Girl of Vengeance (18 page)

Rainsley shook his head, sadly. Then, just in case no one knew, he said, “When I served in the Marine Corps, we knew a different kind of war. We learned to face our enemies. We learned to protect innocent civilians. The deadliest mission I ever served on, our job was to
keep the peace
, not to make things worse.”

Rainsley was working himself up into one of his trademark tantrums, his face turning bright red. One of these days, he’d have a stroke. When that day came, Richard hoped he’d be there, to help Rainsley along to the other side. For the time being, he tried not to roll his eyes.

“I must not go on,” Rainsley said. “My outrage knows no boundaries.”

Your morals know no boundaries,
Richard thought, staring at the man who had violated his wife,
impregnated her
not once but
twice
. He should have insisted Andrea be aborted. Adelina would have refused, but enough sedatives could approximate consent.

Rainsley yielded to the ranking member, a nonentity from the minority party. The tea party might hold sway in the House of Representatives, but here in the Senate, liberal democrats had a grip on all of the gears of government, especially the most powerful committees. Richard listened to Lewis’s opening statement with complete indifference. This committee might think it was important, but in fact all it did was rubber stamp the President’s nominations. Instead of listening, Richard looked up at the ceiling. The room had acoustical tiles in the ceiling to ensure those in the back could hear. Unlike the ancient hearing rooms in the other office buildings on Capitol Hill, this one was modern, sleek, as was the building that housed it. Richard preferred the original buildings. Whoever had commissioned this glass and concrete monstrosity ought to have been shot.

An interminable period of time later, Richard glanced at his watch. It was almost 11 am, and the members of the committee still hadn’t finished their opening statements. He reminded himself that the entire purpose of this hearing was to show the constituents back home that the Senators were doing something. That’s why they were taking all the time. He looked behind him for a moment, at the large crowd.

Richard blinked. In the front row, in the rows reserved for journalists … it was that bitch Maria Clawson. No longer a too-thin social climbing gossip columnist, she was now old, angry and bitter. When she saw Richard looking at her she raised her notebook in the air, just slightly, then smiled at him, as if to say,
I’m going to screw you all over again
. Yeah, he remembered her. He remembered her poison pen, her sourceless blogs that implicated him in supposedly forcing Julia to get an abortion. As if he’d had any clue the girl had gotten herself pregnant. He’d made it clear to Adelina thirty years ago that his name should never again appear in one of Clawson’s columns, and she failed to prevent it. He’d made sure Adelina regretted that failure. But the satisfaction of seeing her cringe, the pleasure of her capitulation, had done nothing to relieve the seething anger and blackness that stirred inside of him.

He turned back to the front, taking his eyes from the noxious woman.

Finally.
Richard snapped back to reality as Rainsley was saying, “Richard Isaiah Thompson, raise your right hand and repeat after me. Do you swear to tell the truth…”

Richard repeated the words mechanically. He didn’t care for the use of his middle name. The name Isaiah was marble and ice, it was murder, it was
private.
Never in his life had he used his middle name. He didn’t even know how Rainsley knew his middle name, unless Adelina had told him during one of their trysts.

“Do you have an opening statement, Mister Thompson?” Rainsley said. Dispensing with the honorifics.

“I do, Senator.” Richard’s voice was cold as he spoke.

“Please proceed.”

Richard stared up at the dais. Rainsley was in the center. To his left and right were six Senators on each side. This committee (like all of them) tended to be white, male and wealthy. Richard’s natural constituency. But he couldn’t discount the fact that 7 out of 13 members of the committee were Democrats, who would gladly throw him to the wolves if it meant they could extort one more dollar out of the government. The Republicans on the committee weren’t allies either—they were weak, ineffectual, divided and terrified of losing their seats to Tea Party insurgents.

“Mister Chairman, distinguished members of the committee, please allow me to state, first of all, that the charge I was in any way involved in the Wakhan massacre is not only unfounded, but a grave injustice. In my detailed comments I will make it clear to you that not only am I completely innocent of these charges, but, in fact, I tried to prevent the massacre
and
reported it through official channels after the fact.
Second.
I will demonstrate that the ludicrous charges currently being examined by the grand jury and the special prosecutor are manufactured by the very man who committed the massacre and is now attempting to destroy me in order to save face.”

“That will be quite the feat, Mister Thompson,” Rainsley said. “However, your money laundering activities, or lack thereof, are not of interest to this committee. I’m certain the grand jury will take care of
that.
This committee
is
interested in those matters that affect the national security of the United States. Clearly, the provision of weapons banned under the Geneva conventions to terrorist organizations is one of those matters. You’ll restrict your answers to that.”

Terrorists?
Rainsley managed to escalate with every word he spoke. The mujahideen of the early 1980s were American allies, regardless of the atrocities they committed in 2001. Richard leaned forward and said, “Senator, official US policy in the 1980s was to assist the mujahideen. While I gave no one chemical weapons, you can hardly retroactively label them terrorists.”

Rainsley smiled, as if to say,
Checkmate.
“Mister Thompson, the same allies you speak of killed thousands of Americans on September 11. Call them whatever you like, but the fact is those Americans are dead.”

“Mister Chairman,” called out the ranking member, Senator Lewis. “In the interest of time, can we skip the bandying of words back and forth and deal with facts?”

Rainsley nodded. “Of course, Senator. I will concede to you—please ask the first question.”

Lewis nodded, then leaned forward. Based on the opening statements, it appeared that the Republicans on the committee were tentatively supporting him—most likely because doing so allowed them to oppose the administration, which had dumped him like a piece of garbage. Lewis’s glasses hung at the end of his nose, his bald head glaring under the bright lights. His blue eyes looked at Richard over the top of his glasses.

“Ambassador Thompson … I’d like to begin by recognizing that all of us on this committee are aware of your long and distinguished history in service to this country. And even if some other members of this committee have forgotten, I remember that the United States armed the mujahideen specifically to defend against the invading Soviet Union. That said, chemical weapons are a serious matter. Please answer for the committee the following question. Did you take part, in any way, in the provision of chemical weapons to the Afghan militia?”

Soft ball, Richard thought. Perfect. “I did not, Senator.”

Lewis nodded, his eyes scanning over a sheet of paper. Then he looked back up at Richard. “Do you know who did?”

“Yes, Senator. I reported the crime in 1983. The perpetrator was Leslie Collins, the current Director of Operations of the Central Intelligence Agency.”

Martin Barrymore was the quintessential Long Island WASP lawyer. Five foot eight, grey haired, balding, and deep inside his very small heart, he had a little bit of murder in him. As general counsel of Morbid Enterprises, Inc., Julia and Crank’s holding company, he’d tackled a lot of issues. Copyright and trademark violation, contract negotiation, mergers and acquisitions. Taxes were never an issue, because the company was scrupulous about paying them. But now, he was heading up the team of tax attorneys who were preparing to deal with the Internal Revenue Service, and Julia was grateful for him.

The two of them, along with two tax attorneys who reported to Barrymore, rode up the elevator to the ninth floor of the IRS headquarters in Washington, DC. Julia was relieved Crank hadn’t come—he’d have been far too likely to make flippant comments about how they might not escape from the building alive.

All the same, he’d insisted on something useful to do.

Look, Julia—I don’t feel like I’m pulling my weight. All I do is write songs and sing. You’re doing everything for us.

But Crank,
she’d said,
t
hat’s what we’ve always done. I’m okay with that, I want you to be able to write your music and not worry.

He’d grinned and said,
This is a crisis, babe. You take amazing care of me. But you gotta let me help.

So they’d discussed it, and Crank had flown up to Boston first thing that morning. He would be meeting with the staff of the Boston office, and dispensing three weeks pay—in cash. It’s all they had in their personal bank accounts, and the possibility of checks bouncing had resulted in a large cash withdrawal. That might be all the staff would get unless Barrymore could get the IRS to agree to free up some money.

Crank would be good at that. He didn’t realize it, but over the years, he’d become a natural leader. Confident, bold, but warm and approachable. Everyone felt comfortable approaching him—whether it was network anchors, overenthusiastic fans or roadies who’d been working for the tour for a week. Sometimes she had to step in the way just so he could get some songs written. He didn’t like to say no, didn’t like to disappoint people.

For now, he’d be fine. A small pit of anxiety turned in her stomach. If she couldn’t get the money freed up, then their fifty employees and their families would be out of luck. No severance pay, no nothing. It was grossly unfair, and according to Barrymore, it was also likely illegal. She was counting on his ability to fix that situation quickly. He’d already drawn up papers to file suit in Federal District Court if this meeting didn’t go well.

“This way, please,” said their escort, a youngish looking woman who had introduced herself as Jayna McCloud. An intern probably; Julia would have put her at twenty-one at the most.

She led Julia, Barrymore and the tax attorneys to a conference room at the end of the hall. The conference room was cheaply appointed. Painted walls, a pressboard conference table (attractive and functional, but cheaply made), chairs that looked half decent but were not ergonomically sound. She guessed if the IRS used these chairs throughout the headquarters, there were a lot of people out with bad backs.

At the table sat three people. The first, at the head of the table, Julia recognized. Emma Smith had been one of the agents who had questioned her in San Francisco what seemed like a lifetime ago, but was in fact just a few days.

“Mrs. Wilson, thank you for coming today. Allow me to introduce Cliff Shriver from the FBI.”

To her right, Shriver was a man in a decently tailored grey suit. His jacket was open, and his sidearm, a gleaming black pistol in a shoulder holster, was clearly visible. A badge hung from his jacket lapel.

“And this is Scott Kelly from Diplomatic Security Services. Scott isn’t here on an official basis, but he’s asked to be in on this meeting because he said he has information that may be helpful to us all. It’s up to you whether or not he stays.”

“Pleasure to meet ya,” Kelly said, his voice a clear Boston accent. He had dark circles under his eyes, the kind you got from years of sleep shortages. He reminded her a lot of her father-in-law Jack, a retired Boston cop.

“I think that will be fine,” Julia murmured.

“Julia?” Barrymore asked quietly.

“It’s fine,” she said. “I want to clear this up as quickly as we can.”

Emma Smith nodded in approval. “Please have a seat then.”

Julia sat at the end of the table opposite Smith and studied her adversary. Her two in the morning impression of the woman hadn’t changed—her skin was smooth, unblemished and free of makeup. She looked to be in her late twenties, or would, but her hair was white. Not bleached, not blonde, but prematurely gray and white.
Interesting
, Julia thought.

Smith said, “Mrs. Wilson, this is an informal meeting. It’s not a hearing, and you’re free to go at any time. Your attorney is here to advise you on your rights, of course, but I want to make it clear that while you have the right to not say anything at all, if you
do
say anything, we might use it in our investigation.”

Julia leaned toward Barrymore, who said, “It’s standard. I’ll watch out for you here.” She nodded.

“Thanks,” Julia said. Barrymore responded to Smith. “We’re looking forward to clearing this up.”

“All right. I want to start with the accounts in the Caymans.”

Julia nodded, not saying anything. She’d heard the reports in the media, but that’s all she knew. “I’m not actually aware of any such accounts.”

Smith opened a folder and slid half a dozen sheets of paper down the table. Barrymore retrieved them and showed them to Julia.

“These are powers of attorney, registered with HSBC, Butterfield Bank, Cayman National Bank, First Caribbean and the Royal Bank of Canada, all operating on Grand Cayman. They authorize you to establish accounts on behalf of your father. Do you recognize them?”

Julia shook her head. They were, in fact, powers of attorney. More disturbing, they all bore her signature. They were all dated December 19 and 20, 2013. Which was alarming. She and Crank had stayed overnight on Grand Cayman en route from Europe to Washington, DC.

“I’ve never seen these,” she said. “That looks like my signature, but I didn’t sign these documents.”

“Where were you on December 19
^th
and 20
^th
, Mrs. Wilson?”

“I suspect you know the answer to that question,” she replied.

“Were you on Grand Cayman Island with your husband?”