The five men rose and Ali backed out of the room. Edward greeted them as he did the ambassador, paying compliments and making small talk like a tolerant relative at a family reunion. After the greetings, they sat down in seats arranged in a semicircle, leaving a lone empty chair for Edward-facing them.
In addition to the Ambassador, the rest of the group read like the Who’s Who of the Middle East power elite. Aziz Bakhtauar, an attorney, dark-skinned with bright, sharp eyes, represented the United Arab Emirates in any negotiations involving their oil resources. Farzeen Dihmubidi, a direct link to the highest levels of influence in Iran, including the military, Hassan Mahmudnizhad, arms dealer to the Palestinians, Muhammad Sa’ud, cousin and Counsel to the King of Saudi Arabia, and Minister of Oil and Edward’s main contact, Suraya Khomeini, representing the interests of both Qatar and Kuwait.
“It seems we have a problem, Mr. Rothschild,” said Suraya, all niceties finished.
“How may I be of help?”
“Yes,” chimed Aziz. “Some of us have received information through our intelligence networks that your government is aware of, and none to happy with, our plans.”
“I for one would like to know how they found out,” said the Ambassador.
“We’ve got a lot at stake here,” said Hassan, “and we can’t afford to have anyone, or anything, get in the way. You do understand, Mr.
Rothschild?”
Edward sat back in the leather chair and smiled. “Gentlemen, the situation is under control. I don’t know how they found out, but there’s no need for alarm. President Claymore is on his way out. Support for my son is on the rise, and once we’re in the White House everything will fall smoothly into place.”
Silence washed over the room.
“Forgive us if we don’t share your unabashed optimism,” said Aziz.
“Some of us are risking everything, including our relationship with the United States, a relationship I might add, already on the mend.”
“Understood,” said Edward. “We all knew the risks involved when we started down this road. Besides, if Israel starts manufacturing crude oil at two dollars a barrel, and gas prices drop to twenty-five cents a gallon, your relationship with the United States will be the least of your worries. Molecular Nanotechnology and Israel’s Project Genesis will change everything in the Middle East, gentlemen. None of you will be players on any kind of scale.”
Edward watched their faces. He knew they were scared to death.
Scared of losing their place in the world’s pecking order. Terrified of financial extinction.
“With a small crude-oil field,” Edward continued. “Israel will duplicate oil’s molecular structure, causing it to multiply billions of times over, creating an endless supply. Somewhere in a small compound forty kilometers outside Beersheba, the Israelis are about to change the world. And in one fell swoop, you will no longer be relevant.”
“We can always strike a deal with Israel,” said Suraya.” Maybe work out an agreement that includes the disposal of one of their nagging problems.”
The others murmured in agreement with Suraya.
“Of course you’re referring to the Palestinians,” said Edward. “Well, anything’s possible, but you’ve been tunneling money to the Palestinians for decades. Why would Israel accept your friendship, when in less than a year of introducing Project Genesis, you won’t even exist?” Edward crossed his legs and relaxed. “No gentlemen, the only way to preserve your survival is to stop Israel in its tracks. The only way to do that is war, and the only war you can win is the one I can structure for you.” More murmuring filled the room. “Are you still sure you’ll be able to orchestrate this deal without interference?” asked the ambassador.
“Support of Israel remains very popular. How can you ignore the pressure that will come from Tel Aviv?”
“Mr. Ambassador, you will have nuclear and chemical weapons, technology to fight your common enemy, Israel. When you attack, the United States will stay silent. Yes, there will be an uproar, but one I’ll control. You’re familiar with the resources already at my disposal. Soon I’ll hand pick everybody from the National Security Advisor to the Joint Chiefs and everywhere in-between.”
“You’re a Jew, Mr. Rothschild,” said Farzeen. “How does all of this make you feel?”
“Like a diamond, Mr. Dihmubidi. Very rare and very valuable.” Even Suraya winced, giving Edward pleasure.
“Mr. Rothschild,” the Ambassador cleared his throat. “Once again, we would like to offer our assistance. Your problems seem to be mounting, and although we know you to be most capable, it would give us great comfort…”
“Thank you Mr. Ambassador, but I must again decline your gracious offer. I assure you, everything is under control.”
“I’m afraid we must insist, Mr. Rothschild,” said Muhammad.
“Things have changed substantially since we last met, and we want to insure our investment in you and your son.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Edward said, his eyes narrowing.
“Exactly what has changed?”
Muhammad reached down and picked up his attache case, opened it, and handed Edward a thick brown envelope. Inside were pictures and notes. Photographs of Charlie Ivory, Robert Veil, Thorne, Marilyn, Vernon and Simon. The typed and handwritten notes covered details on each of them and summarized revelations about Edward’s involvement in the Kennedy assassination. His pulse quickened. He uncrossed his legs and looked up.
“You’ve been following me, checking into my business?”
“What did you expect?” said Farzeen. “That we’d just hand over hundreds of billions of dollars in land and oil reserves without knowing everything about you?”
Edward rifled through the file and came across several photos of President Kennedy at the moment his head exploded from Charlie’s final shot.
“It’s not our business how you handle your affairs here in the States,” Suraya continued. “Assassination is a way of life in all our countries, however, your situation is far too explosive. We want to make sure you succeed.”
Edward tossed the envelope back to Farzeen, who fumbled and dropped it on the floor. Pictures and papers splattered across the Persian rug.
“I’ll say it again. I don’t need your help.” Aziz and Suraya looked at each other, then at Edward. “We’re afraid it’s too late for refusals,” Suraya told him. “We have a team on its way to Washington. They’ll be here in forty-eight hours and they’re set to take action at our discretion.”
Edward’s head went light. A death squad.
“We’ve instructed them to eliminate this Mr. Veil fellow. The bounty hunter and his partner, who are giving you so much trouble,” added Hassan. “We need to remove all obstacles. We’ll not have anyone, including you, get in the way. Not at the price we’re paying.” Edward’s head pounded and his mouth went dry. He struggled to keep himself together, and sat back in his seat.
“Okay gentlemen, as you wish. But a death squad is extreme, and unnecessary.”
“Strange words coming from a man who had his own President killed,” said Aziz.
Edward ignored the quip. “Nevertheless, I will cooperate, although I insist on being kept abreast of any move your team makes, and I don’t want anyone killed without my knowledge.”
“Agreed,” said Suraya.
There is one other thing,” said Muhammad. “President Claymore.”
“What about him?”
“We’ve prepared our team to kill him too, if necessary. It’s a precautionary measure. We just wanted you to be prepared for the possibility.”
Edward, exasperated, didn’t let it show. For the first time, he wondered is it worth it. “I can appreciate your concern gentlemen, but I’m sure your men won’t be needed. My people are very close to shutting down Robert Veil, and President Claymore is no problem at all.
I’ll be in touch with you very soon. This predicament will be over. I give you my word.”
“
Thank you, Mr. Rothschild,” said the ambassador. “Please remember, our men will be here in two days. Not long after, we’ll turn them loose.”
They stood and bid him well. He acknowledged them with a slight bow of his head. Ali appeared at the door.
“I trust your business went well, Mr. Rothschild,” said Ali.
“Thank you, Ali, it went just fine.”
Green florescent numbers on the limo’s ceiling clock read four a.m.
Edward dialed Stuart Hall, the senator slated to chair the confirmation hearings. Senator Hall answered his private line, coughing, annoyed, and agitated. Edward didn’t care. “It’s me,” he said, through grinding teeth. “I need you to turn Fiona Patrick’s life to shit.”
25
Robert reached the estate and found things predictably intense.
“Where were you and Ms. Thorne?”
“Why did you leave the room?”
“How long were you gone?”
“When did you come back inside?”
Robert hammered back. “You’re the Secret Service. Where were you?” Thorne told them what to kiss and where to put it.
Two hours of interrogation and the questions stopped, but not without assurances of more later.
Robert checked in on Fiona. Two detectives and an FBI agent sat in the den peppering her with questions. She calmly answered each, her left hand shaking, a glass of wine in the other, in a voice tired and raspy.
When they finished, Robert took her to see Jessica who lay safe in her room sound asleep. Tired from the day, and after taking the sedative her doctor prescribed, Fiona bedded down for the night. With Fiona safe, Robert and Thorne piled in the Range Rover, pulled out past a lone television truck and headed for the first mausoleum on their list.
Parklawn Cemetery. They exited Interstate 270, made a right at Veirs Mills Road, and parked two miles from the front gate. Heavy trees and brush stacked each side of the street, the air, cold and crisp, stood still. They crept alongside the road just beyond the woods. An owl hooted a warning.
You’re not welcome here!
They reached Parklawn’s driveway. The gate locked. The fence short.
At the top of a narrow winding road, towered an impressive white marble, gold trimmed mausoleum, with two oversized bronze lions guarding the entrance. A monument, out of place deep in woods.
Robert checked their rear. The wind whipped up harder. You’re not welcome here!
“If the stuff’s in here, you can’t say Charlie didn’t have taste,” said Robert, admiring the edifice.
“He killed the President, who gives a fuck.”
“Walked into that one,” Robert mumbled under his breath.
Inside, a dim yellow mist clouded the marble cavern from low-watt lights hanging ten feet apart on the walls.
“I can barely see the names on the crypts,” said Thorne, pulling a flashlight from her jacket. “I checked these tombs before as closely as I could, but there’re so many I might’ve missed a few.” Robert shined his own light down the long corridor, keeping the beam away from the stained glass windows. “I’d say you could’ve missed a few.” The crypts, stacked six in a row, floor to ceiling, seemed to stretch a mile. “If it’s here, it’s in one of the crypts lower to the ground,” he continued. “Easy access.”
Thorne flashed her light on the wall closest to her. “I’ll buy that. I’ll take this side. Think he did us a favor and used his real name?” with an I’m disgusted shake of her head.
“He knew we were coming,” said Robert. “So it’s something we’d recognize.”
They walked to the farthest end of the row on opposite sides, and worked their way back. Robert made a mental snapshot of the rear exit, aimed his flashlight at the wall, and scanned from the top down.
Hardly naive about life’s limits, it shook Robert how many people his age or younger lay resting behind the marble. Jonathan Mason-Loving Son-1959-1994, Alicia Vickers-Daughter-Wife-Mother-1962-1999, all not much younger or older than he or Thorne.
Soon, flickers of daylight bounced through the skylights and they put the flashlights away. Robert focused hard on each name, date, and epitaph, struggling to find a puzzle-piece that fit. Two hours later, two-thirds of the way finished, Thorne pulled off one of her shoes and massaged her foot. “I’m feeling more and more like we should just walk up to Rothschild and start shooting.”
Robert opened his mouth…then heard the front door open. He felt for his gun.
“Excuse me,” a feeble voice said. “Can I help you people with something?”
A thin, grandfatherly security guard stood in the doorway, in a Marine pressed uniform, creased and polished.
Robert stepped forward, hand extended. “I’m Robert Veil, and this is my partn…friend Nikki.” Thorne’s eyebrows flinted upward. He rarely used her first name.
“Tim Billingsly,” the guard answered, a benevolent smile on his face.
“Can I offer you some assistance?”
Robert started to say no, but thought better of it. “Yes, we’re trying to find the crypt of an old family friend. It’s his birthday and we want to pay our respects. His name’s Charlie, Charlie Ivory.” Tim lowered his head in thought, took off his cap, and scratched his half-bald head. “Charlie Ivory,” he muttered. “Can’t say I remember a Charlie Ivory, but that don’t mean much. Been here twenty years. So many people come in day to day you just can’t keep up with’em.”
“Do you think they might know at the office,” asked Thorne. “I came in a few days ago, but maybe they missed it.” Tim scratched his head again. “It wouldn’t be the first time,” he said.
“I’m on my way there now, but they’ve been a little testy lately about giving out information.”
“Oh,” Robert inquired.
“Yeah, we’ve had a few breakins over the last year or so. You know, kids, vandals, homeless looking for shelter.”
“Homeless?”
“Yes sir, I’ve chased a few out myself. They don’t mean no harm though, just looking for a warm place to sleep.”
“Ever catch up to one of them?” Thorne asked, her charm and sex appeal radiating. “Ever see what they look like?” Tim’s back straightened up. “Can’t say that I have,” he said, chest out. “Not worth it to run them down, the police just let’em go. So I just chase’em away.”
Thorne stepped a little closer to Tim. “Now you be careful,” she told him, adjusting his tie. “It can get mighty dangerous out here.” Tim beamed and slapped his cap like a chivalrous cowpoke donning a Stetson. “I’ll check on the name of that fella for ya. What’d you say it was again?”
“Charlie Ivory,” said Robert.
“Got it,” said Tim, his eyes never leaving Thorne.
“Thanks sugga,” she said, with pouty lips just short of blowing a kiss.
Robert watched Tim mount a shiny blue moped, and putter off toward the cemetery office.
“You don’t play fair,” he said, grinning, shaking his finger at Thorne.
“Just thought I’d make the old fart’s day,” she said. “Maybe get him to look a little harder and save us some time.”
“You’re a tease.”
“Too bad I don’t grind white boys anymore, or you might find out how real I can be.”
“You’ve been talking that shit since elementary school,” he said, remembering their feeble attempt at a schoolyard kiss. Thorne laughed and they went back to the search.
Robert heard the mausoleum door open again. This time, multiple footsteps clopped the tiled floor. Five men, guns drawn, stopped a few feet from them. One, lean and somewhat effeminate, wearing a well-tailored seersucker suit and bow tie, seemed vaguely familiar. The others, clean cut and mean, wore all the markings of mercenaries.
Thorne stationed herself a foot behind him.
“Well, you’re obviously not here to pay respects to a loved one,” said Robert, his guns budging under his arms.
“Hello Mr. Veil,” said Simon. “Nice day to visit t
he dead.”
“Yes it is,” said Robert, his mind racing. He’d seen this man before.
“So what of it?”
“I was just curious, that’s all,” Simon continued. “Curious why anyone would come to a cemetery when there are so many more important things to do. You two have been in here for some time. We were getting worried.”
“You’re pretty concerned for a rat-looking asshole I don’t even know.”
“Now, now, Mr. Veil, no need for insults, or such language. I’m here on behalf of a mutual friend.”
“Oh,” said Robert.
“Yes. My name is…well, my name isn’t important…you don’t know me, well, there was that time we danced.” Robert remembered. Thorne moved closer.
“Sorry I had to leave so quickly that day. I didn’t get a chance to kill you then, but I’ll try not to disappointment you today. But before all that unpleasantness, why don’t you tell me where the Kennedy evidence is hidden. And please, while you’re talking, you and Ms. Thorne slide your weapons across the floor.”
Two of the men circled around behind them. Thorne stepped backward to keep them in sight. Robert locked in on Simon. They both removed their guns, and slid them across the floor.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Robert. “Even if I did, why the hell would I tell you?”
Simon clapped his hands sarcastically. “Very good, Mr. Veil, very good indeed. Tough and testosterone filled, but I’m afraid it won’t be enough. You see, normally I wouldn’t care about you, Kennedy, or anybody else, well, there is that little blond-haired surfer in Newport Beach, but I digress. It’s just that, well, I’m being paid a king’s treasury to find those items our dear departed Mr. Ivory gave to you, and for that I’d screw and kill my mother.” He smiled. “I did by the way.” Robert raised an eyebrow.
“Screw and kill my mother. Now please, tell me where I can find Charlie Ivory’s collectibles.” He waved towards his men. “Put your guns away, we need them alive. At the moment.”
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