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Authors: Charles Sheehan-Miles
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officially associated with the Agency except in the very early 1970s. Some people in the government were aware of his role at the Agency and the State Department, but they were few indeed.
Chuck Rainsley, the bastard who had seduced his wife, was one of those people.
Bile flooded through Richard Thompson. He wanted to hurt someone very badly. No one took what belonged to him. And Chuck Rainsley had been undermining Richard’s marriage and his career for more than thirty years.
“Ambassador? Are you still there?”
Richard shook his head, suddenly aware that Bergmann was still on the line. “Of course I’m here. And I have no intention of showing up for your fishing expedition. As it stands, I’m no longer a part of this government.”
“Ambassador, I wouldn’t recommend that. When you get back to Fort Myers, you’ll find a subpoena waiting. Senator Rainsley is in a rare mood, and I suspect if you fail to appear you’ll be cited with contempt of Congress.”
Richard closed his eyes. He responded in as calm a demeanor as possible. “Fine, then, I’ll see you in the morning.”
Bergmann hung up without further comment. Richard thought through the appalling events of the last few days. Andrea kidnapped—most likely by thugs working for Leslie Collins. That inept son of a bitch was doing everything he could to undermine Richard and prevent him from becoming Secretary of Defense. But he wasn’t the worst of it. His wife—his stupid bitch of a wife— had made an international laughing stock of him. No one asked for political asylum from the United States. People came here to be free. They didn’t run away. Yet that whore had dragged their daughter across the border and asked for political asylum.
It was all over the networks. The Secretary of Defense’s wife flees, claiming he’s trying to murder her. The Monday morning Washington Post had his and Adelina’s photo on the front page. The headline read, “Embattled Secretary of Defense nominee’s wife flees country claiming abuse.”
He wanted to put his hands around her neck and watch her slowly turn blue. He wanted to watch her eyes bulge. He wanted to feel her terror. He hadn’t been trying to kill her, but that said absolutely nothing for her future. And her stupid brother Luis should start counting his days. He’d warned her . For thirty years he’d warned her.
And not just her. Chuck Rainsley. He remembered how he’d shown up at their condo back in 1984, self-absorbed and fancy in his Marine Corps uniform, all smiles and loud exhortations of his own heroism. As if getting all your men killed made you a hero.
He knew what to do. He took his phone back out and dialed. Moments later, the phone was answered.
“Richard!” The cultured, rich voice of Prince Roshan al Saud was friendly.
“Roshan, how are you? I understand you are in the United States?”
“Only for a few more days. I intended to ask you to dinner, but I know you’ve had a great number of challenges in the last few days.”
Richard waved a hand. “It’s quite all right. However, I’d like to meet for a bit if you have time.”
“Are you free this morning? I’m just leaving a meeting at the Embassy, I’ll be back home in twenty minutes.”
“That’s perfect.”
He leaned forward and said, “Driver, change of plans. We’re going to Langley, Virginia.”
Twenty minutes later, the car pulled into Prince Roshan’s palatial Virginia home. He waited for the driver to come around and open the door, then got out of the car, carrying his briefcase.
Roshan met him at the door. He wore a conservative looking grey suit and red tie, with a pin representing the Saudi flag pinned to his lapel. It bizarrely reflected the de rigueur Washington uniform since September 11 th , 2001, which required men in any government role to wear an American flag, as if that somehow proved their loyalty. Roshan’s greying hair and beard served to highlight his dark skin. His fat, puffy body,
Chuck Rainsley, the bastard who had seduced his wife, was one of those people.
Bile flooded through Richard Thompson. He wanted to hurt someone very badly. No one took what belonged to him. And Chuck Rainsley had been undermining Richard’s marriage and his career for more than thirty years.
“Ambassador? Are you still there?”
Richard shook his head, suddenly aware that Bergmann was still on the line. “Of course I’m here. And I have no intention of showing up for your fishing expedition. As it stands, I’m no longer a part of this government.”
“Ambassador, I wouldn’t recommend that. When you get back to Fort Myers, you’ll find a subpoena waiting. Senator Rainsley is in a rare mood, and I suspect if you fail to appear you’ll be cited with contempt of Congress.”
Richard closed his eyes. He responded in as calm a demeanor as possible. “Fine, then, I’ll see you in the morning.”
Bergmann hung up without further comment. Richard thought through the appalling events of the last few days. Andrea kidnapped—most likely by thugs working for Leslie Collins. That inept son of a bitch was doing everything he could to undermine Richard and prevent him from becoming Secretary of Defense. But he wasn’t the worst of it. His wife—his stupid bitch of a wife— had made an international laughing stock of him. No one asked for political asylum from the United States. People came here to be free. They didn’t run away. Yet that whore had dragged their daughter across the border and asked for political asylum.
It was all over the networks. The Secretary of Defense’s wife flees, claiming he’s trying to murder her. The Monday morning Washington Post had his and Adelina’s photo on the front page. The headline read, “Embattled Secretary of Defense nominee’s wife flees country claiming abuse.”
He wanted to put his hands around her neck and watch her slowly turn blue. He wanted to watch her eyes bulge. He wanted to feel her terror. He hadn’t been trying to kill her, but that said absolutely nothing for her future. And her stupid brother Luis should start counting his days. He’d warned her . For thirty years he’d warned her.
And not just her. Chuck Rainsley. He remembered how he’d shown up at their condo back in 1984, self-absorbed and fancy in his Marine Corps uniform, all smiles and loud exhortations of his own heroism. As if getting all your men killed made you a hero.
He knew what to do. He took his phone back out and dialed. Moments later, the phone was answered.
“Richard!” The cultured, rich voice of Prince Roshan al Saud was friendly.
“Roshan, how are you? I understand you are in the United States?”
“Only for a few more days. I intended to ask you to dinner, but I know you’ve had a great number of challenges in the last few days.”
Richard waved a hand. “It’s quite all right. However, I’d like to meet for a bit if you have time.”
“Are you free this morning? I’m just leaving a meeting at the Embassy, I’ll be back home in twenty minutes.”
“That’s perfect.”
He leaned forward and said, “Driver, change of plans. We’re going to Langley, Virginia.”
Twenty minutes later, the car pulled into Prince Roshan’s palatial Virginia home. He waited for the driver to come around and open the door, then got out of the car, carrying his briefcase.
Roshan met him at the door. He wore a conservative looking grey suit and red tie, with a pin representing the Saudi flag pinned to his lapel. It bizarrely reflected the de rigueur Washington uniform since September 11 th , 2001, which required men in any government role to wear an American flag, as if that somehow proved their loyalty. Roshan’s greying hair and beard served to highlight his dark skin. His fat, puffy body,
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