He shook his head to clear it. Intrusive memories. Lovely memories, but now was not the time.
“Rory, I’m sure you know my agency is primarily concerned with disrupting terrorists and nuclear proliferation. We don’t monitor what is happening with the newspapers.”
Rory took a sip of his whiskey, then whispered, “Come now, Georgie.”
George-Phillip winced at the overfamiliarity.
The old gasbag continued, his face seeming to expand from the alcohol fumes. “Think about it, George. It’s Labour at the center of it. First they’ll let women in the club, and next thing you know one of them will be leading the country.”
“Like Mrs. Thatcher?” George-Phillip asked.
Wheeler waved a hand dismissively. “An aberration.”
A nervous looking steward entered the room. He stood on his tiptoes and waved at George-Phillip.
George-Phillip raised his eyebrows and waved the man over. “Yes?”
“Your Grace, I’m very sorry, but there is a man here to see you. A Mr. O’Leary.” He leaned close. “If you’d prefer, I can get rid of him.”
O’Leary was here? That was unusual in the extreme. A phone call, certainly. But he could only remember two occasions when O’Leary had sought him out here at the club, and the last time had been at the behest of the Prime Minister.
“I’ll see him, of course. Actually, O’Leary should be on the pre-cleared list.”
George-Phillip knew he was blowing smoke. None of the staff ever paid attention to the standing pre-cleared list unless the visitors were royalty—in which case they were likely a member of the club in the first place.
He quickly moved out into the hall, saying, “Please make one of the private rooms available immediately. I’ll retrieve Mr. O’Leary.”
He checked his watch as he strode to the front door of the club. 12:34 am. Unusual indeed.
The steward had, of course, left O’Leary on the front step of the club in the slight drizzle and fog. George-Phillip quickly invited him in and led him down the hall to a small sitting room. Inside, he moved to the small bar and poured a drink for himself and one for O’Leary. The table was mahogany, sumptuous, excessive. It had likely sat in this room for two hundred years. This wasn’t the first time he’d sat here: George-Phillip had met with the Prince of Wales here in 1984, at this very table. Even then, one leg was too short, and the table rocked just slightly, disturbing both of their drinks. But tradition said the table was not to be replaced—or, apparently, repaired—because one did not meddle with tradition. Not in a club like White’s.
“I presume this is urgent?”
“Yes, sir,” O’Leary said.
“Tell me.”
“Charlie Frazer, sir. He was shot in Washington.”
“Dear God. Who?”
“We don’t have a positive ID yet.”
“Details, please.”
“Frazer and Linden were trailing the Thompson sisters, sir. They’re in Bethesda, outside Washington, DC.”
George-Phillip felt unreasonably irritated by this. “I know where Bethesda is, O’Leary.”
“Of course, sir. Several of the sisters were walking to a local restaurant, accompanied by Diplomatic Security agents.”
“All right.”
“Frazer reported that he felt there were others watching them, but we don’t know who.”
“Saudis, maybe. Or CIA,” George-Phillip mused.
“Regardless, sir, there was an altercation, and Frazer was shot. He’s being treated at a local hospital, his prognosis is good.”
“Any other injuries? The Thompson sisters?”
“They’re fine, sir. No injuries.”
George-Phillip closed his eyes, a sense of relief flooding him.
“How are the local police treating it?”
“Mugging. Frazer and Linden both had diplomatic ID. But Frazer’s cover is likely blown.”
“We’ll recall him from Washington, I think. Switch to a different team. And O’Leary…”
“Yes, sir?”
“Have an armed covering team. I want contingency plans. Including one to evacuate the sisters.”
O’Leary’s overactive eyebrows bunched together. “Sir?”
George-Phillip leaned close. “Get me options, O’Leary. Right now that bastard Thompson holds all the cards. We need to get control of this situation.”
“Yes, sir,” O’Leary said.
George-Phillip stood. It was long past midnight now, and long past time to get home.
4. Andrea. April 29. 6:18 pm
That was a shitty thing to say, Alex.
Sarah’s words echoed in Andrea’s head as they hurried back to the condo at a near-run, Diplomatic Security agents clearing the way through the crowd on the sidewalk. Her words. The sound of gunshots. The sight of Dylan, face red, mouth open as he yelled a screaming challenge, running directly at an armed man.
A pool of blood spreading on the sidewalk.
She came to a sudden stop behind Carrie, police blocking the sidewalk. She heard the word witnesses and someone said can’t leave the scene but then Leah Simpson was waving her badge and ordering the local police back. Then they were moving again, into the building, up the elevator, and she felt lightheaded and confused.
Why was any of this happening? None of it made any sense. Shock upon shock had been piled on her, starting with the call from Carrie only a few days ago, the flight to the United States and her sudden kidnapping yesterday, then this? As they stumbled down the hall, escorted by Leah Simpson and the other two agents, she found herself shaking, hard.
She didn’t even really look as they entered the condo. Carrie immediately rushed to the back room to check on Rachel, while Sarah sank into the couch, haphazardly throwing her combat-boot encased feet onto the coffee table with a loud thump that caused both Dylan and Alexandra to jump.
Andrea stood there shaking for just a moment as Alexandra said, “You could have been killed.”
“Alex, just let it go.” Dylan’s reply was sharp. He kept walking toward the sliding glass doors as he spoke.
“No, I’m not letting it go. You can’t just put yourself in danger like that.”
Dylan’s response was swift. He spun around and pointed a finger at her face, anger written across his features like a map with driving directions to hell. “That’s enough.”
He turned, slid the door open, and then walked out, slamming it shut behind him.
Alexandra sagged a little, watching him light a cigarette and lean against the wall.
Sarah said, offhand, “Why don’t you just cut his balls off?”
Andrea’s eyes widened as Alexandra gasped.
“What did you just say?”
Sarah began methodically untying the laces of her boots. “I said, why don’t you just cut his balls off? Isn’t that your purpose here?”
“Shut up, Sarah. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I know your man there just acted to try to save our lives. That makes him a hero in my book. You should lay off him, maybe hug him or something instead of trying to emasculate him. And just in case you missed the message, what you said to Carrie was unforgivable.”
“Can you all just stop fighting?” Andrea asked. “Things are bad enough.”
Alexandra sank into the chair across from Sarah. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice shaking.
Sarah nodded her head toward Dylan, who stood, pensive, smoking on the porch, looking out at the darkening sky. “Not me you need to apologize to.”
“I’m just so worried, Sarah. He’s not been himself since Ray died.”
“Who has been?” The question came from Carrie, who stood in the doorway to the hall. “Everything’s been upside down since then.”
Sarah shook her head. “Not just since then. Since… always.”
Andrea sighed and slid into a chair. She looked at her sisters and whispered, “I don’t get it. I don’t get any of this.”
Carrie n
odded. “That’s it. There’s… things we don’t know. A lot we don’t know.”
Andrea looked at her older sister. “Does Mom?”
Carrie looked thoughtful for a moment. Then she said, “I think so.”
“Then we have to find her. And talk with her.”
1. Sarah. April 30. 8:54 am
“YOU'RE GOING TO be fine,” Sarah said. “And Carrie would be here too, if she could.”
Andrea shrugged. “I know I’ll be fine… it’s just… I don’t know how to explain it…”
Sarah reached up to put a hand on her shoulder. “You’re afraid. Not because of the donor match, but…”
Andrea nodded. “Look at us. You’re practically a midget compared to me. We don’t look at all alike.”
“You look a lot like Mom. At least your eyes.”
“Right. But who is my father?”
Sarah thought: probably not that son of a bitch Richard Thompson (her father, she was sure), who was so busy preparing for his confirmation hearings that he couldn’t be bothered with his sixteen-year-old daughter. That was for sure.
But if her father wasn’t Andrea’s father—what did that mean? How did it happen? And Andrea and Carrie looked like twins. None of it made any sense at all! She tried to remind herself that, first of all, it had only been two days now since Andrea came home. Not even two full days. If it hadn’t been urgent for Rachel’s sake, Sarah would have thrown a fit. Andrea needed more time. But according to Rachel’s doctors, the longer they went before a bone marrow transplant, the more transfusions she would need, and the more damage her body would sustain.
Andrea shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. I’m sorry. Even if he is my father, he isn’t.”
Sarah winced.
Andrea looked her in the eye. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
Sarah’s mouth curled up in a half grimace. “I can’t.”
“Can we take this inside?” asked one of the Diplomatic Security agents. Terry Segal, his name was. Mid-to-late twenties and buff. Andrea had the feeling he was armed to the teeth, and that was kind of hot. On the other hand, every time he gave her his toothy grin, she noticed the bottom row of his teeth were stained badly. Chewing tobacco, she suspected, which was quite possibly the grossest thing in the world.
“Sure,” Sarah said. She took Andrea’s arm and they began walking in step toward the clinic. The Children’s National Medical Center was an ultramodern glass structure with windows jutting out at odd angles, trees and grass surrounding a lake. It all seemed silent, pristine, calm and professional. It all seemed designed to calm. It all seemed incredibly fake.
“Where exactly is Carrie?” Andrea asked just before they reached the entry doors.
Sarah shook her head. “She said she had an appointment. Her nanny’s coming at ten. I think she said she’d be back early afternoon.”
Alexandra had stayed at the condo. That morning she had mumbled a barely coherent apology to Carrie. Predictably, Carrie forgave her on the spot and hugged her.
Sarah had her doubts. Because no one was that good and strong. No one kept their shit together under that much pressure. No one was that kind. But being the caretaker was Carrie’s identity, and she wasn’t going to give that up for anything. Sarah thought one day Carrie would explode from her own self-imposed sainthood.
Segal, the diplomatic security guard, jumped ahead of them and opened the door. Andrea led, with Sarah right behind.
“This way,” Segal said. “We already have security in the lab suite, and they’re expecting you upstairs.”
Andrea’s eyes were round. “That’s… reassuring.”
Sarah knew it wasn’t reassuring at all. What sixteen-year-old wants a battalion of security guards accompanying her to get blood tests? But there was no going back. Since the shooting in Bethesda last night, the security presence had dramatically increased. Their guards were in uniform now, with visible sidearms and driving escort vehicles. She couldn’t even imagine what all this was costing.
Her father had retired from the Foreign Service when she was still young, and the family’s last overseas posting to Moscow she’d been very young indeed. So she’d never experienced this kind of intense security.
She didn’t like it. It made her want to get on Eddie’s Harley and just ride out of town as fast and as far as she could go.
Speaking of Eddie. She’d received several urgent texts from him already this morning asking for updates.
Everything is fine, she sent back.
As they stepped on the elevator, Andrea said, “You’ve been texting a lot. Boyfriend?”
“Sort of,” Sarah replied.
The elevator door closed. The two DSS agents stood near the doors, their backs to the sisters. Sarah continued. “Eddie’s a med student. He was part of the ambulance crew that… he pulled me out of the accident last summer.”
“Oh my God,” Andrea said. “That’s so sweet! And he’s your boyfriend now?”
“Not exactly.”
In fact they’d only been on four dates. She remembered her mother’s red face and caustic words vividly when Eddie had shown up at their place.
Not until my daughter is eighteen.
The rules were set. Eddie could visit at the condo. He ate dinner with them every fourth Sunday. But until her eighteenth birthday, she was never once in a room alone with him.
The early months, that had been fine with her. Her leg had been swollen and ripped open like an overcooked sausage, and the pain was indescribable. There were days when she’d done nothing but scream, Carrie had done nothing more than weep, and Adelina, their mother, had done little more than stare at them in hollow-eyed shock as she tried to care for her daughters.
She knew Julia and Carrie would never trust their mother. She knew Andrea had left home and wanted nothing to do with her.
But Sarah would never in her life forget the nights when the morphine just wasn’t enough, the nights when she’d whimpered and wept in the most awful, unimaginable hell. And it was her mother’s arms around her that brought her through those nights. It was Adelina’s voice in her ear, whispering, “You can do this, Sarah. Only another hour, then we can get another shot. You can make it. You’re strong enough. All my daughters are strong enough.”
Sarah knew her mother was crazy. She knew her mother had some fucked up past, though she didn’t have a clue what it was all about. But she knew that when push came to shove, that woman dropped everything, left her home and lived with her and Carrie through the worst months of their lives.
By December, the pain was mostly dull aches, and she was dealing with the pangs of coming off the painkillers. But from what she’d seen during her twin sister Jessica’s rendition of “grace” during Christmas dinner, that was an even bigger issue for her twin. As a result, their mother had gone home after Christmas, returning to San Francisco with Sarah’s twin sister Jessica—exchanging places with their prick of a father, who promptly decided the condo was too small and found his own place.
That was fine. Sarah stayed and took care of Carrie. They took care of each other.
Oddly enough though—those months of her mother whispering soothing words in her ear—they changed something. Even when her mother was gone, she waited, and didn’t go out with Eddie, until her eighteen birthday, just a few weeks ago on April 1st.
Her first date with Eddie was her present to herself. And it was a doozy. The hulking Puerto Rican medical student took her to a play at the Kennedy Center, followed by a late dinner at the Roof Terrace, overlooking the National Mall on one side and Arlington National Cemetery on the other.
As they rode up the elevator, Sarah found herself telling Andrea a little about Eddie. He came from a wealthy family, but for reasons he’d refused to explain, his father had disowned him during his third year of pre-med at George Washington University. Eddie kept going, getting a job as an EMT to help pay some of the bills and praying to cover the rest.
“Are you dating anyone?” Sarah asked And
rea as they reached the third floor.
“Javier,” Andrea said. “But he just wants to have sex. I keep him distracted, but he’s no boyfriend.”
Sarah laughed. “I bet you run circles around him.”
Andrea smiled mysteriously.
“This way, ladies,” said Segal, their security guard. He was the only one now—the other one stayed at the elevator doors as they followed Segal down the hall. Another guard was barring the door to the lab.
Segal stopped at the door to the lab, spoke with the guard at the door, and opened the door.
Sarah and Andrea stepped into the lab.
Andrea walked up to the reception counter. “Miss Thompson?” asked a lab tech, a woman in her mid-thirties.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“We’ve had the lab closed until you’re finished. Please come this way and we’ll get you taken care of.”
Andrea nodded and followed. Sarah followed.
Sarah overheard one of the other hospital staffers mutter, “And then maybe we can get back to business…” She froze and gave a cold look to the woman, then sneered and kept going.
Two minutes later, a rubber band was wrapped around Andrea’s arm and the lab tech had inserted a needle.
“How long will it take before we know the results?” Andrea asked.
The lab tech shrugged and responded in a brusque tone.
“Normally I’d say two or three days, though rush transplant matches sometimes are the same day. I’m certain they’ll rush yours, what with all the attention.”
Sarah glanced back toward the door, and said, “It’s not her fault she was kidnapped, you know.”
The lab tech froze and blushed. “Of course.”
“So maybe we can get on with this? So your coworkers aren’t inconvenienced any more?”
“Sarah…” Andrea said. “It’s okay…”
Sarah took a deep breath. “Sorry,” she whispered. “Let’s just finish this up and get out of here.” What she wanted to say was: it didn’t matter what the blood test was for. They were sisters no matter what. The blood test was to find out if Andrea was a donor match. Not to determine her parentage.