Girl of Rage Read online

  She was silent for just a moment. Then said, “All right, then, sir. If it’s a matter of national security, you should just say so. I’ll get my things packed.”

  “We’ll leave for the airport at six in the morning.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Adriana bustled away, thank God. George-Phillip turned to his desk and sighed. He was exhausted. Not long after he had returned to his office after the meeting with the Prime Minister, the call had come in. Richard Thompson was facing indictment in the United States. The political wheels in Washington were spinning, and no one knew where they were going to end up.

  George-Phillip’s eyes fell to his desk. Inside, the file. He knew that if the contents of that file were to be made public, Richard Thompson’s career would be over, and his wouldn’t be the only one. Over the years, he’d often revisited the decision to bury what had happened, to bury it right alongside the bodies of the civilians who had died there. A generation had passed, governments had risen and fallen, the Cold War had come to an end and yet the secrets of three decades ago still lingered, poisoning the well of the present.

  George-Phillip reached in his desk and took the file out. The original report of his own investigation. Interviews and documents. Records meticulously kept for three decades. He carefully slipped the file into his steel walled briefcase and secured the briefcase itself to his desk. He checked the time, then dialed O’Leary.

  The phone rang only once before a curt voice said, “O’Leary, sir.”

  “It’s C,” George-Phillip said. The nickname, just the letter C, had been the traditional name for the Chief since Sir Mansfield Cumming, the first Chief of MI6, had signed his papers that way. “Any updates?”

  “None, sir, but our investigators seem to think she went south. We’re watching the border crossings in San Diego, among others. But if she’s using cash, we might not be able to track her.”

  “All right, then. And Andrea Thompson?”

  “Last known location was a motel in suburban Maryland, sir, just outside Washington, DC. Seems she heard something suspicious in the room next door and called the police. They found her fingerprints all over the place. Sir—the hotel was a nasty one. Prostitutes and drug dealers.”

  George-Phillip winced. “Keep looking,” he said.

  “We will, sir. I’ve got my best people on it.”

  “Good, good. I know I can trust you with this. Any leads on who attacked the Thompsons?”

  “None, sir. They were professionals. I’m guessing Middle East.”

  “All right. I’ll be on a seven am flight. Just keep me informed.”

  He disconnected the phone. Four more hours and he’d have to be back up and getting ready for the flight. Time to get some sleep. He stood and let his eyes fall on the window, now covered with a steel plate until the window was replaced with bullet-resistant glass. The shots had narrowly missed him last night—it was pure dumb luck he hadn’t been killed. But he still didn’t understand why. Was it the Wakhan file? Or something else entirely?

  Leslie Collins. May 2.

  Leslie Collins tried to remind himself to pause every day when he entered the lobby of the original headquarters building at Langley. There, against the north wall of the lobby, was the Memorial Wall. 102 stars carved in the wall, each of them representing an agent who had died in the line of duty. More than a third of those agents were unnamed—represented only by a star. Their names, their operations and their deaths were still a matter of national security.

  Collins reminded himself once again, as he exited the building, that he had a responsibility to those 102 men and women. A responsibility to protect the integrity of the agency, to protect its secrets, to protect the nation the agency protected. Sometimes, however, meeting that responsibility required sacrifices—sacrifices that he found personally distasteful, and in some cases immoral. But one didn’t just decide to do what one wanted, after all. The purpose of having government agencies, the purpose of having checks and balances, all of it was built to ensure safety and security. As a part of that system, Collins felt that sometimes you had to set aside your personal desires and beliefs.

  His feet echoed off the floors of the lobby as he walked toward the front door. Even in an agency that ran 24 hours a day, 365 days a year, it was quiet in the late evening. Watch officers and other essential personnel worked late into the night, but the bulk of the agency’s personnel commuted to the office just like any other government employee in Washington. He stopped at the door, looking out across the vast parking lot. He could hear crickets and frogs and God only knew what else from the woods around the two hundred fifty acres of land occupied by the agency.

  He jumped a little, startled, when his cell phone rang. Only a dozen or so people had his personal phone number. The dozen included his wife, his pastor, and the President, among others.

  He sighed when he saw the name on the phone.

  Richard Thompson.

  His car let out two loud beeps as he pressed the unlock button on his keyfob and disarmed the alarm. He answered the phone.

  “This is Leslie Collins.”

  “Leslie. What the hell?”

  “Richard, this is not a secure line, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

  “I don’t really care, Leslie. Can I make that more clear? I do not care.”

  Leslie sighed and opened the door of his 2014 Volvo S60. Initially Leslie had objected on political grounds to buying a European vehicle. But Meredith had driven one owned by one of her silly friends, and had convinced him to take a test drive. The handling and leather seats convinced him. He passed his old 2010 Cadillac to her and took the new car.

  He always felt calm when he sat in the leather seat.

  “Richard, you may not care, but I do.”

  “What do you know about this investigation?”

  The voice automatically spilled over to the car speakers as he cranked the car. Hearing Richard Thompson’s disembodied voice surrounding him was more than a little bit disturbing.

  “I don’t know anything about it, Richard. But I would take it seriously, if I were you.”

  “Bullshit you don’t know anything, Leslie. You went to school with that son of a bitch, Armitage.”

  Rory Armitage was the special counsel investigating Thompson. He had also been Collins’ college roommate. Not that it mattered.

  “Armitage is just doing his job. I can’t imagine where he came up with such a wild theory. Drug money laundering? Really? I can’t imagine there’s any truth to it, Richard. Unless…” Leslie’s voice trailed off with a suggestive silence.

  “You son of a bitch. You planted this, didn’t you?”

  Collins sighed. “Richard, I’m finding your wild accusations a little disconcerting. I know you are under some stress right now. Maybe you should consider taking a step back—or even seeing a therapist. I’m concerned about you.”

  Thompson didn’t respond. The silence at the other end of the line troubled Collins. Thompson, when calm and organized, was a formidable enemy.

  After a moment, Collins said, “Richard, are you there?”

  “I’m here,” Thompson replied. “Leslie, I want you to be careful. You don’t want to mess with my life.”

  Collins raised an eyebrow. He put the car in reverse and backed out of his reserved parking space, then turned, heading into the darkness toward the checkpoint at the entrance to the headquarters. For just a second, his headlights illuminated three pairs of glowing eyes—deer on the edge of the parking lot, just on the other side of the fence. Sometimes they played hell with the motion sensors on the edge of the property.

  He thought it was curious Thompson didn’t talk about his wife or daughters. Or was he so self-absorbed and narcissistic that he didn’t worry about them at all when his own position was at risk? That was kind of sad, wasn’t it?

  “Richard, listen, I’m driving now, I’ve really got to go. Let’s talk next week, all right? We’ll do lunch.”

  “I’m not do
ing lunch with someone who screwed—”

  The words cut off when Leslie’s hand brushed the disconnect button on his steering wheel. He waved to the guards at the gate, then pulled out onto Colonial Farm Road, headed south toward Georgetown Pike. This late, traffic should be finished and he could be home in ten minutes.

  Unfortunately, the phone rang almost immediately. Unknown number?

  There were only a few people it could be. He answered.

  “Collins here.”

  “Leslie. How pleasant to hear your voice.”

  Collins involuntarily stepped on the brakes, causing the car behind him to swerve dangerously. He got himself under control and driving again almost instantly. The cultured voice on the other end was familiar. Roshan al Saud—a member of the royal house of Saudi Arabia, and director general of al Mukhabarat Al A’amah—the Saudi Arabian Intelligence Agency. Educated at the best British boarding schools, Roshan gave off a polished, highly educated air which fooled everyone except those, like Collins, who had seen him torture captured Russian prisoners with a refined and frightening cruelty.

  “Roshan! It is very good to hear your voice. You are well? I understand you’re in the United States.”

  “I am, briefly. And I’d very much like to speak with you privately.”

  Leslie checked the time. “You’re at your home?” he asked.

  Roshan owned an exclusive thirty-room house less than a mile away from Leslie’s.

  “I am.”

  “I’m on my way. You caught me at the perfect time.”

  Collins disconnected the phone and drove. Traffic on Georgetown Pike wasn’t heavy, but it wasn’t especially light either. Sometimes, especially if there was rain or snow, you could get tied up here for hours. But it was warm now, a little humid, and after a long nasty winter, most Washingtonians were out relaxing instead of working.

  It was fifteen minutes later when he pulled up to the gate of Prince Roshan’s property. He slid down the window as the guard approached. The guard—a man in his early thirties with cold looking eyes and a thick five-o’clock shadow, stared at Collins for fifteen long seconds.

  Then he said, “Mr. Collins, please pull up the driveway. You’ll be met at the house.”

  Collins was familiar with the Saudi’s routine. He’d been here as a guest many times before. As he parked the car and got out, he was startled to see that it wasn’t a guard who opened the front door—it was Prince Roshan himself.

  Roshan, like Collins, was no longer a young man. In the early eighties, Roshan had been the unofficial leader of the small group of western intelligence agents working together in Afghanistan. Collins remembered riding together in a truck to Badakhshan province, at one point hiding under the floorboards with Thompson while Prince Roshan negotiated with the Russians.

  That was a long time ago. Now, Roshan was portly, with prominent, almost puffy cheeks and a salt-and-pepper beard.

  For official functions, Roshan wore robes and red and white checked keffiyeh. But at home, he typically wore blue jeans and a t-shirt. Roshan was a traditional Saudi man only when it came to how he treated his wife and his public appearance. In private, he indulged in all the luxuries Western culture could provide.

  “Leslie!” Roshan said, a genuine appearing smile gracing his face. “Come in, come in! It’s been too long. How is Meredith?”

  Leslie grimaced. “She’s fine, Your Highness. Just fine.”

  “Come in. You know better than those niceties, Leslie. I won’t stand for titles.” As he spoke the words, Roshan rested a hand on Collins’ arm, as if to emphasize the words and his affability.

  “Roshan. You’ve always been a good friend. How is Myriam?”

  Roshan led him into the house mumbling meaningless platitudes about his wife. Myriam al-Saud effectively didn’t matter. Disenfranchised by the culture and law of her own country, she had less role in her husband’s life than the models who shamelessly accompanied him to expensive dinners and shows at the Kennedy Center whenever he was in Washington.

  Roshan poured Collins a glass of Eagle Rare Single Barrel Bourbon. Collins sniffed it, the smell of charred vanilla and old oak and leather filling his nostrils.

  He took the smallest of sips, then murmured, “This is very good.”

  “Be my guest,” Roshan said. He poured himself a drink and tossed it back, then sat in the deep leather chair across from Leslie.

  “My friend, we have a problem.”

  “We?” Leslie replied.

  “Yes. We. The problem has several heads, and any one of them could harm both of us, and our countries.”

  “Thompson,” Collins said.

  “Indeed. He’s sinking.”

  “We need to make sure we don’t go down with him,” Collins said. “There are a lot of loose ends. I’m particularly concerned because it looks like the oldest daughter may have information about Wakhan now. They broke into his office in San Francisco. God only knows what he had in there.”

  Roshan frowned. “Your people are responsible for the destruction of the home?”

  Collins nodded. “Not agency. Independents.”

  Roshan frowned and his eyes narrowed. He looked away from Collins for a moment, then looked back. “Leslie, I’m concerned you’ve lost your nerve. Not just attacking Thompson’s family, but by doing it so—ineptly. Letting a sixteen-year-old girl get away? What were you thinking?”

  “You’re aware of who the girl’s father is?”

  “Of course. He presents no risk to us.”

  Collins rolled his eyes. “He’s the only person outside of our circle who knows what really happened at Wakhan.”

  “If he knew, none of us would be in our positions.”

  “He knows.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  Collins closed his eyes. “He confronted me about it.”

  Roshan sat up straight. “When? And why didn’t you say anything?”

  “I had it contained. That was in ’84.”

  “Why is he still alive, then?”

  “Are you serious? His cousin is the Queen of England. Besides, as I said, I had it contained. He was having his tawdry little affair with Thompson’s wife. We didn’t have to threaten him—we threatened her. That shut him up.”

  Roshan shook his head. “Not good enough. What are you doing now?”

  “I had a team try to get him, but they missed. We’ll try again. In the meantime, Thompson is thoroughly discredited, and Prince George-Phillip will be soon. Nothing they say will matter within the week. I’d expect the President to withdraw Thompson’s nomination any moment.”

  “Good. And the rest of them? All this violence has done nothing but attract attention.”

  “We’re backing off. Surveillance, but that’s it. We planted drugs and money in the Thompson condo, and we’ve registered several accounts at friendly banks in the Caymans to Thompson. The IRS will likely find those within a couple more days.”

  Roshan nodded. “And Windsor? Do you really believe he is contained?”

  Collins thought about it. The threat of killing Adelina Thompson was no longer going to be enough to keep George-Phillip quiet. That had probably passed years ago. Which meant they were going to have to find some new way of dealing with him. Or dispensing with him.

  “I don’t think so,” Collins said.

  “Leave him to me, then,” Roshan said. “I have assets which make more sense for this. You focus your efforts on discrediting Thompson.”

  “Agreed,” Collins said.

  Then he took another sip of his bourbon. It really was quite good.

  California. May 2.

  The campsite was bathed in red and orange light, slanting through the redwoods, as Nick Larsden drove his 2008 Hummer into the camp. He scanned the area. It was an out of the way campsite, the facilities neglected and worn. The camp office, next to the entrance, was old and the white paint was peeling, and except for the beat up rusted truck next to the office, there wasn’t a single veh
icle.

  Nick had been working his way up the coast all day, stopping at drive-thrus, campsites and any other likely place. An adult woman and her teenage daughter in a minivan shouldn’t be that hard to find, but so far, he’d not had any luck. And he was pretty sure he wasn’t the only person looking. The price dangled in front of him for finding the women was high.

  Nick was a former soldier turned private investigator and later bounty hunter. Mostly he chased men who were on the run after not paying alimony for ridiculously low fees, so when the call came in, he didn’t question it. Especially when the caller, a stuck prig with an Irish accent, indicated he was willing to pay a significant deposit.

  “Where do you want me to bring them?” he had asked.

  “When you find them, contact me for instructions.”

  That was more than a bit unusual. Nick suspected the caller wanted the women dead or missing. That was fine, Nick supposed, though he wasn’t a big fan of making war on women. But sometimes you had to do what you had to do. When it happened, though, he was going to insist on the money up front. The original price had been enough for him to retire from this business for good. Nick wanted a nice place in the mountains, paid for, where he could hunt and have his dogs and not have to worry about the stress of day-to-day bullshit.

  He slid out of the cab of the Hummer. An old man approached. He was short and scrawny, almost diseased, and his clothes didn’t fit. Thick glasses revealed eyes that were oddly magnified.

  “You looking for a campsite or a cabin? How long you staying?” the old man asked.

  “I’m looking for two women,” Nick said.

  He held out a sheet of paper he’d printed that morning. Two separate photos: the one of the older woman looked like it came from a newspaper, and the one of the teenager was a selfie from her Facebook page.

  The old man’s eyes narrowed when his eyes hit the paper. Bingo. He’d seen them.

  “I’ve never seen them,” the old man said.

  Oh, ho. He was going to make things difficult.