Girl of Rage (16 page)

“Indeed,” George-Phillip said. He took the proffered seat and waited for Howard to get to the point, doing his best to suppress his irritation at the nickname.
Georgie
indeed.

Howard sat down across from him and said, “Tea?”

“No, thank you.”

Howard frowned then said, “Georgie, I called you over here because of a matter which has been brought to my attention. A matter which I’m not really—equipped—to deal with.”

“Indeed?”

“How familiar are you with the Wakhan region of Afghanistan? And specifically—what happened during the Soviet occupation of that country?”

George-Phillip grimaced. “I’m intimately familiar with it. You may be aware MI6 conducted an investigation in the late 1980s. It was my first major assignment.”

“I am aware. That’s why I asked you.”

George-Phillip nodded.

“I’ve received a disturbing report. Disturbing because it was brought to me directly. Disturbing because it involves you. I’d like to ask you to explain yourself?”

“I’ve no idea what you mean.”

“Did you, in fact, find out who was responsible for the massacre at Wakhan?”

“The Afghan Mujahideen was responsible for the massacre, Mr. Howard. Specifically Ahmad Shah Massoud and his confidante Vasily Karatygin.”

“The Soviet defector?”

“Yes. He’s mainly a smuggler now.”

“Where did they get the chemical weapons?”

George-Phillip didn’t answer.

“Come now. This is what the report is about. I’m told that you found out who sold them the weapons.”

“We did, sir. Richard Thompson, the new American Secretary of Defense, was the leader of the group that got the weapons into the country.”

“Dear Lord. Why did we not take action then?”

George-Phillip rolled his eyes. “Ironically, I sat in this very office with your predecessor Mrs. Thatcher discussing this subject, Duncan. We didn’t do anything about it for the same reason the American government didn’t. Because at the highest levels,
no one cared
about the civilians who were murdered. I was ordered by Miss Thatcher to suppress my findings. We sealed the report in the interest of national security.”

Howard looked at him and said, “That decision might still cost you.”

“It’s already cost me decades of sleep. Why are you raising this now?”

George-Phillip knew the answer. Of course he did. It must be one of the conspirators who had originally covered up the massacre. Perhaps because of Thompson’s elevation to Secretary of Defense, perhaps because of the increasing likelihood that Carrie and Andrea Thompson would learn who their birth father was. Something had set this thing in motion and now who knew where it would end up?

Howard leaned forward. “We’ve been asked by the Guardian to comment on a story they are about to run.”

“About Wakhan?”

“About what they are referring to as the cover-up at Wakhan.”

“Do you wish me to comment?”

“We’re considering pursuing them under section 2 of the Official Secrets Act.”

George-Phillip grimaced and shook his head. “I don’t recommend it. First, it will make the government look like clowns. We don’t need another ABC affair. Second, it isn’t even our secret.”

Howard frowned at the mention of the ABC trials of 1978, when the government had aggressively prosecuted journalists Crispin Aubrey and Duncan Campbell for receiving official secrets. The trials were a credibility disaster for the government.

“Perhaps, but certainly it’s classified information, even if it’s not really
ours.
”

“Who is
we
anyway?”

Howard frowned. “The Cabinet, Georgie. The Cabinet.”

George-Phillip sat forward in his seat. “Duncan, I’m a member of the Cabinet. We’ve had no such meetings or discussions.”

Howard waved a hand dismissively. “Informal.”

“It’s hardly a secret anymore, then. If you’ve discussed this … informally … with the Cabinet, then you might as well take out your own advertisement in the Guardian.”

“George, really, that’s not—”

“Would you like me to make an official statement?”

“Not yet. Actually I want you to stay quiet until we know which way the wind is going to blow.”

George-Phillip sighed and closed his eyes. There were times he wished he’d never heard of Wakhan, Adelina and Richard Thompson, or their daughters. There were times, more and more lately, when he wondered why he hadn’t followed in his father’s footsteps. The lack of moral courage displayed in Duncan Howard’s statement was appalling.

“Duncan, we can’t avoid this or base our response on politics—”

Howard cut him off. “Everything is politics.”

“Politics got us into this mess in the first place.” George-Phillip stood up.
Not just politics
, he thought.
Politics and greed and lust for power
. “I really must go, Prime Minister.”

George-Phillip. February 15, 1984.

“George-Phillip, can you come to my office for a moment?”

“Of course, sir.”

George-Phillip laid the heavy black receiver in its cradle atop the rotary phone and stood up, stretching his back. He’d been at his desk for several hours, skipping lunch, as he studied the mind-numbing protocol standards required of Embassy personnel. While his goal was to serve in the military and possibly intelligence services, he knew that a brief stint in the diplomatic corps would help. Not to mention the fact that Mrs. Thatcher herself suggested it.

All the same, the minuscule details and gradations of the diplomatic world did not appeal to George-Phillip. Everything from the precise titles to be used when addressing the assistant chiefs of sub-Saharan villagers to the order of seating when meeting with deposed nobles was included. It was all precise, detailed, and utterly bloodless.

The phone call had come from the Ambassador, Sir Francis Galvin. Galvin, who reminded George-Phillip three times per week, without fail, that he was a
self-made
man. A boy who had grown up with a coarse East End accent, Galvin had distinguished himself in the Second World War and was awarded the Victoria Cross by King George VI. Subsequently, he’d traded on that for a career under the Foreign Office and the Diplomatic Service.

Despite his evident valor and the Victoria Cross he still wore daily, he was a monumental todger.

George-Phillip had to respond to his summons. He squeezed out from behind his desk in the tiny office in the basement of the Embassy and ducked his head to miss the large pipe that ran near the door. He stepped out of the door, rearranged his suit coat so that it was a little neater, and made his way down the hallway to the elevator.

George-Phillip was well aware that he was the only person on the Embassy staff who had an office in the basement. Somehow, the Ambassador managed to find homes for 200 diplomats and another 200 support staff, but the Embassy had been too full for George-Phillip.

Not for the first time, as George-Phillip rode up the elevator, he pondered the fact that being 46
^th
from the throne was exalted enough to piss off egalitarians but not exalted enough to actually give him any privileges.

Nevertheless, he made it to Galvin’s office in a hurry. George-Phillip was twenty-one years old, and he knew he had to earn his place here.

The Ambassador’s secretary waved him in. She had crimped and poufed her newly blonde hair in a way that had become very stylish in the United States but was still a little too aggressive for the British Diplomatic Service. She opened the door for George-Phillip.

Inside the room the Ambassador sat, relaxed in his chair. A glass of bourbon sat untouched on his desk before him.

“George-Phillip. Come in. Have you met Oswald O’Leary?”

O’Leary was an aggressive looking man with the bunched shoulders and flattened nose of a prizefighter. A bulldog of a man.

“Nice to meet you,” George-Phillip said.

“O’Leary, this is George-Phillip. Excuse me,
Prince
George-Phillip. Mrs. Thatcher has seen fit to foist him upon us.”

O’Leary nodded at George-Phillip then gave him a sideways grin. “Pleased to meet you, sir. Oswald O’Leary. I work here and there.”

“He’s not allowed to tell you this, Georgie, but O’Leary works for MI6.”

George-Phillip coughed politely. “What can I do for you, sir?”

Galvin said, “I presume you’ve read the gossip column in the
Post
this morning?”

George-Phillip answered very quickly. “Sir, I generally don’t bother myself with gossip columnists.”

O’Leary leaned forward and said, “How well are you acquainted with Mrs. Thompson?”

“We aren’t close,” George-Phillip said. “I was invited to a dinner at Richard Thompson’s home last Saturday evening—I’ve written up my report.”

Galvin leaned forward and said, “You didn’t submit a report about your lunch with his wife on Monday.”

“Well, sir, I…” George-Phillip sighed. He had no excuse. The rules were clear—contacts with foreign diplomatic personnel had to be reported. Including spouses. But he knew why he hadn’t posted a report. He hadn’t planned on telling anyone about lunch with Adelina, but that witch Maria Clawson had made it necessary. “Sir, you are correct. I did not.”

“Tell us about your lunch,” O’Leary said.

George-Phillip said, “I was quite taken with the young lady. She is … not happy in her marriage.”

“Maybe that’s because he’s old enough to be her father,” O’Leary said.

“He is indeed. She’s quite terrified of him—she seems to believe he’s capable of harming her.”

Galvin blanched. “Surely you can’t be serious.”

“I’m serious, sir. I felt bad for her. But she was clear we would not see each other again.”

“And why was that?” Galvin responded.

George-Phillip sighed. “I believe the attraction was mutual, sir. She—she seemed quite torn and upset by the end of our meal.”

O’Leary grunted. “So she doesn’t want to see you?”

“I’m afraid not,” George-Phillip said.

“We want you to see her.”

“Whatever for?”

O’Leary said, “Have you ever heard of the Wakhan Corridor?”

“No—” George-Phillip said. Then he paused and held up a finger. “Wait … I did hear the term mentioned Saturday night. In passing, and I didn’t know what it was in reference to.”

“You included that mention in your report,” Galvin said.

“Yes, sir. But I think it was probably meaningless.”

“It’s not meaningless,” O’Leary said.

“Well, what is it, then?”

Galvin leaned forward and said, “George-Phillip, first I must advise you, this discussion is classified under the Official Secrets Acts. Revealing anything we discuss here would be considered an act of treason to the Crown. You understand?”

George-Phillip stared at Galvin in shock, offended that Galvin felt the need to remind him. He stifled his anger and simply acknowledged the statement.

“I understand, sir.”

“All right. Go ahead, O’Leary.”

O’Leary leaned forward. “It’s like this, sir. On December 12, Ahmad Massoud’s militia swung through the Wakhan Corridor. It seemed that one of the local villages had been cooperating too closely with the Soviets. But instead of the typical retribution, they dropped two canisters of sarin into the village by helicopter.”

“Good lord,” George-Phillip said. “What … what happened?”

“Everyone died. Women, men, children, it didn’t matter. Even the sheep and donkeys died.”

“So … why are you telling me?”

“Unfortunately, we have reason to believe that the militia obtained the chemical weapons via the Central Intelligence Agency. We don’t know if it was a rogue operation or not, but Richard Thompson was involved, along with Leslie Collins and Prince Roshan. I presume you know all three men?”

George-Phillip felt a chill. “Yes. Collins and Roshan were both at the dinner Saturday.”

The Ambassador leaned forward and looked at George-Phillip closely. “Georgie, I realize you’re still basically nothing more than a kid. But sometimes a nation asks something of its children as well. I trust we have your loyalty and discretion in this matter?”

George-Phillip looked Galvin in the eye. “Ambassador, my great-grandfather was George the Fifth. I know something of loyalty to the crown.”

Galvin stared back at him, anger in his eyes. “Aye, well, I’m not interested in your grandfather, I’m interested in you. You’re to make friends with Adelina Thompson and find out what you can of what happened in Wakhan. O’Leary will work with you. Am I clear?”

George-Phillip sighed. “Yes, sir. I’ll do my best.”

George-Phillip. May 2.

“Let me out,” George-Phillip said.

“Sir?” said the driver and O’Leary simultaneously. The car was on Millbank, near the Riverside Walk Gardens. The Vauxhall Bridge crossing the Thames was still between them and the headquarters of the Secret Intelligence Service.

“You heard me,” George-Phillip said. “Stop the car and let me out. I’ll walk from here.”

O’Leary leaned close. His voice was low and calm, as if he were speaking to a child. “Sir, someone tried to kill you two days ago.”

“So they did. Now stop the car, and I’ll walk. Keep nearby and watch over me if you’re worried I’ll be shot. But I need to be left alone for a few minutes.”

“Stop the car,” O’Leary called.

The driver brought the car to a stop. George-Phillip was irrationally irritated. The driver didn’t stop when he gave the order, only when O’Leary did. But that’s how it worked. The higher you went up the chain of command, the less direct influence you had over events. George had felt that frustration often enough before. But now it ached, because Adelina Ramos Thompson was out there somewhere, lost and alone and frightened, with people possibly trying to harm her and her daughters. It ached because
his
daughters were out there, unprotected and unknowing.

She’d never admitted it to him.

She’d never said a word. But he’d known ever since he first saw then twelve-year-old Carrie at a diplomatic function in Beijing, and later, when he saw both of his daughters together on the beach in Calella. It was obvious, because both of them looked so very much like him, and even more so like his cousin Eloise.