“That she was raped and basically held prisoner? Yes. Sadly, it is.”
Perry grimaced and shook his head. “I always wondered. Have you seen her?”
George-Phillip shrugged. He felt an odd sort of pain at the question. “I don’t know that she’d care to see me, Secretary.”
Perry frowned. He looked at his watch, then said, “Prince Roshan will be here any minute … Your Highness … may I give you a bit of unsolicited personal advice?”
“Secretary?”
“Go see her. Not next week, or next year, or even tomorrow. Go see her today.”
George-Phillip swallowed. He was saved from having to respond, however. The door opened, and the Navy Commander who had escorted him into the room opened the door.
“Mister Secretary? Prince George-Phillip? Prince Roshan has arrived.”
The two men stood, and Perry said, “Please show him in, Commander.”
Julia. May 12.
You heard me. You did the right thing. I know he’s your father. But you did the right thing.
Carrie’s voice rang through Julia’s mind as she sat down at the end of the long conference table. Twenty-three men and women were arrayed up and down the table. Some wore suits, some wore button down shirts, and two of the men wore jeans and T-shirts. All of them had serious expressions on their faces.
At the opposite end of the table was a man she recognized. Rory Armitage. Armitage was a former Congressman from Georgia, later appointed to the federal circuit as a judge by President Bush. A stern, puritan man with tightly clipped hair and an austere expression, Armitage had been appointed several weeks earlier by the President to examine accusations of corruption in the defense department. The probe had rapidly broadened to include Richard Thompson and was now broadening even further.
To the side of the room, the court reporter, a mousy looking woman, sat at a small desk.
Armitage didn’t stand. He merely sat at the opposite end of the table, barely taking his eyes off the papers in front of him.
To his right, a woman in a blue dress spoke. “Hi, I’m Mary Cooley, the foreperson of the grand jury. Can you please identify yourself, and your place of residence and occupation?”
“Julia Wilson. Boston, Massachusetts. I’m Chief Executive Officer of Morbid Enterprises, Inc.”
“Mrs. Wilson, do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”
“I do.”
The woman waved to Armitage. “She’s your witness.”
Armitage didn’t move. He looked up, blue eyes gazing at her over his reading glasses, and said, “Mrs. Wilson, I’m about to play a tape, labeled Prosecution Exhibit 332. Please listen carefully.”
She sat back and listened as Armitage tapped on a keyboard. The room was flooded with sound. With her voice.
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?
There was a slight hiss in the background from the recording. Then she heard her father’s voice. I did. It was horrible. But also necessary. A long pause, then, 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.
Her voice again. But since it did happen, you had to blame it on the Soviets. Realpolitik.
Her father: Sadly, yes.
Armitage typed something and the sound stopped. Then he spoke. “Mrs. Wilson, do you recognize the voices on that recording?”
“I do,” she said. “Me. And my father.”
“Please identify your father for the jury.”
“Richard Thompson,” she said. Inside, her stomach twisted. Her father had done—uncountable evil. But it still felt wrong.
You did the right thing. I know he’s your father. But you did the right thing. Carrie’s voice again.
“Mrs. Wilson, under what circumstances was this recording made?”
She looked down at the table. “In the days after my sister was kidnapped, I’d learned some horrible things. There was a police report, which showed my mother had been attacked, and that my father was the prime suspect. And my mother—she was missing at the time—had left a journal. I read some of it. It indicated she’d been—raped. By my father. She was sixteen when it happened. As my father became more embattled with the Administration, he reached out to me. In hopes of getting an ally. He talked about putting my mother away permanently, saying she was insane. And … I needed to know if what they were saying was true. About him being involved in that massacre.”
“So you agreed to wear a wire for the federal investigators?”
She looked down. Then she said, “Yes.”
She reminded herself of her sister’s words. I know he’s your father. But you did the right thing.
“Mrs. Wilson—were any offers of immunity made to you?”
She nodded. “Yes. The IRS made that offer. I didn’t accept.”
“Why not?”
She felt her temper flare. “I won’t have it said that I turned against my father in order to stay out of jail. I didn’t. I wore the wire because it was … it was the right thing to do. Because there were innocent people hurt. And they deserve some kind of justice. I … I can’t have babies. But if I could, if I ever did have children, I would want them to know that I did the right thing.”
Armitage’s mouth pursed and he nodded. Then he said, “A couple more questions. Then we’re done. Did you open any secret accounts in the Caymans on behalf of your father?”
“No.”
“Did you assist him in laundering any drug money?”
“No.”
“To the best of your knowledge, was your father involved in any drug money laundering?”
“Nothing that I’m aware of. I don’t believe that’s true. My father’s guilty of many crimes. But I don’t think simple greed is one of them.”
Armitage turned to the foreperson, Mary Cooley. “Miss Cooley, your witness.”
Cooley said, “I don’t have any questions.”
“Very well then,” Armitage said. “Mrs. Wilson, thank you very much for your time, you may go.” Then he said, “Please bring in the next witness. Mrs. Adelina Thompson.”
Julia stood. Her arms and legs were shaking. She met the eyes of Mary Cooley for just a second. Then she turned to the door. As she approached it, it was opened, and her mother stepped in. Julia touched her mother on the arm as she brushed past her, and whispered, “Be strong.”
George-Phillip. May 12.
Prince Roshan wore a conservative coal-grey business suit and a red keffiyeh. He smiled a broad toothy smile at the sight of George-Phillip.
“Prince George-Phillip. I wasn’t expecting you this morning! What a pleasant surprise.”
Somehow George-Phillip thought that Roshan wasn’t at all pleasantly surprised.
“Come in, Your Highness,” James Perry said. “Have a seat, please join us for breakfast. We have several halal dishes here.”
Roshan eyed the plate of bacon and sausage and said, “You know my weaknesses, Mister Secretary. I hope Allah will forgive me for technical violations, but I must have a little of everything.”
Perry waved for the servers to approach, and moments later the three of them were eating, with several minutes of companionable silence, punctuated only by the sounds of forks clinking against plates.
The silence was interrupted when Perry said, “Richard Thompson’s grand jury meets today. You know he’s sunk. So is Leslie Collins. Both of them have lost their careers, even if they don’
t find themselves imprisoned for war crimes.”
“Yes,” Roshan said. “It’s a shame, really, I knew him once. I even had dinner with the two of them, many years ago. You remember, George.”
George-Phillip grimaced. He didn’t care for the familiarity. He said, “We know all about your role in the massacre, Prince Roshan. You should also know that we arrested your assassin in Britain. The one who shot at my home.”
Roshan said, “Is this some strange British humor? You bring me here to insult me?”
Perry said, “Prince Roshan, yesterday the Virginia State Police found a Stinger missile casing not far from Great Falls Park. We’ve arrested your agent who fired it.”
Roshan frowned, then wiped his lips with a linen napkin.
George-Phillip leaned forward. “The missile that you used to try to kill me and my daughter.”
Perry said, “Prince Roshan, as I’m sure you are aware, shooting down a civilian aircraft bearing a cabinet member of the US ally could be considered an act of war. Britain and the United States are both members of NATO. We’re allies. Did you really think we would stand by and allow you to fire missiles at airplanes in our country?”
Roshan said, “This is ludicrous. I object to this treatment.”
Perry said, “If I could, I would see you in prison or executed for your crimes. As it is, I have to resort to diplomatic means. Go home, Roshan. You’re no longer welcome in this country, or that of any of our allies. And please tell the King that if Saudi Arabia wishes to continue having the United States as an ally—as a protector—then you’ll never serve in any official capacity again.”
Roshan stood. “Arrogant Americans. You think you can tell us how to run our affairs?”
Perry said, “I’m sure you’re aware of our armed drone program in the Middle East, Prince Roshan? If you don’t do as I say, then I suggest you keep your eyes locked on the sky. Your days will be numbered.”
Roshan threw his napkin down.
“Go home,” George-Phillip said.
Prince Roshan marched out of the room.
“I wish we could do more,” Perry said.
George-Phillip said, “MI6 is not as squeamish about assassinations as the United States is, James. Roshan’s days are numbered. I’ve already spoken to the Prime Minister about it.”
“Well, then. Your Highness … don’t you have an appointment at the Federal Courthouse?”
Dylan. May 12.
When Adelina walked out of the chambers of the grand jury at nearly noon, she was pale and shaking. Dylan quickly moved to her side and took her arm. “You okay?” he murmured.
She smiled. “I’m not done for yet, Dylan.”
Julia and Carrie both approached their mother. Julia’s eyes were brimming with tears.
Adelina looked at them both, then said, “I’m proud of you both, you know.”
Carrie said, “Will they indict him? Will he pay? I feel like he can never pay enough for what he did to you. Or what he did to those villagers.”
Adelina put a hand on her daughter’s shoulder. She whispered, “I wanted vengeance for the longest time. But … that’s not up to me. Or you. We’re called on to continue our lives … to forgive, if we can.”
Jesus Christ, Dylan thought. We’re called on to forgive? He thought about his father. His poor, weak and deluded father.
Carrie said, “Sometimes forgiveness is the hardest word in the world.”
“You lost your husband. Then you lost your father.” Adelina looked at her daughter with compassion in her eyes. “Of course it’s hard. But I promise you … it will get easier.”
Carrie grimaced. “Let’s go, then. I might as well get started trying.”
Adelina nodded, and the three women started walking toward the elevators. Dylan stayed ahead of them, watching for journalists, for threats of any kind. He’d spent the last three hours reading Anthony’s reports in The Washington Post that morning, while Julia and then her mother testified. The report was—staggering. It revealed a level of corruption in the Central Intelligence Agency Dylan couldn’t have imagined. Collins would go down, and so would Richard Thompson, but they wouldn’t be the only ones.
The elevator opened and the four of them stepped inside.
“Probably going to be reporters downstairs,” Dylan said. “The guards will be just outside waiting for us. Stay close until we get in the vehicles.”
Adelina reached out and touched Dylan’s hand. “Dylan. Thank you. For taking care of my daughters.”
He gave her a sideways grin. “My pleasure, ma’am. I’d give my life for them.”
He meant it. If he had to, he’d put himself between Alex and a bullet. Any of her sisters too. After all, that’s what soldiers did. They put themselves in between their families and the desolation of war.
At least, that was the idea.
The elevator opened. The lobby of the courthouse was clear, armed guards and police everywhere. But outside, on the steps and blocking the street, were dozens of reporters and cameramen jostling for space. Beyond the reporters, hundreds of spectators, oddly drawn by the drama of a wife and daughter testifying against a former cabinet official.
“Here we go,” Dylan said.
As they approached the doors, their security guards stepped inside. “This way, folks. This way!”
Out the revolving door they went. The crowd immediately pushed in toward them. Microphones shoved in their faces, reporters shouting and screaming. Their guards shoved the reporters back shouting, and Dylan joined in.
He yelled, “Give them some space!” while Julia called out, “No comment.”
The gunshot came out of nowhere. Dylan heard it, his instincts suddenly kicking in as he swiveled on his feet and ducked down, searching out the source of the noise. One of their two guards fell to the ground, a giant hole in his face, and the other one suddenly screamed and fell backward, hitting Dylan, who tried to get out of the way.
He felt his reconstructed leg twist under him and he slipped, feeling the ankle snap. Dylan let out a scream of rage.
The crowd scattered, men and women, reporters and others screaming. As they ran, they revealed Richard Thompson, who had grabbed Carrie and was holding her by the neck. Richard’s face was gaunt; dark circles under his eyes. He’d been awake for a long time. His face was unshaven, grey hair sprouting from his cheeks and neck. He had a pistol, a .45, trained on Adelina.
“I should have killed you long ago,” he muttered. “I never should have let you live, you fucking whore.”
“Let me go!” Carrie shouted, struggling.
“Shut up!” he shouted. He hit her with the butt of the pistol. “You aren’t even my daughter. I’ll kill you like a bug if you piss me off.”
Carrie’s eyes widened.
Dylan saw, running up the street, a tall man with dark hair. It was Prince George-Phillip. How did he know to come now? But he was too far away.
Julia strode forward, putting herself between her father and mother. In a low, cold voice, she said, “I am. I’m your daughter. And you’re never hurting my mother again.”
She reached out toward her disbelieving father and grasped the pistol, pulling it away from Carrie. “Now let her go,” Julia ordered.
Dylan tried to struggle to his feet, but the shooting pain that lit up his leg like lightning told him he’d snapped something. Goddamn it! George-Phillip couldn’t get here in time!
“Let her go,” Julia said.
“You were my most beloved,” Richard said. Almost casually, he let go of Carrie, who staggered away. His voice rose to a shout. “You were the one she hurt the most. Her. She’s the one who called you names, and treated you like dirt, and … she made your life miserable. Don’t you want vengeance? You can have it!”
“Father. It’s time to give up,” she said. “You’ve lost. It’s not time for vengeance. It’s time to forgive.”
“No. No. I can’t lose. I can’t. I won’t be a disgrace. I won’t be.” He took a step back t
hen raised the gun. “Goodbye, Julia.”
Dylan and Julia screamed at the same instant, but no one could move fast enough.
Richard Thompson pulled the trigger.
George-Phillip. May 12.
“Have to let you off here, Your Highness. Street’s blocked off by the Federal Courthouse.”
George-Phillip leaned forward so he could see around the corner. The sidewalk and streets were packed with news vans and a large crowd of spectators and protesters.
“All right, then. Stay close. Go get a cup of coffee or something. I’ll call you as soon as I’m finished.”
The driver frowned. “Are you sure you want to get out here, Your Highness? That’s a serious crowd, and you’ve already been attacked—”
“That threat’s over. But thank you for your concern.”
Without another word, George-Phillip opened the back door of the SUV and stepped out. A taxi driver, trapped behind the SUV, was laying on his horn continuously. What a snarled mess. Cars everywhere, pedestrians, reporters spilling all over the place. It wouldn’t be surprising if he were mobbed by reporters—he’d been heavily profiled in that morning’s article in the Post. But the unlikeliness of finding a British Royal Duke walking along the sidewalk in downtown DC probably protected him from that.
He began walking toward the crowd.
The crowd surged, as if a giant had swept a fist against them, and suddenly there was screaming—lots of it. People were pushing from the entrance of the federal building, fighting against the crowd. George-Phillip began to run toward the front of the courthouse, and caught a glimpse of his worst nightmare.
George-Phillip’s eyes swept over the area even as he moved at a dead. What he saw was chaos. Richard Thompson, pistol in hand, holding Carrie by the throat. Julia reaching for him. Adelina rushing in his direction to protect her daughter. Dylan Paris was on the ground, his foot bent at an unbearable angle.
George-Phillip ran faster at the unmistakable sound of a gunshot, even as his brain tried to interpret what he was seeing. Richard had released Carrie, who spun away, and then he shouted words George-Phillip couldn’t make out over the screaming.
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