Girl of Rage (32 page)

Adelina’s response was instantaneous; a loud ringing slap that stung his face. “How dare you?” she asked. “You know what he did to me.”

George-Phillip staggered back. “And I know what you’ve done to me, Adelina. You’ve broken my heart.”

“I never want to see you again,” she said.

He closed his eyes, forcing himself to contain the overwhelming pain her statement brought on. “I don’t understand you, Adelina.”

She sobbed. “Please, George. Just go. Leave me.”

She stepped back inside and closed the door. Twelve years would pass before he saw Adelina Thompson again.

Alexandra. May 3.

“Excuse me a moment,” Alexandra said, stepping away from her sisters. They had just arrived at the Crowne Plaza in Arlington, where Julia had rented a suite.

“Hey,” Carrie said, catching her eyes. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Alexandra replied. “I’m good.”

She stepped into the bedroom at the end of the hall and dropped her bag on the bed, then took out her phone, urgently checking to see if he’d contacted her. Nothing from Dylan, but she had a friend request on Facebook from a Sherman Roberts. The name tore at her heart. Roberts and Sherman were Dylan’s two best friends from the Army—both of them dead now.

She accepted the request then checked her messages.

His was obscure.

SHERMAN ROBERTS: Hey you. I was browsing profiles and saw yours and thought we should get to know each other. If you get my message, let me know.

She wondered if he was online right then. Maybe? She tapped in her response:

ALEXANDRA PARIS: Hi there. I don’t usually talk to strangers.

His response was immediate. Her phone rang, but there was no caller ID.

She scrambled to answer it.

“Dylan?”

“Hey, babe. Where are you?”

“We’ve moved to the Crowne Plaza in Arlington, Virginia. The DSS isn’t giving us protection anymore.”

“Son of a bitch, are you serious? Why not?”

“They’re not in charge of the investigation anymore. It sounds like that’s the Justice Department and IRS. They’re after my father. But Julia’s working on hiring private security.”

Silence at the other end of the line. Breathing. Finally, Dylan said, “I want you to make sure you’ve got a retreat. Fire escape. Anything. Make sure you’ve got a way out. And you need to buy a gun.”

“Dylan, I’ve never fired a gun—”

“Alex. These people are serious.”

She closed her eyes. Less than forty-eight hours before he’d killed two armed attackers while protecting her sister.

“Okay. Okay. I hear you, Dylan.”

“Me and Sherman taught you how to protect yourself in a fight. What’s the most important weapon you have?”

Jesus Christ,
she thought. His voice was intense. “My brain,” she whispered.

“That’s right. You have to stay one step ahead. What’s the plan from here?”

“We’re meeting with Bear in a little while, and some guy from the Washington Post who Julia knows. She says she thinks he might be able to help us. Right now we need information.”

“Right. We especially need to know who Carrie and Andrea’s father is.”

Alexandra sniffed. “Yes. You’re right.”

“I’m tossing this SIM card when we’re finished talking. But I’ll keep watching the Facebook account. Drop me a message and I’ll call within a couple of hours. All right?”

“Dylan…” she said.

“Yeah?”

“Be careful.”

“I will,” he replied. His voice was sober. “I love you.”

Julia. May 3.

The hotel telephone was loud and jarring, unsettling in a world where 99 percent of phone calls had a pleasing ring tone. Julia stood and walked to the phone and lifted it to her ear.

“Hello?”

“Mrs. Wilson?”

“Speaking,” Julia said.

“There’s a Mr. Anthony Walker here to see you.”

“Send him up, please?”

She hung up the phone and glanced over at Crank, who stood at the bar mixing a drink. “Fix me one, please?” she asked.

“Strong?”

“Yes. Better make it a double. What about you?” she asked Bear, who was standing in the corner sending an email on his phone.

“No, thanks,” Bear said absently.

Carrie was lying on the couch nearby, her face exhausted, and Rachel stretched out across her chest asleep. The baby’s eyes were closed, her tiny hands curled into fists.

Crank held out the glass to her, a vodka tonic. She sipped it, sighing in relief. Sarah was on the balcony, headset in her ears, her head moving as she listened to music. Alexandra had disappeared to her room the moment they’d arrived in the suite.

A knock on the door. Julia set her drink down as Crank opened it. He put a finger to his lips and whispered, “Quiet. Baby’s sleeping.”

Anthony practically tiptoed in, his eyes falling on Carrie and Rachel. Carrie didn’t open her eyes, but said in an even voice, “It’s fine as long as you don’t shout. Forgive me for not getting up and introducing myself. I’m a mattress right now. An exhausted mattress. My name’s Carrie Sherman.”

“Anthony Walker,” he replied in a bemused voice. His lips were curled up in a slight smile, and his eyes scanned Carrie longer than Julia was comfortable.

Intensely protective of her younger sister, Julia’s eyes narrowed. “Anthony’s a
journalist,”
she said, in a none-too-friendly tone of voice.

Anthony raised his eyebrows. “I am. By the way, I’ve got a question for you. I know you guys ruled out Senator Rainsley. But—odd question, but the dates line up. And so do some other things. Do you remember George-Phillip Windsor?”

“Who?” Carrie said.

Anthony passed his phone to Julia, who stood to take it. A sudden squeeze in her chest hit when she looked at the photo.

Anthony said, “You recognize him.”

In a higher pitched voice than she expected, Julia said, “That’s George Lansing. He worked for the British embassy when we were in China. My mother—she had an affair with him.”

“Let me see,” Carrie said. “I never knew what he looked like.”

Julia handed the phone to Carrie, realizing that the resemblance was too clear. “It’s obvious now, but I never saw it before. That was a long time ago, and I had a lot going on.”

Carrie’s eyes widened when she saw the picture. Her hands started to shake, and she said, “I know him. He spoke at my graduation. And … and … he’s the guy from the pictures. From Spain. I think.”

“I don’t know who George Lansing is,” Anthony said. “Unless that was just the name your mother told you.”

“Wait,” Julia said. “You said—”

“I said George-Phillip Windsor. As in, Prince George-Phillip. He’s like a second or third cousin or something to the Queen of England.
And
the head of the Special Intelligence Service.”

Carrie let out a loud cough. “I’m sorry, but
what?
” The baby stirred, but Carrie shifted anyway, sitting up and trying to settle Rachel in her lap. “Are you saying
he’s
my father? That my father is some … somehow connected to the British royals? I
know
him—he gave the commencement address at Columbia when I graduated. I shook his hand.”

Anthony said, “I don’t think there’s proof.”

“Well,” Julia said. “Tell us what you have.”

Alexandra, standing in the door of the suite, said, “Yes. Tell us.” Her face looked stunned, and she walked forward, facing Anthony.

Anthony looked back and forth between the sisters and Crank. “Okay. Here’s what I know. The timing is right. I think they met sometime in the spring of 1984. George-Phillip was a junior diplomat at the British Embassy. I don’t know where they met, but we can place them in a restaurant together in late February, 1984. In fact, you were there too, Julia.”

Julia felt as if she’d been punched. “I was
there?
How do you know?”

“A gossip columnist spotted your mother and George-Phillip and wrote about it.”

Julia felt her stomach churn. “A gossip columnist? Anyone I know?”

“Yeah,” Anthony said, his voice apologetic. “It was Maria Clawson. From what I hear—and this is all hearsay—she dated George-Phillip briefly. Before he met your mother. And—well—she didn’t take his rejection well at all.”

“Jesus,” Crank muttered. “That gossipy bitch smeared Julia all to hell twenty years later. What the hell?”

Julia took Crank’s hand and squeezed it. “She’s out of business now.”

Maria Clawson was out of business only because Julia had personally funded a lawsuit against her. A nineteen-year-old college student had been raped by a popular football player on campus at the University of Alabama, and when she went public, the media came out swinging, Maria Clawson in the lead, smearing the girl. The girl won her lawsuit and a settlement big enough to permanently shut down Clawson.

“So I ate at a restaurant with this guy. Where did they meet?”

Anthony shrugged. “No idea.”

“I can probably answer that,” Bear said. He’d been quiet up until that moment, but Julia looked at him now. “In your father’s State Department personnel file, we’ve got a photo of your parents along with George-Phillip. It was taken in the condo you live in now, in February 1984.”

Carrie shook her head as she rocked Rachel back and forth. “The timing’s right. I was born the next January.”

“Right,” Anthony said. “And then George-Phillip was in China for a year, from May ’96 to May ’97.”

Julia closed her eyes. “That’s the year I was—falling apart.”

“The twins were born in April ’96,” Carrie said.

“And Andrea in June ’97, which means she could easily be his daughter. Both of you could be.”

Julia met Carrie’s eyes. Carrie shrugged, her expression empty of emotion.

“I don’t know what to think,” she said.

“So Mom had an affair with some British prince who blew in and charmed her,” Alexandra said sarcastically.

“I think it’s crazy she stayed married to him, considering what happened,” Carrie said.

“What exactly happened?” Alexandra asked. “He wasn’t convicted of anything. He was
suspected.
They didn’t arrest him. They dropped the charge.”

“Yes, Alex,” Carrie said. “Because he was a rich diplomat. You think he would have stayed out of jail if it hadn’t been for that?”

“I am
not
the child of a rape,” Alexandra shouted.

The baby started to stir, a rough cry slipping out. Alexandra covered her mouth.

“If I read her diary correctly,” Julia said, “you are. And so am I.”

“What about the twins?” Alexandra said. “You think they are too? Or is there some other affair waiting in the wings?”

Julia leaned forward, resting her head in her hands for just a second. Then she got up and walked over to Alexandra and faced her. Alexandra looked scared, her eyes an open window into confusion and shock.

“Alexandra, this is a shock to all of us. And we don’t know the answers to a lot of this. But—just—right now, try to keep an open mind, okay? We’re here for you. Whatever happened with our parents, we know who
we
are. We know what we’ve been through together. Okay?”

Alexandra took a deep breath. She nodded, silently. “All right,” she whispered. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Julia soothed. “It’s okay.”

No one else spoke for a minute. Then Julia took Alexandra’s hand and led her to the couch and sat down.

“Okay,” Julia said. “So we have this Prince George-Phillip and my mother meeting in early ’84. And we think he’s likely to be Carrie and Andrea’s father. We know they were together at least twice in ’84, and I remember seeing him in Beijing.”

“And he looks just like the mystery guy in my photo album.
And
he showed up at my graduation.”

Anthony looked confused, and Julia said, “What mystery guy?”

Carrie sighed. “When I went to Spain with Andrea in 2002, there was a guy in two different photos—one on the beach and one in the town square. He’s standing off to the side watching us, and neither picture was focused very well. But he looks a lot like your George-Phillip. I guess the deciding thing is height—is George-Phillip tall?”

“Really tall,” Carrie said.

Anthony nodded. “Six-six maybe. Gangly. Hair and eyes like yours, but he’s got these huge bushy eyebrows. Be grateful you didn’t inherit those.”

Carrie laughed, a short, bark-like laugh. “I suppose. Now the question is, how do we get in to meet George-Phillip?”

“You don’t,” Anthony said. “He’s the head of the British Intelligence Agency. It would be like asking for an appointment with the director of the CIA.”

“Or the Secretary of Defense?” Carrie challenged.

“Hmm—good point. Except you don’t have those kinds of connections in the British government. Do you?”

Oh, shit,
Julia thought. For the first time in this discussion, she wanted to run. She wanted to just get up and walk out. Because
she
did have those kinds of connections in the British government. Or at least one.

Harry Easton.

Harry had been her first love, if you could call it that. Nineteen years old, a fourth year at the International School of Beijing when she started there at fourteen. He’d swept her off her feet. He’d treated her like dirt, pressured her into sex way too early, got her pregnant then dumped her. He’d ruined her life, at least for her high school and early college years.