Veil v-1

by Reginald Cook

  Edward guessed his grandfather already knew what happened, but felt the need to unload, and poured out his heart. His emotions overflowed in a mixture of confusion and anger. When he’d finished the diatribe, his grandfather sat quietly, studying him as though he were one of the rare coins in his collection. He stroked Edward’s short black hair.

  “Your father’s right son. You have to learn to stand on your own two feet or nobody will ever give a damn about you.” Edward looked up at the old man feeling betrayed.

  “Now mind those tears boy, or I’ll slap you myself.”

  “But grandfather, it’s not fair.”

  “It’s not meant to be fair,” he barked. Edward looked at the floor. The old man placed his long, bony finger under his grandson’s chin and slowly, gently, raised his head until their eyes met.

  “Of all the things I’ve taught you, never ever forget this.” Edward focused hard not wanting to miss a word.

  “You don’t get what you deserve in life, you get what you take. And if you’re not willing to go after what you want at all costs, then here.” He reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out an old civil war pistol, fully loaded, and cocked back the hammer, pointing it at Edward’s head.

  “If you think life’s unfair, then end it. Right here, right now. I’ll help you. I’ve had a good run, we can go together.” Edward edged back and fell off the bed. “I don’t want to die grandfather,” he said, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket.

  His grandfather lowered the weapon. “Then take what you want out of life. Never let anybody get in your way. Not even your fucking father.” Edward entered the conference room. Vernon Campbell sat, legs crossed, impatiently thumping the arms of the chair with his fingers. His other guest, Simon Lynch, a ferret of a man, remained seated, nonchalantly acknowledging Edward’s presence.

  “Gentlemen, so glad you could make it,” said Edward, looking in Simon’s direction.

  “Forgive me for not standing, Mr. Rothschild. I’ve been a little under the weather,” Simon droned, in an irritating nasal tone.

  Edward took his seat at the head of the table next to Vernon. “I’ll get right to the point,” he said. “My son has announced his candidacy for the Presidency.”

  Simon raised forward in his seat. “And might I say, he is a fine lad. I think he’ll make a splendid leader of the free world.”

  “Thank you Simon. Your compliment, however insincere, is noted.” Simon smiled slyly.

  “Now that the race for the White House is official, I want our little problem taken care of immediately.”

  “Because Simon here got happy and killed Patrick Miller at the homeless shelter,” said Vernon. “It’s going to be a bit more difficult.”

  “It was necessary,” chimed Simon, casually examining his well-groomed fingernails. “He got a little suspicious after I questioned him. I didn’t have a choice.”

  “You let Veil get a look at you, you stupid fuck,” Vernon yelled.

  Edward motioned for him to calm down, but Vernon hopped to his feet. “I told you not to bring him in Edward. He’s going to blow everything, and we can’t afford mistakes.”

  “Simon, you were careless and messy,” Edward scolded. “If Veil had caught you, it would’ve added immeasurably to my already monstrous problems.”

  Vernon looked perplexed. “Is that it?”

  “Sit down Vernon,” Edward ordered.

  Vernon sat, bug-eyed with surprise.

  “It won’t happen again,” said Simon, pouring himself a glass of water. “I do, however, agree with my esteemed colleague. Mr. Veil’s not an easy mark. And that woman he has for a partner. Christ, she’s a real piece.”

  “You mean the black woman, Thorne?” asked Vernon.

  “Yes,” said Simon. “And I think we should use the term African-American.”

  “Gentlemen please, enough,” snapped Edward.

  Vernon shook his head in disgust. Simon continued to examine his nails, calm, unmoved. “Maybe a different approach is in order,” said Simon. “A propaganda strategy perhaps?”

  “Yes Edward,” agreed Vernon. “A smear campaign. The media will jump through hoops for us; besides, this isn’t the first time someone’s gotten close to the truth about Kennedy’s assassination.” Edward slammed his fist down on the desk and glared at both men.

  “They have evidence you fools. I want the evidence found and I want them killed. All of them.”

  “Listen to reason,” Vernon pleaded.

  Edward stood up. Simon slumped back, his eyes shifting between the two, obviously enjoying the skirmish.

  Edward leaned forward, sweat beading on his forehead. “Vernon, I’ve known you for over four decades. You know me well. You know when I say I’ll destroy your family if you don’t make this problem go away. I mean it.”

  Unnerved, Vernon turned beet-red. Edward turned to Simon. “And you, you pathetic little parasite. I know there’s not much in this world you care about.”

  Simon grinned.

  “Except that little boyfriend of yours in Los Angeles.” Simon squirmed uncomfortably, horror replacing his smile.

  “That’s right you faggot. I know all about him, but don’t worry. I won’t kill him. I’ll just uproot his pretty little bitch ass and transfer it somewhere where they’ll appreciate his, shall I say, finer qualities.” Edward waited for their reaction. Simon sucked his teeth, making a snake-like hissing sound. Vernon sat, head down, like a scolded child.

  “Good,” said Edward. “I see we have an understanding. When this is over, we can all go back to being friends.” Vernon’s jaw tightened, then relaxed. “Okay Edward,” he grunted.

  “We’ll play it your way. For now.”

  “Good. Now I’d like to introduce someone I’ve added to the team.” Edward opened the door and asked his surprise guest to come inside.

  “I believe you already know the lady,” said Edward.

  Marilyn London walked in and sat down. “Hello boys, glad to be on the team.”

  “What’s this bitch doing here?” Vernon snapped.

  “Now, now,” Edward responded, positioning himself behind Marilyn.

  “We must welcome the opposite sex in the workplace.”

  “You think this is some kind of game,” growled Vernon. “If the shit hits the fan, you’ll stink with the rest of us. This whore can’t be trusted.

  How much does she know?”

  “Everything,” said Marilyn. “Look, I’m not thrilled about working with you either. I usually operate alone. But Edward made an offer too good to refuse.”

  Simon nervously picked at a scab on his hand. “No offense to the bitch, but I agree. This is no time for new faces.” He looked over at Marilyn. “Or amateurs.”

  Marilyn’s ladylike demeanor melted away. “I ought to blow your brains out all over this room. Amateur! That little stunt you pulled down at the mission-that was amateur!”

  Marilyn walked over to Simon and leaned in close to his ear. “And from one bitch to another, if you ever insult me again, I’ll add your prick to my private collection. I have quite a few already, but for you, I’ll make room.”

  “Sit down Marilyn,” Edward snarled.

  Marilyn returned to her seat, eyes stayed on Simon’s, who glared back, teeth grinding, nostrils flared.

  “All of you better listen close,” said Edward. “I want the evidence found and brought to me, I don’t care how you get it done. Or like I said before Ms. London joined us, your family trees will come to an end.”

  “Now, you listen to me,” said Vernon. “I don’t know about these high price flunkies. You can treat them any way you like, but I’ve earned more respect than you’ve shown me today.” Vernon pushed up and marched to the far end of the table. “You helped assassinate a President for Christ’s sake. Do you have any idea what that means, you pompous asshole?”

  Edward sat poker faced. Detached. Unmoved.

  “Let me give you a little warning,” Vernon continued. �
�I’ll catch and kill Robert Veil and Charlie, but don’t think I’m moved by your threats.

  If I go down, you and the whole Rothschild clan will burn in hell with me. I promise.”

  Marilyn and Simon raised eyebrows. Edward sat quietly.

  “Young junior, failed Presidential candidate, will be the least of your problems,” Vernon continued. “I’ll make sure the name Rothschild isn’t worth toilet paper. So don’t ever threaten me again and don’t dream of fucking with me.”

  Vernon threw open the conference room door and stormed out.

  After a short, awkward moment, Simon rose. “It’s been an enlightening afternoon Mr. Rothschild.” His eyes narrowed. “Pleased to make your acquaintance again Ms. London.” Edward stayed silent, chilly. Simon pulled a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. “Well, I’ll be going now, but rest assured, I’ll do my best to help put an end to this matter urgently.” He softly closed the door behind him. Marilyn’s mood brightened. Edward pulled a cigar from his inside jacket pocket.

  He pushed Vernon as planned. Necessary, he thought. He needed the evidence, and wanted Veil, Thorne, and Charlie dead, before things got out of hand. He looked over at his trump card. Marilyn London.

  Marilyn never failed him. That’s why he called her first from his limo the day Vernon informed him Charlie talked to Veil. Marilyn loved to hunt and kill. Her greed almost surpassed his. The perfect killing machine.

  “I want you to take care of Robert Veil and the others as soon as possible,” said Edward, lighting the cigar. “You’ve made contact, right?”

  “Certainly,” said Marilyn. “He’s working on the murders of those federal judges. You know, the Bear.”

  “So I’ve heard,” said Edward. “Perfect. Then you won’t have trouble getting close to him.”

  Marilyn smiled. “No, I won’t.”

  “What about his partner, Thorne?” Edward asked.

  Marilyn’s brow furrowed. “I’ll kill Veil and Charlie, no problem.

  But I want that bitch to suffer.”

  Edward laughed. Thorne managed to get under Marilyn’s skin. A feat not easily accomplished.

  “There is one small matter to tend to first,” said Marilyn. “Money.”

  “We have a deal already,” Edward sneered. “Five million for the lot.”

  “I didn’t know all the details. Just how involved were you in Kennedy’s death?”

  “Kennedy’s not the issue here. Five million’s the deal; take it or leave it.”

  “Ten million dollars in my offshore account in the Isle of Man. Half now, half in a Swiss account, to be transferred later as I instruct.” She smiled. “Or you can go fuck yourself.”

  Maniacal bitch. Edward puffed the expensive tobacco. She’s right to squeeze. I would. “Done,” he told her.

  Marilyn locked the door, unbuttoned her blouse, walked over and dropped to her knees. She undid his pants and swallowed his manhood.

  He moaned. Yes. She is the antichrist.

  10

  Four weeks passed. Charlie, asleep on Robert’s deep cushioned sofa, snored heavily. Robert sipped a cup of coffee, watching the old man from the kitchen, on a slow burn.

  Charlie gave him a scare, passing out a month earlier. He thought the old man died right there on his carpet, but finally managed to resuscitate him with mouth to mouth. Reluctantly, Robert called in a favor from Dr.

  Ronald Jones, an old friend from the Marines whose life he’d once saved. Dr. Jones diagnosed Charlie’s condition as advanced stage tuberculosis, and put him on aggressive antibiotic therapy. The doctor couldn’t be sure without x-rays, but guessed Charlie probably had very little lung tissue left, and gave him at most six months to live.

  Charlie drifted in and out of consciousness, slowly getting stronger and coughing less. Robert didn’t bring up Rothschild or the assassination, giving the old man a chance to recover before pressing him. Now Charlie felt better and Robert wanted details.

  Thorne arrived with the video equipment, all business, and without so much as a hello, quickly set up the camera and recorders. Robert woke Charlie, who sat up straight and rubbed his eyes. Robert pulled up a chair. Thorne checked the equipment, and signaled.

  “State your name for the record,” said Robert. “Then tell us how you got involved with Rothschild, and what took place that day.” Thorne positioned herself behind the camera next to a small color monitor and tape recorder.

  Charlie stated his name, spelled it, then lowered his head. “It’s difficult,” he said, in a broken voice.

  Robert’s heart pounded. Thorne’s hand quivered as she adjusted the controls.

  “Two governments have always existed side by side. One visible, the other invisible,” said Charlie. “When President Kennedy, arrogant, and so sure of himself, said he wanted to splinter the CIA into a thousand pieces and scatter it to the winds, the invisible emerged and ended his life.”

  Charlie took a long, slow drink of water from a glass Robert placed in front of him and cleared his throat.

  “In other countries,” he continued, “the object of assassination is to shift power from one regime to another. Just look at history. But the object of President Kennedy’s assassination was to keep the country’s power in the same hands. To maintain the status quo.” Charlie shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “They fell like dominos after that,” he said. “Robert Kennedy, Martin Luther King, Governor George Wallace, John Lennon, even that fiasco at Chappaquiddick. It was all orchestrated to maintain control over the electoral system, to control the power of the Presidency.”

  Robert stroked his chin. “To whose benefit?” Charlie looked blankly at the camera, then looked away. He finished the last of the water. Perspiration beaded on his face. The circles around his eyes darkened, his breathing turned shallow and heavy. Robert tossed him a towel. Thorne poured a fresh glass of water.

  “There were four of us riding in a used Ford station wagon that day,” Charlie continued. “Two lookouts, a spotter, and myself. We rode through Dallas in silence. The weather report we received from Langley said it would stay warm and cloudless all day, with the temperature about sixty-eight degrees. I crosschecked the report to make sure it was accurate. If it’d rained, we would’ve called it off. Too many things go wrong in bad weather.”

  Charlie wiped his face again and closed his eyes tight, as though trying to fight off a nightmare. His lids lifted, eyes beet red, hands trembling.

  “We knew traffic would be heavy. To avoid it, we mapped out a route around the crowded streets to a short dirt road in the railroad yard behind the knoll. At eleven-fifty a.m., we heard over the Secret Service radio frequency that the President had left Love Field airport. We drove around the yard one last time, then pulled back out onto the street, parked for fifteen minutes, following the motorcade’s progression by radio. At twelve-fifteen we went back into the railroad yard to set up.” Charlie asked for a break so he could use the bathroom. Thorne checked the camera. Robert refilled the glass of water. Ten minutes later, Charlie emerged looking more relaxed. He sat down without a word. Thorne restarted the equipment.

  “We’d been planning the hit for months and had every angle covered.

  I’d checked out several spots, including the railroad overpass across the Stemmons Freeway, but from there I’d be too visible.”

  “The stockade fence on the knoll was perfect. It faced Elm Street dead on, and you couldn’t drive past without facing the fence. The President would pass directly in front of me, only a few yards away.

  Afterwards, we’d be able to get away easily without being noticed. If anyone did run up on us, we’d simply flash our Secret Service credentials and ask them to leave the area.” Charlie wrung his hands and rocked back and forth. “I moved into position at exactly twelve-twenty. While I unwrapped the rifle, the spotter surveyed the area with binoculars and continued to follow the radio reports, moment by moment. The other two men watched our back, pin-pointing a railroad worker in a tower behind us, a littl
e over seven hundred feet away. We thought the tower would be empty because of the motorcade. It didn’t matter though. Mr. Bowers told the Warren Commission he saw men moving around the fence, but couldn’t be sure because his view wasn’t clear. Of course, he died a year later, alone, in a single car accident. They probably didn’t want to chance his memory clearing up.”

  Charlie gulped more water, spilling it down his chin. “At twelve twenty-five I checked the rifle one last time, propped it up on the fence and waited.”

  “How did you feel knowing you were about to assassinate your own President?” asked Robert.

  “Ice cold,” Charlie responded. “At the time it wasn’t murder as far as I was concerned. I was trained to kill for political reasons. The assignment paid well, so it was business. I didn’t care much for President Kennedy anyway, his politics or his family. That made it easier, or so I thought at the time.”

  Robert saw Thorne struggling to keep silent, glad she didn’t have her shotgun. He quelled his own anger. Anger with Charlie, more with Edward Rothschild. “Go ahead,” he told him. “Continue.” Charlie closed his eyes. “The spotter tapped my right shoulder, which meant the President’s car was passing the book depository. I pointed the rifle up Elm and noticed the excitement of the crowd increase. To my left, I saw a man holding a film camera, but it was too late to do anything about it.”

  “The motorcade came into view and everything slowed down. That’s how it is. You see things clearly because you’re prepared. It’s a first for everyone but you, so it moves quickly for everyone else. Your peripheral vision expands and you take in everything around you, then your tunnel vision kicks in, and you only see spots on your target.”

  “I was told the top would be off of the President’s car, turning his limo into a convertible.” Charlie swallowed hard.

  “I fired at the President twice. My first shot hit him in the neck and the spotter called it out. A quizzical look came across the President’s face and he clenched his hands up near his throat, elbows pushed out to the sides. An automatic nervous reaction.” Charlie demonstrated.