They’re friends, she’d replied.
You don’t get friends, Adelina. You raise your daughters and go to church and you behave. Understand?
As the years went by, she’d hated Richard Thompson more and more.
Bear. May 5.
“Scott Kelly speaking,” said the rough voice on the line.
“It’s Bear.”
“Bear! When are you coming back?”
“Heh, that’s a funny joke. I’m suspended, asshole.”
“Yeah?”
“You got time to meet? I got some questions for you. It’s about your sisters.” Kelly didn’t have any sisters, and Bear knew it.
“Sisters? Yeah, sure. Where?”
Bear thought for a moment. Huh. He knew a good place with a loud fountain. The International Monetary Fund had a large building at 19th and Pennsylvania, which wasn’t a bad walk from State or from Bear’s apartment.
“Meet me at 19th and L. Coffee shop in the lobby of the IMF building.”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” Kelly said. “You’re buying.”
“I’m unemployed, motherfucker.”
Kelly laughed and hung up the phone.
Eighteen minutes later, John “Bear” Wyden walked into the ground floor of the tan stone and glass headquarters of the International Monetary Fund. Outside, like all government and quasi-governmental buildings in Washington, the building was surrounded by concrete bollards and plants, which looked decorative but were designed to protect against car bombers coming into contact with the building.
Inside, only a small area was open to the public, a coffee shop on the ground floor and a cafeteria on the second floor, accessible via escalator. Otherwise the building had fairly tight security, with armed guards checking credentials and running people through metal detectors.
Bear walked toward the coffee shop and muttered a curse. Kelly had beaten him there. Which meant Bear was buying.
Kelly joined him in line. In a conversational tone, he said, “You won’t believe who I talked with for the first time ever this morning.”
“Yeah? Who’s that?”
“A certain Vietnam vet turned Senator turned Cabinet Secretary. He called me up to tell me that I’m officially in charge of the State Department side of the investigation—that you’ve been suspended indefinitely. He also told me that informally, I’m to cooperate with you. Which I would have done anyway.”
Bear chuckled. “I bet that caught your attention.”
“What is going on, Bear? The IRS and Justice Department just crawled up my ass. They’re all over this investigation, Diplomatic Security is just peons now. I’m making copies of documents for the independent counsel.”
They had reached the front of the line. Bear ordered a thick mocha with whipped cream and a chocolate croissant, one of his several vices. Kelly snorted when Bear placed the order, and said, “Give me coffee and a donut.”
Two minutes later they were sitting next to the loud, glistening marble fountain in the ten-story atrium. “All right, so who is actually running the show now?”
“Guy named Rory Armitage. Independent counsel, he was contracted out by the Justice Department and handed a whole bunch of investigators and a near unlimited budget.”
“You’d have to have that to go after the Secretary of Defense.”
“Yeah, well, he doesn’t have a chance in hell of being confirmed as Secretary now. His hearings start tomorrow, and I’m guessing the President will pull the plug before then.”
“All right. So who else?”
“The other biggie is some guy from the IRS … Smith … no … crazy name … Schmidt. Wolfram Schmidt. From Texas if you can believe that. The Justice Department guys are working with DEA to try to track down drug connections because of the stuff they found in the sisters’ condo. IRS is following the money. They’ve found a bunch of accounts in the Caymans registered to Thompson. Lot of money there, a lot of recent large transfers.”
“That’s crazy,” Bear said. “What else?”
“You heard Adelina Thompson and her daughter Jessica turned up? They ran across the border of Canada on foot while some asshole was shooting at them with a rifle. The daughter’s in the hospital now. And get this: Adelina Thompson—the wife of the Secretary of Defense—asked Canada for political asylum from the United States, because she claims her husband hired assassins to kill her.”
“Whoa,” Bear said. “What happened to the shooter?”
“He tried to get away, but the Bellingham Police got him. And now they’ve got a big jurisdictional dispute going on, because the shooter was arrested in Bellingham, but the Justice Department and Customs and Border Protection want him.”
“Huh,” Bear said. “What’s his name?”
“Nick Larsden. He’s a … a grifter. Small time bounty hunter from LA, he makes his living tracking down bail jumpers. He makes a big deal about having been a veteran, but he was a personnel clerk in Germany when he was in the Army. Failed as a private investigator, then migrated into bounty work.”
“That’s a big help, Kelly. It’s huge. Larsden’s the guy I want to talk to.”
“Good luck. Everybody wants a piece of him. What’s your angle? Why are you working this on your own?”
“Let’s just say something about the official story stinks. Richard Thompson may be a scumbag, but I don’t buy that his daughters were his couriers and enforcers and shit. That’s crazy.”
Kelly shrugged. “I’ve seen crazier.”
“Yeah, well, I’m operating on the assumption that there’s a different angle. For one thing, from what I understand, Thompson’s daughters found files related to the Wakhan Massacre in his office, right before the house was destroyed. Then a few days later, the Sunday Guardian runs a special report implicating Thompson in the massacre. I want to know what the links are, and who else was involved.”
Bear’s mind ran back to the photograph in Thompson’s personnel file. The photo which was stolen from his apartment, along with the rest of the documents. He remembered who was in the photo. “Here’s who I’m interested in … Prince Roshan of Saudi Arabia. Leslie Collins. Richard Thompson. Prince George-Phillip of England.”
Kelly’s eyes widened. “You don’t think small.”
“That’s why they call me Bear.”
“Bullshit. They call you that because you’re so hairy.”
“Seriously. I need to know everything I can about those four.”
“You want everything. Files on the chiefs of intelligence of three countries, including ours. Access to a criminal who the feds are fighting over.”
“Yeah. Can you make it happen?”
Kelly stared at him. Then he said, “I’ll do what I can.”
“I’ll be headed west then, on the cheapest flight.”
“Yeah? You going on vacation?”
“I was thinking Washington State.”
“Nice. Catch you later, Bear.”
Bear stood up and stretched. He walked out of the building, thinking hard. How the hell could he get at Larsden? And who hired him? Richard Thompson? That didn’t make sense, unless he had a massive vendetta against his wife. Which was possible. He’d never seen two people less suited for each other.
He needed more information, and he didn’t have any resources. As he walked up 19th Street, headed back to DuPont Circle, his mind circled around and around. Then he landed on a neat solution. He knew somebody with access to high-level officials, lots of staff and information, and who had no trouble flying all over the place chasing information. It went against every instinct he had, which meant it might be an awful idea—or a brilliant one.
His brow furrowed. Then he took the phone out and dialed 411.
“The Washington Post, please. Editorial offices, not subscriptions.”
He was connected sixty seconds later. It took a couple of minutes to get through receptionists, but then he landed directly in Anthony Walker’s voicemail.
“Yeah—Walker.
This is Bear Wyden. Call me.” He gave the number and hung up.
He sighed as he walked. He felt better rested today than he had since Andrea Thompson had arrived in the United States on April 28th, one week before. Leah was stabilizing, and she was awake and crabby as ever. The kids had to be told they couldn’t climb all over her due to holes in her body. Teenagers—just like toddlers.
Leah, he thought. Time to move on, Bear. She’s remarried.
Yeah, he knew.
His cell phone rang. It was a 202 area code—Washington, DC. He answered.
“Mister Wyden? It’s Anthony Walker.”
“Call me Bear, please.”
“All right. Call me Anthony. What can I do for you?”
“I think you and I have some things in common right now. Want to get together?”
“Sure. I’m at the Thompson condo right now. The FBI forensics team turned the condo back over to Carrie.”
“I’ll head up the red line then, and meet you there. I need to talk to them, too.”
“See you shortly, then.”
Andrea. May 5.
Andrea leaned back in her seat, luxuriating in the rare feeling of relaxation. The morning sunlight shone through the glass of the sunroom, and for the first time since her departure from Spain a week before, she’d slept the night through.
She still didn’t trust Prince George-Phillip. She might never. But at least, for once, she felt safe.
Just outside the glass door of the sunroom, Dylan sat on a bench. He had a cigarette in his right hand, and a pen in the other, writing furiously in a small notebook Andrea hadn’t seen before. She didn’t know what he was writing about, but his expression was pained, sometimes furious. Dylan had barely been civilized when he first woke up, and immediately poured the coffee and went outside, leaving Andrea to Prince George-Phillip—her father.
“Your friend has a real storm on his brow,” George-Phillip observed.
Andrea shrugged. “He served in Afghanistan. And Ray Sherman was his best friend.”
George-Phillip’s face softened. “Carrie’s husband.”
“Yes,” Andrea replied.
“I want to reach out to her.” As he said the words, his eyebrows moved furiously. Andrea tried to interpret their dance, but she couldn’t.
“Why?” she asked.
George-Phillip blinked. “What do you mean, why? She’s my daughter, just as you are.”
Andrea sat up, studying him. Then she said, “Don’t do us any favors.”
“I truly wish I hadn’t hurt you so terribly.” He sighed as he said the words.
“El camino al infierno esta empedrado de buenas intenciones,” Andrea muttered. The road to hell is paved with good intentions.
George-Phillip raised an eyebrow.
“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “Just … this is all a shock. I just wish I could trust it.”
George-Phillip sighed. “I do too. It will take some time, but I promise you, I will prove it to you, and to your sister Carrie.”
“So what’s next?” she asked.
“I have a meeting with your President this morning, and several other meetings in the afternoon with the Ambassador and others. This evening I would like to have you and Dylan for dinner. And—I’d also like to invite your sisters. Carrie, at least, and the others if they wish to come.”
“I think Alexandra will come,” Andrea said. “Dylan’s wife.”
“Yes. I’ll have an invitation sent. Is she likely to be at the condo?”
“I have no idea. Last time I was there, someone was trying to kill us.”
“Indeed. I’ll find out where they are. Is there anything you need in the meantime?”
“I need to call my uncle and grandmother in Spain.”
“Of course. Feel free to use the phone in the parlor, just through that door.”
He stood, and so did she. She felt awkward. She didn’t even know what to call him. “Um … um … Your Highness?”
George-Phillip’s eyebrows twitched uncontrollably. It was almost funny. His words were sobering, however. “I’d be grateful if one day you would consider calling me Father. But in the meantime, George-Phillip will do. Please, no titles. Not between us.”
Andrea swallowed. Then she said, “George-Phillip, then … I … I know I must seem ungrateful or … I don’t know.” She wanted to stomp her foot in frustration. Andrea didn’t get tongue-tied. She rolled her eyes up to the ceiling, because she felt a sudden welling in them. Then she said, “I’ve always wanted a father who loved me. Who cared about me. And I never understood why he didn’t. I never understood why they sent me away. So forgive me if you seem to be too good to be true.” Then she held her breath and blinked her eyes, willing herself not to cry.
He looked at her with a loving expression and said, “Take as long as you need, Andrea. I understand that I’ll have to earn your trust.”
Then he was gone. She considered storming outside where Dylan was. Yelling. Throwing something. She didn’t know what to think, how to react, how to behave. She didn’t know what to believe. There was no doubt what he said was true. He was her father.
But the rest of it. Could she possibly believe him that her mother had told him to stay away? That she’d begged him to stay away. That he’d wanted to reach out to her, that he’d wanted to meet her all along, that somehow he’d watched her and paid attention and showed up at the festival when she sang.
Why had Abuelita never told her?
Adelina. July 5, 1994.
“All right,” Bear Wyden said. “You’re cleared to go, but I want you to check in with me when you cross into France and again into Spain. You understand? I know Washington says the threat to you guys is over, but I just want to be sure.”
“Thank you, Bear,” Adelina said. “You can’t know how much this means to me.”
“I got a pretty good idea,” he muttered, tugging at the straps on top of the Fiat Tempra station wagon, a vehicle that Adelina hated. The suitcases were just as secure as they’d been for the last fifteen tries.
“Girls, get in the car, please,” she said. “Julia!” she called. Julia was clear across the garage, sitting on the hood of a highly polished classic Fiat. Normally she would have been horrified to see one of her daughters behaving that way, but Adelina had a special place in her heart for Corporal Barry Lewis, the strapping young Marine who had been assigned as Julia’s guard. Twelve-year-old Julia had a massive crush on her bodyguard—whenever he was around, her face would flush red and she would stammer and stutter. Lewis took it all in good humor and spent a lot of time with her even when he was off duty. In some ways he’d become a surrogate father for Julia. A father she needed, given the emotional absence of her real father.
“Julia! Come!”
“Go on, princess,” Lewis said. “I’ll see you in a few days.”
Julia blushed bright red at the word Princess. Then she jumped off the hood of the car and ran across the garage. Carrie was already buckling in. Adelina winced a little as she lifted almost-four-year-old Alexandra into her car seat and began buckling the straps. She’d infuriated Richard again, this time by not remembering the correct military rank of the Danish military attaché. He only rarely used physical violence with her anymore, preferring to keep her in continuous low-grade terror.
Whatever his current state, he’d agreed to her driving to Spain with their daughters for a week-long visit with her family. It would be the first time she’d been home since her wedding.
Adelina got into the driver’s seat. Julia was buckling in next to her, and her lower lip was pouting out. As Adelina started the car and put it into gear, she said, “What’s wrong, Julia?”
A moment later she was driving out of the Embassy compound and onto the streets of Brussels, Belgium. Of the cities she’d lived in so far, Brussels was probably her least favorite after Washington. In San Francisco, she’d mostly felt a sense of freedom—at least until the night Richard almost killed her (the night Alexandra wa
s conceived, whispered her unconscious—she shoved the thought down). Washington had mostly been terror. Belgium was unstable. One day he was incredibly kind, the next cruel and erratic. She lived in a constant state of tension and fear, and the panic attacks continued to grow worse all the time.
As she drove into the traffic, she considered turning around. What if she had a panic attack on the road?
She looked over at Julia again. Tears were running down the girl’s face, smearing her mascara. Her mascara? When did she start wearing makeup? She thanked God Lewis was an honorable man and looked at Julia as a daughter, because the girl had no sense at all when it came to him.
“Why the tears, Julia?”
“I don’t want to go to stupid Spain. I want to stay with Daddy.”
Bitterness swept over Adelina again, but she swallowed it. “We’ll be back in a week, dear. Your father has important meetings this week”—with prostitutes and his secretary, undoubtedly—“he won’t be around to look after you.”
Julia shook her head and looked out the window. She muttered something under her breath.
“What did you say?” Adelina asked.
“I said, that’s nothing new. No one looks after me except Corporal Lewis.” Her tone was sullen.
Adelina looked in the rearview mirror. Carrie was already wrapped up in a book. Steel Beach by John Varley. She didn’t understand Carrie or the strange things she read. Science fiction mostly, but also a fair amount of romance. The girl was smart beyond her age and had abandoned young-adult books by the time she was nine.
She looked so much like George-Phillip sometimes it broke Adelina’s heart. It broke her heart that she would never see him again, and it broke her heart that he didn’t know his daughter. She often wished she’d acceded to his demands—that she’d run away, that she’d given in.
But when she thought that way, her mind always returned to Richard’s threats. The most recent had been crude. She’d walked into her bedroom and found a photograph on her pillow. Black and white, it depicted a young man—fifteen or sixteen years old, with a crude crosshair drawn over his face in black Sharpie.