Chapter 7 - The Money in My NameThe account contained forty-six million dollars.
By noon that day, federal investigators were asking whether he had helped finance a wartime conspiracy.
There are levels of disappointment.
I discovered them quickly.
Mom arrived in Washington that afternoon with Sophie.
She looked ten years older than she had at the wedding.
Deputy Inspector General Cross questioned her for almost three hours.
Mom knew less than I expected.
Or claimed to.
Charles had controlled the family finances.
He controlled business records.
He decided where they traveled, who handled investments, which accountants they used.
Mom knew he had government clients.
She didn’t know names.
“Did Charles know General Rourke in 2014?” Cross asked.
Mom hesitated.
“Yes.”
My heart sank.
“How?”
“They met through a contractor.”
“Harrow Strategic?”
Mom looked startled.
“You know about Harrow?”
I closed my eyes.
Cross leaned forward.
“You do.”
Mom’s hands began shaking.
“Charles told me they transported construction equipment.”
“What else?”
“Nothing.”
“Did he travel to Jordan?”
“Yes.”
“How many times?”
“Maybe four.”
My voice came out sharper than I intended.
“You never told me any of this.”
“You were in college.”
“I asked about Dad’s work.”
“He told me not to discuss contracts.”
Of course he did.
Cross slid a photograph across the table.
Rourke.
My father.
Two Harrow executives.
Taken at an embassy event in Amman.
Mom covered her mouth.
“That’s Patrick.”
“Yes.”
“When was this taken?”
“Three weeks before Darash.”
Julian stood near the window.
He hadn’t spoken for almost twenty minutes.
Mom looked at him.
“Julian.”
He turned.
“I didn’t know.”
“I believe you.”
Tears entered her eyes.
“I’m so sorry about yesterday.”
He looked confused.
“You didn’t do anything.”
“I sat there while Charles humiliated you.”
Julian glanced toward me.
Mom followed his gaze.
“I did the same thing to Claire her whole life.”
Silence.
“I thought keeping peace meant keeping the family together.”
Her voice cracked.
“All I did was teach him he could hurt us without consequences.”
I didn’t know what to say.
Part of me wanted to comfort her.
Another part wanted her to sit in that realization.
So I let the silence remain.
Mercer entered the room carrying a laptop.
“We found Charles.”
My heart jumped.
“Where?”
“He used his passport at Dulles.”
“For what flight?”
“He booked one to Istanbul.”
“Booked?”
“Never boarded.”
“So he’s still here?”
“Possibly.”
Mercer turned the laptop.
Airport footage showed Dad entering the terminal.
Then leaving through a parking structure forty-three minutes later.
He had changed jackets and removed his tie.
A black SUV picked him up.
The driver?
General Patrick Rourke.
Julian stared.
“They’re together.”
Mercer nodded.
“That helps.”
“How?”
“It means Rourke is scared.”
The investigators moved quickly.
Financial warrants.
Traffic cameras.
Phone metadata.
Hotel records.
By evening, they traced the SUV west into Virginia.
Then lost it.
I stood beside the conference-room window watching the sky darken.
Sophie approached.
“You okay?”
“No.”
“Same.”
She leaned against the wall.
“You think Dad knew?”
“I don’t know what I think.”
“He was cruel yesterday.”
“Yes.”
“But war crimes?”
“We don’t know that either.”
Sophie looked down.
“I keep remembering Christmas.”
“What about it?”
“The year I was twelve.”
I waited.
“Dad got drunk.”
That wasn’t unusual.
“He kept saying he deserved more recognition for what he did overseas.”
I turned.
“What?”
“I thought he meant selling trucks.”
“What exactly did he say?”
Sophie closed her eyes.
“Something about ‘getting those people out before everything fell apart.’”
My heart accelerated.
“People?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
I grabbed her hand.
“We need Mercer.”
Thirty minutes later, investigators were searching archived customs records connected to Montgomery Mobility Group.
At 10:17 p.m., Mercer found something.
Six passengers.
Jordan to Cyprus.
Private charter.
Three days after Darash.
The passenger names were fake.
But passport photographs had been attached.
Mercer enlarged them.
The first man was unfamiliar.
The second too.
The third photograph made Julian stop breathing.
Laura Kim.
Older than the photograph from Darash by only three days.
Alive.
The fourth was Mason Bell.
The fifth Aaron Holt.
The sixth—
Sophie whispered, “Dad.”
A younger Charles Montgomery looked back at us from the screen.
My knees nearly buckled.
Julian caught me.
“No.”
I stared at the photograph.
Dad had been on an aircraft with the people Julian had spent twelve years believing were dead.
Mercer looked grim.
“The charter was paid for by a subsidiary of Harrow Strategic.”
“Where did they go after Cyprus?”
“We’re checking.”
Julian stared at my father’s photograph.
“He knew.”
I couldn’t defend him.
Not anymore.
The next record appeared.
The charter continued from Cyprus to Zurich.
Then the names disappeared.
Cross entered quickly.
“We got access to Swiss transfer records.”
Mercer turned.
“And?”
“A company linked to Charles Montgomery received eleven point eight million dollars forty-eight hours after this flight.”
My stomach twisted.
“For what?”
“No description.”
Sophie sat down.
“Oh, God.”
I whispered, “He sold them.”
Nobody answered.
Then Mercer’s phone rang.
He listened.
His face changed.
“Where?”
A pause.
“Secure the scene.”
He hung up.
Julian stepped closer.
“What?”
“The SUV used by Rourke was found outside Winchester.”
“Dad?”
“No sign of either man.”
“Then what’s wrong?”
Mercer looked directly at me.
“There was a body inside.”
I couldn’t breathe.
“Whose?”
“Male. Approximately sixty. Shot once.”
My mother screamed behind me.
Mercer immediately clarified.
“It is not Charles.”
Mom collapsed into a chair.
“Who is it?”
“They’re identifying him.”
Twenty minutes later, a photograph arrived.
Colonel Avery, who had remained nearby, recognized the man first.
His face went gray.
“Thomas Hale.”
“Who?”
Avery looked at Julian.
“Darash intelligence officer.”
Julian stared.
“He wrote the original report.”
Mercer nodded.
“And according to his wife, Thomas Hale disappeared this morning after telling her he was finally ready to tell the truth.”
The room became silent.
Avery looked toward the photograph again.
“He waited twelve years.”
Mercer’s phone buzzed.
A text.
He read it.
His expression sharpened.
“Hale left something.”
“What?”
“A voicemail.”
The investigators played it on speaker.
Static.
Then a frightened man’s voice.
“If anything happens to me, find Montgomery. Not the businessman. The daughter.”
I went cold.
My mother looked at me.
The recording continued.
“Charles trusted her because she never knew what he put in her name.”
My mouth went dry.
“What does that mean?”
Hale’s final words answered.
“Claire Montgomery owns the account.”
Everyone stared at me.
I whispered, “What account?”
May you like
Mercer turned slowly toward me.
“A very good question.”
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