course the sisters shared through their mother Adelina. And while it didn’t have the immediate life-threatening properties of hemophilia, the longterm effects were just as severe.
She pressed pause on her music, shifting in her seat. Time to make a stop in the facilities.
“Excuse me.”
Andrea jerked in her seat, looking up from the computer. It was her next door neighbor in first class, Mister Hairy Chest.
“Yes?”
“I couldn’t help but noticing you were researching medical conditions. Are you a medical student?”
That was just… strange. Why would he ask that? She’d already told him she was only sixteen. She didn’t want to be a giant bitch. But something about him set off all her alarms. “No,” she replied. “I’m in secondary school. I’m reading… actually my niece has a genetic blood disease… I’m going to Washington to help my sister.”
“Ahhh,” he said. “I see. I only ask because I’ve considered going to med school.”
Andrea let a breath out. Something about this guy rubbed her completely the wrong way. But Abuelita hadn’t raised her to be impolite to anyone.
“Are you a student?” she asked.
“I am… Universidad Autònoma de Madrid.”
“I see. And you study…?” One of the several schools she’d looked into had been UAM.
His teeth gleamed in a broad grin. “Mechanical engineer. I’m in my third year.”
She swallowed, feeling an odd tightness in her chest. “Well. That’s nice. Excuse me just a moment.”
She slid her laptop into the leather pocket of the seat in front of her and folded back the table, then slipped out of her seat. Heart thudding a little, she made her way to the restroom at the front of the cabin, stepped inside and closed and locked the door.
Something was wrong. She’d spent two days touring the University and had met with the science and engineering faculty there. He was a lot older than his twenties. And UAM didn’t have a major in mechanical engineering. Which meant Hairy Chest was lying.
Why?
2. George-Phillip. April 28
“Sir? A moment please?”
George-Phillip looked up from his desk, raising his ample eyebrows. There were only two people in the Special Intelligence Service… four people in the entire country… who could walk into his exquisitely decorated office and interrupt him without an appointment. As the Chief of the SIS he controlled the British government’s foreign intelligence service. Thousands upon thousands of people and billions of pounds dedicated to tracking the enemies of the Queen. And friends, of course.
George-Phillip—formally known as Prince George-Phillip, Duke of Kent—had served in the SIS since 1986. Unlike his father, who had been content to waste the family’s fortune on fast cars, drunken parties and inappropriate women, George-Phillip had decided immediately on his father’s death that he would spend his life in service to his country. And he had done so, for more than thirty years. One could almost say he had his position in spite of his heritage—members of the Royal family, even those so far removed from the throne that assuming it would be inconceivable, simply did not rise to high ranks in the civil service.
George-Phillip, however, ended up with a fairly unique career. Starting with a brief stint as a special aide to the ambassador in Washington, DC, he’d attended Sandhurst, the Royal Military Academy, and then entered the SIS. That career had taken him to places as diverse as Afghanistan and China, Istanbul and Paris and finally here, at the nerve center of the intelligence world.
George-Phillip’s role in the intelligence world was well known by the public—after all, he often appeared in testimony before Parliament or in meetings. He was clearly recognizable in public by his unusual height and his bushy, over expressive eyebrows. George-Phillip had eyebrows that were unruly, often out of control, acting out their own soliloquy regardless of his audience or his desires. It was his eyebrows that kept George-Phillip honest. It was his eyebrows (or, as the Times always said, his unibrow) that provided the media with plenty of entertainment fodder.
SIS Chief Raises Eyebrow Over Improprieties, said one headline on the front page of the Mirror. He was still convinced, two years later, the picture had been manipulated in Photoshop.
George-Phillip took such things in stride. His job didn’t require that he be popular with the British public, nor did it require a movie-star reputation. It did require credibility, and that George-Phillip had. His credibility had led him unerringly to the job of Ambassador to the United Nations, followed by his current position as Chief of the Special Intelligence Service.
At the door was Oswald O’Leary. O’Leary was as unlikely an aide as one could ever expect the Chief of Intelligence to have. He was Irish, for one thing. Small, with beady eyes and the flattened nose and hanging jowls of a pug, O’Leary always looked as if he wanted to grab the nearest person and just shake them.
He was also brilliant, incredibly loyal, and therefore the recipient of some of the most unusual assignments George-Phillip could hand out.
“Sir, I have some information on the Wakhan file.”
George-Phillip winced inwardly. Then he beckoned O’Leary forward.
“What is it?”
O’Leary laid the file on his desk and Georg
e-Phillip opened it. His eyes widened.
“Andrea Thompson,” O’Leary said. “This is the youngest daughter of Ambassador Thompson.”
There was no mistaking who she was, even though she was much older now. A much younger twin to Carrie Thompson, her older sister. Dark hair, pale blue-green eyes, fair skin, remarkable height.
“What’s the situation with the Thompson children?”
O’Leary shifted. “It seems she lives in Spain with Ambassador Thompson’s mother-in-law, and has little contact with the family. She did briefly visit the United States last summer during the Dega Payan court-martial, then returned home.”
“So what takes her home now?”
“It seems that she’s to be tested as a possible donor match.”
George-Phillip raised his hand to his mouth, covering it. He closed his eyes and sat, motionless, for several seconds. Finally, his eyes opened and darted to O’Leary. “It is imperative you keep me informed, O’Leary. This is a matter of the highest national security. You understand?”
O’Leary looked back at George-Phillip with grim eyes. “I understand, sir.”
3. Andrea. April 28. 4:35 pm
As always, Baltimore-Washington International airport was a chaotic mess of people. Andrea moved through the crowds, grateful that she finally shook Hairy Chest at Customs. Her U.S. passport took her into a separate line, and that was all it took. Now, as she walked to the ground transportation area to catch her ride, she also kept an eye out for his return. Her backpack was slung over her shoulder and she wheeled a larger suitcase behind her.
The terminal smelled like machine oil and body odor, and every few minutes overhead speakers burst out in mechanical sounding voices, making announcements in half a dozen languages. Finally she found her way to the baggage carousel. Her last two flights into Washington, DC had taken her through Dulles airport, and her unfamiliarity with this one made everything just a little bit more difficult.