Girl of Vengeance (31 page)

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 chill. 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
T
he
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.”

He 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 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?

For that matter, who had hunted down Adelina Thompson and tried to kill her not once, but
twice
?
Had Thompson finally grown tired of her and decided to have her killed? Was it more sinister, and he was somehow trying to frame Collins?

Everything was falling apart. Collins stood, inevitably attracting the attention of the legion of reporters and photographers who were encamped on the floor between the dais and Richard Thompson.

It didn’t matter anymore. He was shaking as he walked out of the hearing room. He needed to somehow get a grip on this situation. Maybe it was time to flush out Roshan. Or have him killed before he somehow dodged responsibility and tried to blame Collins for his activities.

Outside the hearing room, he was mobbed by reporters shouting unacceptable questions.

Were you responsible for the massacre at Wakhan?

Who kidnapped Andrea Thompson?

What was your role in the cover
up, Director?

Collins pushed his way through. How dare they? No one understood. They didn’t understand that you couldn’t make an omelette without breaking some eggs. You can’t defend a nation without doing some things that nice calm people in their living rooms couldn’t stomach. Right after September 11, Americans had cried for blood. But they had no strength, and when they saw
actual
blood, they shied back.

It took men of Collins’ stature, willing to do whatever it took, to keep the nation safe.

He left the crowd of reporters behind, making his way to the underground garage. He would go home and get some rest. He would plan. He would get through the rest of this awful week, and go forward with dignity.

But he would also start making contingency plans.

As the small twin-engine jet left the tarmac at Washington Reagan National Airport, brilliant red and orange light flooded through the small windows. The sun was setting over Washington, DC and the view from the air was amazing.

Jane was excited. She sat in a window seat this time, looking far down at the ground as the plane banked to the right, staying on a course over the Potomac River.