The next morning, Richard had found his brother, swinging from the rafter in the attic.
Days later, at the funeral, his father had repeated himself, but in a new and more hideous way. “His death was just as much a disgrace as his life.”
Richard retained that word. Disgrace. He remembered it, kept it, used it, felt it. For the next decade he ignored his father’s entreaties to return to San Francisco, instead embarking on his career with the Foreign Service and his much more secretive career with the Central Intelligence Agency.
They spoke, regularly, on Christmas and Easter. But Richard didn’t return to San Francisco. He didn’t witness the slow deterioration of his family’s four-story Victorian in San Francisco. He didn’t witness the slow deterioration of his father. It wasn’t until 1983, more than ten years after the death of his brother, that he returned to the city he’d once called home.
It was during a short leave from Spain. He’d been under intense pressure from his superiors—both because of the failed coup, which would have put in place a sympathetic government, as well as his involvement with the underage daughter of a deposed Marquis. The Agency’s position was clear—don’t make waves. Don’t do anything that could call attention to the Agency. Marry the girl and shut her family up.
He did. And when he arrived in San Francisco, it was in preparation for sending his new wife home. He found his father bedridden. His health wrecked by syphilis, which had gone untreated and undetected until it was too late. Partially paralyzed and blind, the old man’s internal organs were failing and he likely only had a few weeks to live.
Married, are you? His father had raged. To some Spanish slut?
Richard had responded with disdain. She’s the daughter of Spanish nobility, if you care, Father. I don’t. What I do care about is that she comes to live here when I go back overseas. I can’t cart a pregnant seventeen-year-old around the globe.
His father had replied with venom. “I’ll allow no such thing. In fact, if you don’t dump the girl I’ll disinherit you. You ungrateful little bastard. You’re just as much a disgrace to this family as your brother was!”
Richard had responded with rage. But not the kind of rage Adelina would later evoke in him. No, it was a cold rage, a rage that resulted in a response that was worthy of his father. After a few phone calls, and the passing of a considerable amount of money, Cyrus Thompson III, the former shipping and manufacturing magnate, was declared incompetent and his affairs placed in the hands of his loving son.
No Last Will and Testament ever appeared to disinherit Richard Thompson. When he returned to Spain it was with a clear conscience and conviction that his father would be dead within a few weeks.
A terrible shame.
A few months later Richard installed his new young wife and daughter in the four-story house where his mother and brother had died. His mother’s bedroom he turned over to Adelina. Perhaps the ghosts in there would haunt the superstitious bitch. He had the attic converted to a bedroom, which later became Julia’s, and much later Sarah’s.
Now, as he folded his hands in front of him and waited for the hearing to begin, Richard thanked whatever fates were out there that he’d made peace with Julia. He’d invested way too much time and energy over the years into ensuring her loyalty, and now it was paying off. That morning, before the hearing began, they’d discussed strategy. Finally, at one point, she looked dead across the table at him.
“Dad … I want you to level with me. I know it was the Cold War and bad stuff happened. I know people had to do things that look ugly in today’s light. Did you do it? Did you give them the chemical weapons?”
Richard quickly calculated the correct response. Then concluded that he needed to tie Julia ever closer to him. The rest of his daughters would take their mother’s side, he was sure of it. But his Julia had been too badly damaged by Adelina to ever take her side.
He had nodded. “I did. It was horrible. But also necessary.”
She had closed her eyes and took a deep breath, her cheeks going a bit pale.
“Julia … you know better than anyone about foreign policy. You know how these things work. I didn’t want to do it, and I certainly didn’t know they would use it on innocent villagers. We actually provided the militia with satellite photos of the Russian training camp, as well as an advisor who was a Soviet defector. Vasily Karatygin—he’d converted to Islam and went over to the side of the mujahideen. But they didn’t use it on the military … it was on civilians. I’d have done anything to prevent it.”
She gave him a knowing look. “But since it did happen, you had to blame it on the Soviets. Realpolitik.”
He grimaced. “Sadly, yes.”
She had taken the bait. So now he had at least one ally. Julia had promised to turn her attorneys loose on defeating the IRS—she’d met with them the previous day. And she promised to go after Maria Clawson. Richard, meanwhile, would take on Leslie Collins and the Senate Armed Services Committee.
His attention was jerked back to the front of the room when Senator Chuck Rainsley banged his gavel on the table.
“Mister Thompson, have you heard a single word I’ve said? I asked you a question.” Rainsley’s face was red.
Richard sighed. Then he did something that he thought might win over some of the media and the public, who looked at Rainsley as a giant blowhard.
“I’m sorry, Senator, I really hadn’t noticed you were talking. What was that?”
A long moment of silence in the room was punctuated only by the clicking of digital cameras. First a titter in the back of the room, then a guffaw, and then a loud laugh from the audience.
Rainsley was infuriated. “Perhaps you’ll hear better if you are declared in contempt of Congress.”
Richard stared at Rainsley, knowing that at this point, the only thing that mattered was the court of public opinion and the grand jury. This Senate committee had no significant bite.
“I will repeat my question, Mister Thompson. You claim that CIA Deputy Director Collins was responsible for the massacre, and that you reported it. Do you have evidence? Copies of this report? Did you tell anyone, for example, during his confirmation hearings?”
“The information was classified. Of course I didn’t keep copies of the report—keeping classified information is a felony.”
Rainsley leaned forward, his face beginning to turn red. “Mister Thompson, isn’t it true that you were one of the agents of the Central Intelligence Agency who aided and abetted the coup organizers in Spain in 1983?”
His face cold, Richard replied, “I cannot discuss classified information in an open hearing, Senator.”
“Then tell me this!” Rainsley thundered. “You met your then sixteen-year-old wife in Spain during that coup. Why is it that she is now requesting political asylum in an allied country?”
Richard felt his face flush red. That. Fucking. Whore.
Anthony. May 7.
“This way,” the aide said. He was clearly more than a servant or doorman. In his fifties, the man had the face of a pug and a thick Irish accent. “My name is Oswald O’Leary, I’m the Prince’s chief aide. He’s in his office upstairs.”
Anthony followed the man up a set of marble stairs. “His chief aide? What does that job entail, if I might ask?”
O’Leary chuckled. “Whatever is necessary to preserve the standing of the crown, sir. I was actually assigned to the Queen’s security escort many years ago, then seconded to Prince George-Phillip.”
Something about O’Leary bothered Anthony. He tried to shut it out of his mind. Adelina’s account of Oz disturbed him, but he could hardly suspect every man with an Irish accent.
On the other hand, O’Leary was close to the Prince.
“How did you meet the Prince?”
O’Leary said, smoothly, “His first real assignment with MI6, I was assigned to work with him. That would have been … oh … the spring of 1984. We were here in Washington, DC.”
Anthony felt a ch
ill. Carefully, he said, “And your assignment came from the Queen? Isn’t that unusual?”
He asked the question as they reached the second floor and began walking down a long hallway.
O’Leary smirked. “Not really. My primary role was to protect the Crown from scandal. Those were rough years—Princess Margaret and Lord Snowden had nearly public affairs and divorced, Prince Andrew got involved with an American girl who turned out to be a porn star. There was concern the monarchy itself might be brought down. Here we are.”
Anthony didn’t have time to react as O’Leary opened the door. His mind was rushing over O’Leary’s words. Concern the monarchy might be brought down? Assigned to watch over George-Phillip in the spring of 1984? That was when George-Phillip and Adelina first met.
That was when Oz made his first appearance.
Anthony looked back at O’Leary, keeping his face unnaturally still, tight, because he didn’t want to give away what he’d realized. The pug-faced man looked back at him. Was this Oz? The man who had threatened Adelina? Who had entered her house? It would explain a great deal. Including the attack on Andrea which had taken place in the Embassy, where no one should have had access.
He had to jerk his attention away from O’Leary to Prince George-Phillip, who rose from his desk and approached, right hand out to shake.
“Anthony Walker. A pleasure to meet you again. I’ve followed your career with some interest since our first interview.”
Anthony took George-Phillip’s hand. The resemblance with Carrie and Andrea was startling. He wondered how no one had ever noticed before. “No doubt you know about my exile, then.”
George-Phillip chuckled. “Indeed I do. I admire a man who risks all for his convictions. Have a seat, please. Carrie Sherman … well, I suppose you know she’s my daughter … asked me to agree to meet with you. I’d like to hear what this is all about.”
Anthony took the proffered seat, one of a pair of matching red leather Queen Anne chairs that faced each other by a side table. Tea had already been set on the table.
“Please … have some tea, Mister Walker.”
Anthony smiled. “Anthony, please, Your Highness.”
George-Phillip smiled. “Anthony, then. And you can call me George-Phillip.”
Anthony glanced back at the door. O’Leary was gone. But what were the chances he was listening to whatever happened in this room?
Strong, Anthony thought. Very strong.
“Please,” George-Phillip said. “Tell me more about your assignment.”
Anthony nodded. “There are several layers to the story. The first thing you should know is, I was originally assigned to do a fluff piece on Morbid Obesity. Are you familiar with the rock band?”
“Not my style of music, but I know of them. Carrie’s older sister runs a fairly large entertainment empire from what I understand.”
“Correct. But the story quickly grew when the IRS and the grand jury opened their investigation into Secretary Thompson.”
At the mention of Richard Thompson, George-Phillip’s face soured. Not surprising. Anthony continued. “My interest here has expanded. You probably know I did a retrospective story on the Wakhan Corridor last year.”
“I read it. You had most of it right.”
Anthony scowled. “Except for the perpetrators, of course. Like everyone else, I thought it was the Soviets.”
“I’ll be frank with you, Anthony. I’m familiar in detail with what happened, and who was responsible.”
Anthony nodded. “I thought so. Is The Guardian’s story anywhere close to accurate?”
“Some of it,” George-Phillip replied. “Although my recommendation at the time was that we go public. The Prime Minister and the then director of MI6 ordered that my investigation be squashed. Despite my distant royal status, I was very low on the bureaucratic food chain in those days. However, as of this morning, my investigation from 1984 has been declassified. I’m turning a copy over to you.”
Anthony closed his eyes. That was more than he’d hoped for. “Thank you, sir. There’s more.”
George-Phillip raised his eyebrows. “Oh?”
Anthony swallowed. If he was wrong, and George-Phillip wasn’t the man he thought he was—Anthony might be thrown out now and lose any possibility of doing this story.
He didn’t think he was wrong. “Your Highness, yesterday morning I interviewed Adelina Thompson. Among other things, she told me how she came to marry Richard Thompson, and the nature of their thirty-year marriage. She also told me a great deal about your affair.”
George-Phillip vaguely waved a hand. “I never liked that word. I loved Adelina as I have never loved another.”
“Not even Lady Anne?”
George-Phillip closed his eyes. “Anne and I were comfortable together. And happy. But we did not have that … that passion. We shared a quiet and happy life, and a wonderful daughter.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Anthony said. “Your Highness, I’ll be honest with you. I want to crucify Richard Thompson. I’ve got almost enough details to do it. I’m putting together a major story. But I need corroboration. I need details. Will you go public? Will you tell me your story?”
For the next three hours, Anthony sat across from George-Phillip, as the tea grew cold and they ignored the refreshments brought by Embassy employees. When George-Phillip produced the Wakhan file, they moved to the desk as George-Phillip spread out the contents, going over his conclusions.
Then they moved on. George-Phillip described his first meeting with Adelina. How swiftly they fell in love. As he spoke, his face took on a longing, wistful quality. He looked at Anthony and said, “I’ve never experienced anything quite like it. I would have done anything for her. Anything. But she didn’t want it. She broke it off with me, without explanation.”
“That must have been difficult,” Anthony said, his tone noncommittal.
“It was devastating.”
Anthony winced. Unlike, George-Phillip, Anthony knew exactly why she had broken it off. She’d told him of the shame of Richard’s rape. The self-loathing she’d experienced. And then Oz.
He sighed. “Your Highness—”
“George-Phillip,” the Prince corrected.
“Normally I wouldn’t do this. But … I know why she broke it off with you. Then, and later in China.”
“Dear God, man. Why?”
Anthony took a deep breath. Then he told George-Phillip what he’d learned from Adelina. The nocturnal visit and the note left in Julia’s room. The assault that came much later. And now, the assassins hired to chase down Adelina, including the attack in the hospital in Abbotsford just a few hours before.
As he spoke, George-Phillip’s face took on an expression of rage.
“Does she know who this person is?”
“We know he has an Irish accent. And … we know he’s been involved in this affair for more than thirty years. Whoever it is, he wanted Adelina to stay far away from you, and he’s become willing to kill to prevent that. And … we know he has access to this Embassy compound … to this residence?”
“What?” George-Phillip’s tone was sharp. “Explain,” he ordered.
“Andrea Thompson was attacked in her room here in the Embassy. That’s why she ran. The man who attacked her said that he was giving her a gift from her father. Then he tried to smother her. She stabbed him with a pen and he ran.”
George-Phillip’s face paled in shock. Then he said, “O’Leary… he’s was opposed to my involvement with Adelina from the beginning. And he’s been the only person I’ve been around since the beginning. He was limping after she disappeared….”
He picked up the phone at his desk and dialed a number. “Captain, this is Prince George-Phillip. I’m giving you an order which I expect to be carried out instantly and quietly. Detain Oswald O’Leary and bring him to me.” George-Phillip was silent for a moment, listening. Then he said, “I’ll explain later. It is imperative you detain him now.”
H
e hung up the phone and turned to Anthony, rage on his face. “I only have two hours before my flight leaves for London. I’ll bring O’Leary with me and we’ll get to the bottom of this. There’s no one else it could be.”
Leslie Collins. May 7.
Leslie Collins sat frozen in his seat, staring straight ahead and trying not to meet anyone’s eyes. He held his right wrist in his left hand … discreetly, but to take his own pulse as his doctor had taught him to do. Right now his pulse was nearly 160, dangerously high for a man his age and condition. The hearing would be over soon, thank God.
He’d received multiple messages from the office—first his secretary, several times. Then from the Director of Central Intelligence himself, which was not a call you ignored—but he had done so. Finally, the last call, twenty minutes before, came from the White House.
He’d ignored that one too.
As the hearing had progressed through the day, Collins had thought through everything he knew, everything he’d done. Soon enough the grand jury would be investigating him too. Somehow the investigators had gotten wind of Tyler Coleman’s identity, which had led them back to Brennan Holdings, the shell company Leslie had operated for more than ten years to hide his own activities. Activities which were necessary for national security, but which politicians didn’t have the stomach to approve of.
Soon enough Brennan Holdings would lead directly back to Collins. He’d be like Richard—pale and sweating in front of days long Senate hearings, followed by a trial and possibly incarceration. The investigation might even turn over his role in setting up the secret accounts in Thompson’s name. If that happened then it might be the worst case: Thompson falsely exonerated while Collins took the fall for everything.
If he even survived that long. It wasn’t lost on him that Ahmed al-Saud—Prince Roshan’s eldest son—had also attended the hearing, sat down two seats from Leslie, then leaned over and said, “My father requested I inquire about your health, Mister Collins.”
Everything was out of control. Collins had ordered Andrea Thompson’s kidnapping in an effort to prevent the story from breaking, and yet his employees had fucked it up beyond all recognition. But now he’d realized that in no way was he the only player in this game. Who had tried to shoot Prince George-Phillip? Was it Thompson, because he’d found out the Prince had actually been the man screwing his wife? Was it Prince Roshan, trying to tie up loose ends, which might lead to him being identified as one of the Wakhan perpetrators?
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