Robert ran through the kitchen, several agents on his heels. The banquet staff, some handcuffed, others spread eagle on the floor, mumbled and screamed in terror.
“He ran out the door! We’re innocent,” a waiter screamed, his face pressed against a freezer door.
“Which way?” shouted Robert.
“The back door to the shipping dock,” whimpered the waiter, now handcuffed and on his knees.
Robert burst into the receiving area, gun drawn. The two agents with him covered each side of the small warehouse, guns pointing up and down and side to side.
They ran into the alley behind the dock. At the far end, Robert saw only agents and flashing lights making their way toward him, searching every inch.
They sprinted back to the dock. Robert signaled each agent to cover opposite sides of the small warehouse, while he covered the center aisle.
Robert crept down the center aisle. At the end of the row, he spotted a foot to the left of the shelves. He slowly, carefully, turned the corner and pointed his gun down at a man sprawled out on the floor. Agent Sams, throat slashed, sat lifeless on the floor in a pool of blood.
“My God!” one of the agents gasped, walking up.
“Code blue! Code blue!” one of the agents shouted into his sleeve.
“Agent down in the warehouse off the dock area! We need immediate medical assistance! Code blue!” More agents ran inside, each shaken by the sight.
Almost immediately, an FBI forensic team arrived, complete with black bag laboratories, and enough photo equipment to shoot the Super Bowl.
Robert answered a few questions then hung back out of the way, wondering why the Bear allowed Fiona to live.
“This guy just doesn’t know when to quit,” said a female voice.
Marilyn London, in a short, classy, midnight blue dress, stood a few clicks short of vampish, with one hand on her hip, the other clutching a black alligator handbag. He recognized her perfume, Paloma Picasso.
“That seems to be the case,” said Robert, agitated. “I hope we catch him soon. This was way too close.”
“I agree. The brass and White House are furious.”
“I never should’ve left the room, not even for a few minutes. She’s my responsibility.”
“Don’t think the fellas up top won’t let you know it. They never allow outsiders this much latitude in our operations to begin with. So for this to happen with you around…well, let’s be kind and say you’re the perfect scapegoat. Why’d you leave the room anyway?”
“I needed a private word with my partner.”
“Oh, so she was also out of the room. You two make quite a pair.”
“Look, there was a room full of agents, including several around the stage. I don’t think we should shoulder all the blame.”
“I don’t think you deserve all of it either, but this is Washington.
Somebody has to take the blame. I’m simply pointing out the obvious.”
“Didn’t your people run background checks on all the workers?”
“Yes,” said Marilyn. “But other than the usual illegal immigrants and petty infractions, they found nothing. I’m sure our Russian friend used a phony set-up.”
Robert felt stupid for asking. “Of course.”
“Mind sharing what you and Thorne were discussing? If it’s important or pertained to the assignment, maybe we can keep the sharks at bay.”
Robert thought about Edward, Julie Rice, and the evidence. Having another hand on the plow didn’t seem like such a bad idea, but he decided against it. “It wasn’t that important.”
“But important enough to leave your Supreme Court nominee unprotected.”
“Then let’s just say it’s confidential. ”
“No need to get abrupt with me, I’m on your side. You need to be ready when the big boys needle you. Was it another case you’re working on?”
“Are you here to grill me, or investigate Agent Sams’ murder?” Marilyn smiled. “So how well did you know Agent Sams?” she asked.
“As you know, we didn’t get along that well,” said Robert. “You do remember the incident back at the Weiss murder scene?”
“Ah yes, the slap from your partner. I remember.”
“But we seemed to put all that aside to watch out for Fiona…Judge Patrick.”
Marilyn’s smile grew. “I see. Interesting.” She pulled a small notebook and pen from her purse, and brushed by him on her way to the corpse. He followed, kicking himself for the slip of tongue.
They bent under the yellow tape. Robert examined the body again, while Marilyn had a members only conversation with her colleagues.
The throat wound looked smooth, no jagged edges. Why did Sams follow without backup? It doesn’t make sense.
“Strange isn’t it?” said Marilyn, standing next to him.
“What’s that?”
“We never pursue a guy like this alone. Protocol is to radio in the suspect’s location, keep’em contained, wait for back-up, and set up a perimeter.”
“That’s true,” said Robert. “Maybe he tried to be a hero. He wouldn’t be the first to play lone wolf.”
“Oh, he’ll be a hero all right,” said Marilyn. “Only he won’t know it.
Let me show you something.”
Her sudden coldness surprised him. Unusual for someone looking at a colleague, dead on a warehouse floor. They knelt down.
“Now tell me, Mr. Veil,” she continued. “Tell me, what don’t you see?”
Robert looked close as a photographer’s flash bounced off the walls.
“His weapon. It’s still in its holster.”
“You got it big boy. Looks like Agent Sams used incredibly bad judgment. What officer wouldn’t immediately pull their weapon in a situation like this? Pure suicide.”
“I admire your skills lady.” Again, Robert considered telling her about Rothschild and the evidence, and again, he shook it off.
“They walked back to the dock area. Marilyn stopped a few inches from his chest, searching his face, smiling. He took back a step. Her smile widened.
“We really must get together again, Mr. Veil. You know, two professionals, sharing information, clearing the air. I know I can come off a little aggressive, but I’m playing a man’s game. Sometimes being the house bitch is necessary. I hope you understand.”
“No offense taken,” he said. “But you will tell me about this dress when we sit down. Or is that standard FBI issue?”
“Oh, this little thing?” She pulled her coat back and showed more than she should have. “I was at a party when I got the page and didn’t have time to change.”
“Good thing you weren’t in a hot tub.”
Marilyn kissed his cheek. “I’ll keep that in mind.” Just my luck. Two amazing women at the wrong time. “Well, agent.
Let’s hold that thought. I really must get back to the judge. Let me know if you come up with anything new.”
“I’ll share whatever we get,” said Marilyn, tying her coat. “Make sure you do the same.”
They shook hands on a promise Robert knew neither would keep. He watched Marilyn glide back to the crime scene, took another look around the warehouse, then headed for his car.
23
Two miles from the hotel, walking fast, Andre heard the faint squeal of sirens in the distance. He took a left off M Street, stayed in the shadows, and melted into a splattering of homeless on Dupont Circle, striding down New Hampshire Avenue to a large empty house he cased a few days before.
He stomped up the steep driveway and slipped through a window, dropping down to the basement. He bent over to catch his breath, closed his eyes, and smiled.
After the commotion started, sparked by his note, the Russian quickly exited through the dock area just as he intended.
“Andre, Andre. I need you to stop,” said Sams, in a loud whisper.
Andre saw the agent’s weapon tucked in its holster, stopped, and swiped his size thirteen across Sams’ astonished face,
spinning him around in a complete circle. Andre smashed his elbow under Sams’ nose, sending bone chips into his sinus cavity and skull. Sams flew backwards off his feet and crashed hard on the cement.
Andre pounced and mangled the vertebrae in his neck with one quick twist. Air wheezed and whistled morbidly from the agent’s mouth.
Andre dragged the body out of sight and slammed it against a shelf. Ten seconds…nine…Pulled the hunting knife from his ankle…five…four… and slashed Sams’ throat with the smooth end of the blade…two…one.
He didn’t stick around to see the spray of blood.
He sprinted down the alley to the street, and ran fifty yards to another off 22nd Street. Off came the uniform, fat suit, facial latex, and yellowed false teeth. On went a pair of stone washed blue jeans, a Georgetown University sweatshirt, Redskins cap and black leather jacket he hid there as a precaution, one of several spots in and outside the hotel where he stashed changes of clothing. He stepped onto the street a different man.
Andre opened his eyes, stretched, and grabbed a plastic bag hidden under the basement steps. He traded the Georgetown sweatshirt for a blue, button-down Oxford, slipped on a pair of black penny loafers, a navy-blue London Fog windbreaker, and gold-rimmed glasses, pronounced himself yuppie and climbed back outside. He hit an empty New Hampshire Avenue and hailed a cab. “Georgetown,” he told the driver, in his best American accent; Bostonian this time, his favorite.
The driver turned down M Street, back toward the hotel. Andre spotted a long line of slow moving cars up ahead. A roadblock. The cab driver, a burly black man, complained as though he and Andre were well acquainted.
“It’s just like that sometimes, Nathaniel,” said the Russian, reading the name off the cab license hanging on the dashboard. “Don’t worry about it,” he added, his enunciation pure Cambridge Ivy League. “I’m in no hurry.”
They moved closer to the front. Andre rehearsed an escape scenario in his head, mapping out what he’d do if the police got suspicious and asked him to step out of the cab. He examined his new drivers license and mumbled under his breath. “Bradley Stevenson, Portfolio Manager from Boston. Mutual funds. Fidelity.”
They reached the head of the line, where two testy police officers stepped to each side of the cab. “We need to see identification for both of you,” said the officer at the driver’s window.
Nathaniel handed him his driver’s and cab licenses. Andre passed his I.D. to the officer on his side. He leaned inside and bounced his flashlight along the backseat and floor like a prison spotlight. The light hit Andre’s face. The Russian dropped his mouth open and tightened his forehead, as though genuinely concerned. “What seems to be the problem officer?”
The officer focused hard on Andre’s face and license. It took so long for the officer to answer, Andre thought he’d been discovered.
“Where’re you heading tonight, Mr. Stevenson?” The officer didn’t crack a smile.
“To J Paul’s for a little dinner,” answered Andre, pushing his glasses up on his nose. “I’m only in town for the night.” Several more glances and the officer nodded to his partner. “No problem, Mr. Stevenson. Sorry about the inconvenience.”
“Thank you,” said Andre, feigning nervous relief.
Less than ten minutes later, the cab dropped him on the corner of 30th and M. He hoofed it through the crowd to one of his favorite restaurants, J Pauls.
College students, foreigners, business people and tourists, packed the restaurant like sardines, laughing, talking, and joking, unaware a brutal murderer stood only a few feet away. Andre headed for the bar, his usual spot, where he could watch the news report.
“What’s up chief?” asked the bartender.
“Spicy shrimp,” said Andre. “A double order. And a Guinness stout.
I’ve worked up an appetite.”
Americans. S o easily fooled, so easily frightened.
“Here ya go my friend,” said the bartender, sitting a tall, dark glass of beer down in front of him. Andre took a long, slow swig, eyes half closed, and savored the thick, foamy brew.
He sat the glass down and nodded for another, turning his attention to the soundless television above the bar. A reporter pointed to the Ritz Carlton hotel, as police and agents hustled in and out. Judge Patrick, her face sheet white, dove inside a waiting car with Veil’s partner, Thorne, right behind her.
“Hot plate,” said a bright-eyed waitress, sitting his food on the bar.
He tipped her and dug into the shrimp, first sucking off the seasoning, then tearing away the shell, swallowing the Cajun flesh whole.
He stopped and looked around. He wished Vladimir were there eating shrimp, getting drunk and laid. Memories of the past played in his head like an old family movie. The more he remembered, the more he seethed with venom.
“Can you believe this?” the bartender interrupted, turning up the sound. “Did you hear what happened?”
“No,” Andre lied. “I’ve been working.”
“That nut case tried to kill another judge,” the bartender continued.
“Judge Patrick no less.”
“The Supreme Court nominee? That’s a shame.”
“It’s unbelievable what people will do. I hope they fry the asshole.”
“Yeah, he deserves it.” Andre finished his beer and motioned for yet another. A new stout replaced his empty glass, then another, and another. He continued to eat and drink, drink and think. He drained the last stout and paid the bill, tired, sleepy. A line of cabs waited out front.
A service for overzealous drinkers.
He gave the driver his address, jumped in back, and fought off the fog of sleep. The confirmation hearings were scheduled to start soon, and he’d put his final plan in motion. He knew his little act at the Ritz wouldn’t stop the judge. She’s stubborn and arrogant. After she’s sworn in, I’ll make my final statement. Take my final revenge.
I’m going to kill Fiona Patrick in her chambers. At the Supreme Court.
24
Halfway to his Virginia estate, Edward received an urgent call from Suraya on his secure line. The Middle Eastern dealmaker and the others involved in their deal, needed to see him, tonight. He directed his driver back into the city. To the Royal Embassy of Saudi Arabia.
Edward stared out at nothing in particular, calculating his next move.
Not since Kennedy’s assassination, did he have more at stake. Marilyn and Vernon walked out on him, but returned for an amount he agreed on, against his better judgment. Hesitant, he remembered his grandfather’s words.
“Make a man rich and you make a new friend. But bring a man into our rarified world, give him the keys only God can offer, and you’ll give birth to a force that’ll serve you as though you were the Blessed Father himself. They’ll worship and follow you. They’ll pray to your very name.”
So Edward offered them the chance to be born again, and wrapped it up nicely in fifty million dollars each. More money than he’d ever paid anyone outside the Rothschild family. He wired half to three separate accounts in the Isle of Man, each masked by separate corporate personas.
He gave them the account numbers, codes, and instructions. When he held the evidence in his hands, and Robert Veil and his partner were dead, the other half would be deposited, and their business done. He never wanted to see the three of them again.
Edward’s limousine glided along the asphalt past the Ritz. A few news trucks and police cars remained. He shook his head, astonished at the sideshow he witnessed in the ballroom.
After his confrontation with Veil, he pretended to be interested in Ian Goldberg’s ranting. A waiter carrying a silver tray of ice water toward Judge Patrick caught his eye. When the waiter sat the tray down, Edward got a quick glimpse of the note. He smiled and returned to his conversation with Ian, relishing the additional pressure Robert Veil would endure because of the incident.
Later, the FBI and Secret Service questioned him privately, asking if he’d seen anything.
“Now what kind of American would I be if I saw something and said nothing?” he responded. After a few more questions that led nowhere, they let him go.
His limo pulled into a wide winding driveway and stopped at the Saudi Embassy’s black iron gate. Lawrence announced their arrival.
Several cameras panned the car and license plate, and a red laser grid passed back and forth over the car, scanning for explosives. Edward admired the Saudis for their diligence when it came to security. Only the Israelis impressed him more. Two minutes later, the gates slowly opened and a Saudi emissary met him at the embassy’s marble steps.
“Good evening, Mr. Rothschild. I am Ali. They’re waiting for you upstairs in the library. Please follow me.” Edward thanked the tall thin Saudi, who moved with the effortless grace of a swan, and followed. Just how many men in the Middle East are named Ali?
Edward considered the Saudi embassy the most exquisite in Washington. It boasted museum quality artwork and a stunning foyer, redecorated twice a year, complete with new artwork, sculptures, and furnishings. Extravagance enjoyed by bottomless oil rich pockets.
He followed Ali up two short flights of stairs then down a long hall adorned with antiques and more art including a Van Gogh original, Starry Night over Rhone. They reached two heavy mahogany doors, carved images of Saudi cities cut masterfully into the wood. Ali braced himself, clutched what Edward guessed to be solid gold handles, and slowly opened both doors to the library as though their entrance were part of a formal ceremony, announcing Edward as if he were royalty.
“Good evening, Mr. Rothschild. We’re happy you could come on such short notice,” said the Ambassador, Shirin-banoo Muhammadi, a princely fellow with smooth dark skin and knowing eyes. He approached Edward arms extended, and hugged him like an old dear friend, kissing him on each cheek.
“It’s my pleasure, Mr. Ambassador,” Edward lied, irritated at being summoned. “Suraya said you have some concerns. I’m sure I can clear them up without a problem.”
“You’re most gracious sir, especially at this late hour.” The ambassador led him over to a small circle of men, some in suits, others wearing traditional Arab and Persian clothing. “Of course you know the others.”
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