Girl of Vengeance (5 page)

She stared at the door, beyond which the doctors were treating Jessica. She hated herself for not leaving him thirty years before. He’d threatened all along that he would hurt their children, that he would hurt her, that he would kill Luis. If she “misbehaved.” But now he’d done it anyway, and Jessica was in the hospital, and she had no one but herself and Richard to blame for it.

The pain in her chest was worsening. It always did. The first time it happened, in 1991, she’d been rushed to the hospital, thinking she was having a heart attack.
No
, the doctors informed her. Nothing physically wrong with her at all. They suggested Paxil, a powerful antidepressant.

She tried it, but it made her feel like bugs were moving under her skin. For the next twenty years she went through a series of different anti-anxiety and antidepressant medications. Her doctors were baffled.

But she did remember, one day not long after Julia went off to college, Doctor Thornton spoke with her.
No amount of medication will stop anxiety that’s well-founded in something in your life, Adelina. Is there something I need to know about?

She behaved. She denied it, changed doctors and stayed terrified.

She clutched her fist against her chest and whimpered. The pain was severe.

“Mrs. Thompson—are you all right?”

She looked up, tears in her eyes. It was a nurse. “Panic attack,” she whispered. “I’ve had them before. I normally take Ativan when I have one, but I don’t have any.”

“Let’s take you down to an exam room,” the nurse said.

“No! I need to stay near Jessica.”

The nurse smiled. “Jessica’s going to be just fine. The doctor is actually on her way to see you now.”

Hope suddenly flooded through her. “What? Really?” She shook so hard her teeth rattled against each other, and it seemed like an hour before the doctor appeared.

“Mrs. Thompson? I’m Linda Gates, the chief of neurosurgery.”

Neurosurgery.
That’s what Carrie’s husband Ray had … before he died. She looked up. A tall woman with long blonde hair tied in a bun stood in front of her. She wore a white coat with blood stains on it. Adelina continued to shake.

The surgeon continued. “So … first of all, your daughter is in recovery. She had a hemorrhagic stroke, not an obstructive one. That means blood was pouring into her brain when you arrived at the hospital. Once we clearly identified that, she went immediately into surgery. I was right down the hall at the time she was brought in. We cleared out most of the blood and repaired the damaged vessel.”

“She’ll fully recover?” Adelina asked.

“It’s too soon to tell, Mrs. Thompson. Your daughter had a life-threatening stroke. I understand she was a regular crystal meth user?”

Adelina nodded. Ashamed. “Yes.”

“I’m so sorry,” Doctor Gates said. “That’s heartbreaking.” She reached out and touched Adelina’s shoulder. “Panic attack?” she asked.

Adelina nodded, quickly. Tears rolled down her face.

“She said she’s had them before,” the nurse said. “And she takes Ativan.”

“Well. You don’t have any here with you? Is there anyone at home who can bring it to you?”

Adelina shook her head. “We’re … refugees, I guess. She had the stroke when we were attacked just before crossing the border from the United States. I’ve asked for asylum.”

“Oh, dear. Well … I’ll write you a prescription for Ativan then. Good luck with your application.”

Adelina sank back into her chair. Three people in a row had been incredibly kind to her. She thought about how isolated she always was. It had been since the 1980s when she last had friends. Richard had put a stop to that, insisting that she never go alone anywhere except church or school events.

I don’t want you hanging out with the Rainsleys any more. Charles always has his eyes all over you, and Brianna does too.

They’re friends,
she’d replied.

You don’t get friends, Adelina. You raise your daughters and go to church and you behave. Understand?

As the years went by, she’d hated Richard Thompson more and more.

“Scott Kelly speaking,” said the rough voice on the line.

“It’s Bear.”

“Bear! When are you coming back?”

“Heh, that’s a funny joke. I’m suspended, asshole.”

“Yeah?”

“You got time to meet? I got some questions for you. It’s about your sisters.” Kelly didn’t have any sisters, and Bear knew it.

“Sisters? Yeah, sure. Where?”

Bear thought for a moment. Huh. He knew a good place with a loud fountain. The International Monetary Fund had a large building at 19
^th
and Pennsylvania, which wasn’t a bad walk from State or from Bear’s apartment.

“Meet me at 19
^th
and L. Coffee shop in the lobby of the IMF building.”

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” Kelly said. “You’re buying.”

“I’m unemployed, motherfucker.”

Kelly laughed and hung up the phone.

Eighteen minutes later, John “Bear” Wyden walked into the ground floor of the tan stone and glass headquarters of the International Monetary Fund. Outside, like all government and quasi-governmental buildings in Washington, the building was surrounded by concrete bollards and plants, which looked decorative but were designed to protect against car bombers coming into contact with the building.

Inside, only a small area was open to the public, a coffee shop on the ground floor and a cafeteria on the second floor, accessible via escalator. Otherwise the building had fairly tight security, with armed guards checking credentials and running people through metal detectors.

Bear walked toward the coffee shop and muttered a curse. Kelly had beaten him there. Which meant Bear was buying.

Kelly joined him in line. In a conversational tone, he said, “You won’t believe who I talked with for the first time ever this morning.”

“Yeah? Who’s that?”

“A certain Vietnam vet turned Senator turned Cabinet Secretary. He called me up to tell me that I’m officially in charge of the State Department side of the investigation—that you’ve been suspended indefinitely. He also told me that
informally
, I’m to cooperate with you. Which I would have done anyway.”

Bear chuckled. “I bet that caught your attention.”

“What is going on, Bear? The IRS and Justice Department just crawled up my ass. They’re all over this investigation, Diplomatic Security is just peons now. I’m making copies of documents for the independent counsel.”

They had reached the front of the line. Bear ordered a thick mocha with whipped cream and a chocolate croissant, one of his several vices. Kelly snorted when Bear placed the order, and said, “Give me coffee and a donut.”

Two minutes later they were sitting next to the loud, glistening marble fountain in the ten-story atrium. “All right, so who is actually running the show now?”

“Guy named Rory Armitage. Independent counsel, he was contracted out by the Justice Department and handed a whole bunch of investigators and a near unlimited budget.”

“You’d have to have that to go after the Secretary of Defense.”

“Yeah, well, he doesn’t have a chance in hell of being confirmed as Secretary now. His hearings start tomorrow, and I’m guessing the President will pull the plug before then.”

“All right. So who else?”

“The other biggie is some guy from the IRS … Smith … no … crazy name … Schmidt. Wolfram Schmidt. From
Texas
if you can believe that. The Justice Department guys are working with DEA to try to track down drug connections because of the stuff they found in the sisters’ condo. IRS is following the money. They’ve found a bunch of accounts in the Caymans registered to Thompson. Lot of money there, a lot of recent large transfers.”

“That’s crazy,” Bear said. “What else?”

“You heard Adelina Thompson and her daughter Jessica turned up? They ran across the border of Canada on foot while some asshole was shooting at them with a rifle. The daughter’s in the hospital now. And get this: Adelina Thompson—the wife of the Secretary of Defense—asked
Canada
for political asylum from the United States, because she claims her husband hired assassins to kill her.”

“Whoa,” Bear said. “What happened to the shooter?”

“He tried to get away, but the Bellingham Police got him. And now they’ve got a big jurisdictional dispute going on, because the shooter was arrested in Bellingham, but the Justice Department and Customs and Border Protection want him.”

“Huh,” Bear said. “What’s his name?”

“Nick Larsden. He’s a … a grifter. Small time bounty hunter from LA, he makes his living tracking down bail jumpers. He makes a big deal about having been a veteran, but he was a personnel clerk in Germany when he was in the Army. Failed as a private investigator, then migrated into bounty work.”

“That’s a big help, Kelly. It’s huge. Larsden’s the guy I want to talk to.”

“Good luck. Everybody wants a piece of him. What’s your angle? Why are you working this on your own?”

“Let’s just say something about the official story stinks. Richard Thompson may be a scumbag, but I don’t buy that his daughters were his couriers and enforcers and shit. That’s crazy.”

Kelly shrugged. “I’ve seen crazier.”

“Yeah, well, I’m operating on the assumption that there’s a different angle. For one thing, from what I understand, Thompson’s daughters found files related to the Wakhan Massacre in his office, right before the house was destroyed. Then a few days later, the Sunday
Guardian
runs a special report implicating Thompson in the massacre. I want to know what the links are, and who else was involved.”

Bear’s mind ran back to the photograph in Thompson’s personnel file. The photo which was stolen from his apartment, along with the rest of the documents. He remembered who was in the photo. “Here’s who I’m interested in … Prince Roshan of Saudi Arabia. Leslie Collins. Richard Thompson. Prince George-Phillip of England.”

Kelly’s eyes widened. “You don’t think small.”

“That’s why they call me Bear.”

“Bullshit. They call you that because you’re so hairy.”

“Seriously. I need to know everything I can about those four.”

“You want everything. Files on the chiefs of intelligence of three countries, including ours. Access to a criminal who the feds are fighting over.”

“Yeah. Can you make it happen?”

Kelly stared at him. Then he said, “I’ll do what I can.”

“I’ll be headed west then, on the cheapest flight.”

“Yeah? You going on vacation?”

“I was thinking Washington State.”

“Nice. Catch you later, Bear.”

Bear stood up and stretched. He walked out of the building, thinking hard. How the hell could he get at Larsden? And who hired him? Richard Thompson? That didn’t make sense, unless he had a massive vendetta against his wife. Which was possible. He’d never seen two people less suited for each other.

He needed more information, and he didn’t have any resources. As he walked up 19
^th
Street, headed back to DuPont Circle, his mind circled around and around. Then he landed on a neat solution. He knew somebody with access to high-level officials, lots of staff and information, and who had no trouble flying all over the place chasing information. It went against every instinct he had, which meant it might be an awful idea—or a brilliant one.

His brow furrowed. Then he took the phone out and dialed 411.

“
The Washington Post
, please. Editorial offices, not subscriptions.”

He was connected sixty seconds later. It took a couple of minutes to get through receptionists, but then he landed directly in Anthony Walker’s voicemail.

“Yeah—Walker. This is Bear Wyden. Call me.” He gave the number and hung up.

He sighed as he walked. He felt better rested today than he had since Andrea Thompson had arrived in the United States on April 28
^th
, one week before. Leah was stabilizing, and she was awake and crabby as ever. The kids had to be told they couldn’t climb all over her due to holes in her body. Teenagers—just like toddlers.

Leah
, he thought.
Time to move on, Bear. She’s remarried.

Yeah, he knew.

His cell phone rang. It was a 202 area code—Washington, DC. He answered.

“Mister Wyden? It’s Anthony Walker.”

“Call me Bear, please.”

“All right. Call me Anthony. What can I do for you?”

“I think you and I have some things in common right now. Want to get together?”

“Sure. I’m at the Thompson condo right now. The FBI forensics team turned the condo back over to Carrie.”

“I’ll head up the red line then, and meet you there. I need to talk to them, too.”

“See you shortly, then.”

Andrea leaned back in her seat, luxuriating in the rare feeling of relaxation. The morning sunlight shone through the glass of the sunroom, and for the first time since her departure from Spain a week before, she’d slept the night through.

She still didn’t trust Prince George-Phillip. She might never. But at least, for once, she felt safe.

Just outside the glass door of the sunroom, Dylan sat on a bench. He had a cigarette in his right hand, and a pen in the other, writing furiously in a small notebook Andrea hadn’t seen before. She didn’t know what he was writing about, but his expression was pained, sometimes furious. Dylan had barely been civilized when he first woke up, and immediately poured the coffee and went outside, leaving Andrea to Prince George-Phillip—
her father.