Girl of Lies (2 page)

“I
S WASHINGTON your final destination?” the man asked. He wore a black suit with a white shirt, the collar open. Medium brown skin with a hairy chest, Andrea thought he looked Arab, possibly from Egypt or Saudi Arabia. His eyes danced a little, from her face to the swell of her breasts, and he spoke too loud, even over the whine of the jets. A creeper, probably. He wore cologne, too much of it, and Andrea was disturbed to notice that it was the same scent as Javier’s, but not
exactly
the same. The man next to her smelled earthier, almost musky. Disturbing.

She shifted in her seat, hoping the questions were friendly, but not too friendly. She didn’t relish an eight-hour flight with someone hoping to get lucky.

“It is,” she said.

“Business? Vacation?”

“Personal,” Andrea answered, looking him straight in the eye. “I don’t have any business, I’m sixteen. My father’s an American diplomat and I’m flying home.”

The creeper swallowed. “I’m headed that way for business,” he said. Then his eyes darted to her legs.

Damn it.
Her sister Julia had made her travel arrangements, and she was flying first class. So far as she could see there weren’t any other first-class seats, and as much as she didn’t want to ride all the way to the United States with this guy checking her out, she also didn’t want to ride in the back of the plane, jammed in like commuters on a Tokyo subway.

She reached into her purse and took out a paperback guide to backpacking in Italy, which she was planning to do that summer. More importantly, the book would act as a shield, hopefully fending off a too friendly conversationalist. Once the flight was in the air, she would switch to her laptop. She wanted to research
beta thalassemia major
, a rare genetically linked condition that could result in severe anemia. Failure to thrive. Bone malformation. Early death.

Rachel had it.

How was that even possible?

She certainly didn’t know of anyone in the family with thalassemia. What little she’d had time to read while waiting for the cab to take her to the airport hadn’t reassured her. The lifetime prognosis wasn’t good unless they could find a matching donor.

She tried to bend her mind away from her niece’s health condition and back to the book. Her creeper kept his distance while she read. Or pretended to. Her mind wasn’t really focused on the intricacies of the youth hostels of Italy, and what she really wanted to do once the plane was in the air was put her seat back and take a nap. She’d barely made the last non-stop out of Barcelona and would arrive in Baltimore late in the afternoon. But if she caught a short nap now, she’d be able to stay up most of the flight. Or… something. Jetlag was hell.

In any event, within half an hour the flight was in the air, the seat belt signs were off, she had cup of tea and her laptop was open, earbuds plugged into her phone and music playing.

Her first stop was Wikipedia, where she began reading about genetic blood disorders. She found it interesting that Queen Victoria of England had apparently spontaneously carried hemophilia as a mutation, which she’d then passed on to her children and ultimately several European royal houses in Russia, Spain and Germany.
The Royal Disease,
it had been called. Thanks to all the inbreeding. But thalassemia was primarily seen in people with Mediterranean and Asian backgrounds, which of course the sisters shared through their mother Adelina. And while it didn’t have the immediate life-threatening properties of hemophilia, the longterm effects were just as severe.

She pressed pause on her music, shifting in her seat. Time to make a stop in the facilities.

“Excuse me.”

Andrea jerked in her seat, looking up from the computer. It was her next door neighbor in first class, Mister Hairy Chest.

“Yes?”

“I couldn’t help but noticing you were researching medical conditions. Are you a medical student?”

That was just… strange. Why would he ask that? She’d already told him she was only sixteen. She didn’t want to be a giant bitch. But something about him set off all her alarms. “No,” she replied. “I’m in secondary school. I’m reading… actually my niece has a genetic blood disease… I’m going to Washington to help my sister.”

“Ahhh,” he said. “I see. I only ask because I’ve considered going to med school.”

Andrea let a breath out. Something about this guy rubbed her completely the wrong way. But Abuelita hadn’t raised her to be impolite to anyone.
 

“Are you a student?” she asked.

“I am…
Universidad Autònoma de Madrid
.”
 

“I see. And you study…?” One of the several schools she’d looked into had been UAM.
 

His teeth gleamed in a broad grin. “Mechanical engineer. I’m in my third year.”

She swallowed, feeling an odd tightness in her chest. “Well. That’s nice. Excuse me just a moment.”

She slid her laptop into the leather pocket of the seat in front of her and folded back the table, then slipped out of her seat. Heart thudding a little, she made her way to the restroom at the front of the cabin, stepped inside and closed and locked the door.

Something was wrong. She’d spent two days touring the University and had met with the science and engineering faculty there. He was a lot older than his twenties. And UAM didn’t have a major in mechanical engineering. Which meant Hairy Chest was lying.
 

Why?

“Sir? A moment please?”

George-Phillip looked up from his desk, raising his ample eyebrows. There were only two people in the Special Intelligence Service… four people in the entire country… who could walk into his exquisitely decorated office and interrupt him without an appointment. As the Chief of the SIS he controlled the British government’s foreign intelligence service. Thousands upon thousands of people and billions of pounds dedicated to tracking the enemies of the Queen. And friends, of course.

George-Phillip—formally known as
Prince
George-Phillip, Duke of Kent—had served in the SIS since 1986. Unlike his father, who had been content to waste the family’s fortune on fast cars, drunken parties and inappropriate women, George-Phillip had decided immediately on his father’s death that he would spend his life in service to his country. And he had done so, for more than thirty years. One could almost say he had his position in spite of his heritage—members of the Royal family, even those so far removed from the throne that assuming it would be inconceivable, simply did not rise to high ranks in the
civil
service.

George-Phillip, however, ended up with a fairly unique career. Starting with a brief stint as a special aide to the ambassador in Washington, DC, he’d attended Sandhurst, the Royal Military Academy, and then entered the SIS. That career had taken him to places as diverse as Afghanistan and China, Istanbul and Paris and finally here, at the nerve center of the intelligence world.

George-Phillip’s role in the intelligence world was well known by the public—after all, he often appeared in testimony before Parliament or in meetings. He was clearly recognizable in public by his unusual height and his bushy, over expressive eyebrows. George-Phillip had eyebrows that were unruly, often out of control, acting out their own soliloquy regardless of his audience or his desires.
 
It was his eyebrows that kept George-Phillip honest. It was his eyebrows (or, as the
Times
always said, his
unibrow
) that provided the media with plenty of entertainment fodder.
 

SIS Chief Raises Eyebrow Over Improprieties,
said one headline on the front page of the
Mirror.
He was still convinced, two years later, the picture had been manipulated in Photoshop.

George-Phillip took such things in stride. His job didn’t require that he be popular with the British public, nor did it require a movie-star reputation. It
did
require credibility, and that George-Phillip had. His credibility had led him unerringly to the job of Ambassador to the United Nations, followed by his current position as Chief of the Special Intelligence Service.

At the door was Oswald O’Leary. O’Leary was as unlikely an aide as one could ever expect the Chief of Intelligence to have. He was Irish, for one thing. Small, with beady eyes and the flattened nose and hanging jowls of a pug, O’Leary always looked as if he wanted to grab the nearest person and just
shake
them.

He was also brilliant, incredibly loyal, and therefore the recipient of some of the most unusual assignments George-Phillip could hand out.

“Sir, I have some information on the Wakhan file.”

George-Phillip winced inwardly. Then he beckoned O’Leary forward.
 

“What is it?”

O’Leary laid the file on his desk and George-Phillip opened it. His eyes widened.

“Andrea Thompson,” O’Leary said. “This is the youngest daughter of Ambassador Thompson.”

There was no mistaking who she was, even though she was much older now. A much younger twin to Carrie Thompson, her older sister. Dark hair, pale blue-green eyes, fair skin, remarkable height.

“What’s the situation with the Thompson children?”

O’Leary shifted. “It seems she lives in Spain with Ambassador Thompson’s mother-in-law, and has little contact with the family. She did briefly visit the United States last summer during the Dega Payan court-martial, then returned home.”

“So what takes her home now?”

“It seems that she’s to be tested as a possible donor match.”

George-Phillip raised his hand to his mouth, covering it. He closed his eyes and sat, motionless, for several seconds. Finally, his eyes opened and darted to O’Leary. “It is imperative you keep me informed, O’Leary. This is a matter of the highest national security. You understand?”

O’Leary looked back at George-Phillip with grim eyes. “I understand, sir.”

As always, Baltimore-Washington International airport was a chaotic mess of people. Andrea moved through the crowds, grateful that she finally shook Hairy Chest at Customs. Her U.S. passport took her into a separate line, and that was all it took. Now, as she walked to the ground transportation area to catch her ride, she also kept an eye out for his return. Her backpack was slung over her shoulder and she wheeled a larger suitcase behind her.

The terminal smelled like machine oil and body odor, and every few minutes overhead speakers burst out in mechanical sounding voices, making announcements in half a dozen languages. Finally she found her way to the baggage carousel. Her last two flights into Washington, DC had taken her through Dulles airport, and her unfamiliarity with this one made everything just a little bit more difficult.

On top of that, her mobile wouldn’t boot back up. The black screen mocked her repeated attempts to turn it on. She supposed the battery was dead, but now, once she found her luggage, she was going to have to find a pay phone. If such a thing even still existed.

Finally.
Ahead, near the taxi entrance, a man stood holding an iPad with the name “Andrea Thompson”displayed with glowing white letters.

“Hello!” she called, waving to the man. He was tall, in his mid-thirties, with a blonde crew-cut and blue eyes. He didn’t look like a limo driver… he looked like a bodyguard.

Of course, if Julia had sent him, he might well be a bodyguard.

“I’m Andrea,” she said.

He flashed a mouthful of glowing white teeth at her. “Nice to meet ya, Miss Thompson. I’m Dan. This way to the car… you got any luggage? Just that?”

He reached out a hand and took her suitcase. She turned to follow him, then said, “Wait…” and walked, slowly toward the newspaper stand next to the exit.

The
Washington Post
was displayed prominently, and caught her eye, because her father’s photograph was splashed across the cover. The headline was a shock.
Ambassador Thompson tapped for Defense Secretary.

She didn’t realize her father was planning to come out of retirement. And Secretary of Defense?

The driver—Dan—paused, failing to hide his irritation. Andrea shrugged. That didn’t matter to her. And what was the idea of sending a driver to pick her up anyway? She wasn’t close to her family, but it felt awfully impersonal to send a hired driver.

Then again, her mother was probably there, and Adelina Thompson was Queen of the impersonal.

Andrea pulled the top paper off the stack and handed over her debit card, hoping it would work in the United States. She held her breath for a moment. It did. Then she turned and followed Dan to a black Lincoln Town Car. He opened the back door and she slid inside. The back seat was wide, leather. Cool and comfortable. A moment later the car shuddered as he tossed her bag into the trunk and closed it.

As he slid into his seat, she said, “Do you have a USB phone charger? Mine’s dead.”

Dan grunted, then leaned over and dug in the glove box. “I’ve got one, but the only plug is up here.”

“Do you mind plugging this in?” she asked, and then passed her phone forward.