Earlier, Vernon told Edward he wanted to discuss an urgent matter when the others left. He didn’t give it another thought. “So, what’s so important you’re not rushing right over to that Brazilian mistress you keep hidden on the westside,” Edward quipped slyly.
Vernon pursed his lips. “Your old friend Charlie Ivory has been acting strange. So it looks like getting your son elected President is the least of your worries.”
Edward felt a twinge, but remained steady. “I thought he was nearly dead. He’s been on the streets for four decades, and my sources tell me he has tuberculosis. What possible threat could he be? What could he gain at this point?”
“He still has the evidence,” said Vernon. “If you recall, it’s the only reason he’s still alive.”
“He’s had it forever, and never so much as blinked our way. What makes us so special now?”
“It’s not what he’s done Edward, it’s who he’s met with. A former Company man. Robert Veil’s his name, and this guy worries me.”
“And who is Robert Veil?”
Vernon picked up his cigar, puffed, and leaned back against the chair.
“He was a field commander, first with the Marines, then in black ops with the CIA.” Vernon shook his head with a look of admiration. “I bet the boys would sure like to have him on the team again now that we’re back in the black bag covert business. Now he’s a hired gun, connected, and very good at what he does.”
Edward smirked. “ I’m glad you’re impressed. What’s the problem?
Kill him.”
Vernon leaned forward again, eyes somber. “If Charlie’s told him our little secret and we miss this guy, it’ll confirm whatever he’s been told. Veil will know it was us.”
Edward stood. He suppressed his emotions, but the news shook him.
“If this Robert Veil is the man you think he is, then he may already know it’s us.” He stroked his chin. “Put somebody good on it, and I mean deadly. I don’t want my family fucked out of five generations of progress by a homeless nobody and a second rate bounty hunter.”
“Oh, I’m afraid he’s more than second rate. Much more.” Vernon opened a dark green attache case and removed a large brown envelope.
He handed it to Edward.
“I put together a file detailing this guy. The Justice Department has him on contract at this very moment. He’s helping track down that serial killer, the one who’s been killing judges. Vernon finished his wine, put out his cigar, and stood. “President Kennedy’s ghost just won’t die, will it?”
Edward looked at the envelope, forced a smile, then gathered his Fedora and black cashmere from the coat rack. “No, seems he won’t,” he said. “Keep me informed.”
“We can’t kill him right away,” added Vernon. “We need the evidence first. If Charlie’s talking maybe he’ll bring it out in the open or lead us to it.”
“Where’s Charlie now?” Edward asked, his calm facade intact.
Vernon lowered his gaze. “We lost him. Veil and his partner left their office and we searched the entire building. He disappeared.” Edward felt alarm, but held it together. “Vernon, wrap this up quickly. I want my son to announce his Presidential bid as soon as possible. I don’t want this hanging in the air.” Edward abruptly left the room and bounded down the winding marble stairs. His chauffeur, Lawrence, a stocky, well-built Englishman, barely made it around to open the door.
Inside, Edward poured himself a glass of B amp;B. “Take the long route home,” he ordered.
“Yes, Mr. Rothschild. Will we be making any other stops?”
“No. Just take your time.”
Edward raised the partition and downed the sixty-year-old liqueur in one gulp. His heart pounded as though he were a burglar about to be discovered. Charlie lurked like a phantom from his past. A haunting figure-a nightmare. Vernon and his men watched Charlie for years.
Edward even hired his own teams from time to time, to make sure Charlie stayed buried on the streets. Over the years, he let his guard down, convinced the assassin’s self-imposed life sentence wore away any possibility of resolve.
The black Lincoln glided onto Pennsylvania Avenue an hour before sunrise. They passed the White House and Edward rolled down his window. Numbing, freezing air rushed in. He stared at the white marble. He needed Charleston to assume the Presidency. His plans depended on it. His nostrils flared. The Presidential residence disappeared. Edward raised the window and leaned back. His grip tightened around the crystal glass, crushing it. Blood seeped from his rigid fist and he dropped the pieces on the floor. He grabbed a white towel from the bar, wrapped it around his hand, then relaxed against the seat and closed his eyes.
His father and grandfather, members of Wall Street’s elite, commanded holdings in the railroads, banking and finance, and military equipment. Edward joined the company after finishing graduate school at Cambridge.
John F. Kennedy assumed the Presidency. Not exactly a banner day for the Rothschilds. Most of their political contributions and influence went to Richard Nixon, his father’s favorite. The loss hurt, but they recovered just in time to ride the military bandwagon to Vietnam, where they stood to make billions from government contracts. Relationships long nurtured by his grandfather when the CIA was called the Office of Strategic Services, the OSS, kept them square in the old boy network.
Then the President decided to pull out of the war before it really got started. The old boys protested, and Kennedy promised to break the CIA into pieces. The threat spawned whispers, and ultimately ended his life.
It wasn’t difficult. Edward’s grandfather recruited him to manage a large portion of the details, to be a project manager of sorts. A word here, a suggestion there, and the pieces slid into place. The Kennedy clan counted many friends, but more enemies. Robert Kennedy, the President’s brother and U.S. Attorney General, angered mob boss Sam Giancana. Add to the mix a group of pissed off Cuban rebels, still stinging from a failed Bay of Pigs invasion, and it didn’t take much to get the ball rolling.
Twenty assassins were considered; two were hired. Lee Harvey Oswald got the nod as patsy, with a team of Cuban guerrillas led by a CIA field officer, actually doing the shooting from the sixth floor of the book depository.
Vernon, a young pup on the intelligence fast track, introduced Edward to Charlie Ivory, a wet boy, who killed at the behest of the CIA.
At the time, Charlie worked as a freelancer, a hired gun. His reputation as one of the world’s best impressed the Rothschilds. A no miss killer with no allegiances, no family, no friends. Edward considered it one million dollars well spent.
With the time and place chosen, a plan agreed upon, they combed through the final details and set everything in motion.
Then, against Edward’s advice, the old boys, his father and grandfather included, decided not to take any chances, and gave orders for Charlie to take the fall with Oswald. They missed. Charlie got away, disappearing with crucial pieces of evidence.
The assassin surfaced, empty-handed, and despite their best efforts, they were unable to find the pictures, documents, bullet fragments, and other items Charlie had in his possession. Information that could link them all to the assassination.
Edward smelled a payoff. It didn’t come. Charlie said he wanted to be left alone. That as long as they kept their distance, the evidence wouldn’t surface. Insincere assurances were given. Edward ordered an around the clock tail on him-to no avail. They watched and waited.
Charlie didn’t so much as cough their way. Until now.
Twenty miles from his estate, Edward opened his eyes. He stretched and picked up the large brown envelope Vernon gave him. Reading it increased his anxiety. I can’t leave this to Vernon to handle alone. If things go wrong, everything will come tumbling down.
He slid the wooden panel on the car door aside and pulled out a hidden satellite phone. An accessory Vernon suggested. He dialed, examining his blue blood soaked hand. I’m not about to let a dead President sully what I
’ve worked so hard to build.
The phone clicked several times, routing the call through Paris, Johannesburg, or some other part of the world, then rang. Someone on the other end picked up.
“Hello, this is Edward,” he said. “I have a problem.”
5
Daybreak crested the fringe of Washington’s skyline and hung on the horizon like a luminous vapor. Charlie stooped low in the brush and waited. Another fifteen minutes and Tim Billingsly, the cemetery’s nightshift guard, would finish his rounds and not return for an hour. It would give him just enough time.
Tim disappeared down an endless black road. Charlie picked up his baggage and trotted toward the mausoleum. The icy wind made his bones ache, his knees creak.
Except for three small wooden pews, the mausoleum lay empty.
Charlie crept across the white marble floor as though he might wake the dead. Names on the crypts read like a guest list of old friends he’d come to know well. Martha Parker 1933-1986, Loving Mother; Percy Wintergreen 1913-1991, Husband and Father. So many lives, so many secrets. He wondered who would mourn for him. First, unfinished business.
Each wall of the monument held row upon row of tombs, stacked six high and numbered at the bottom for easy identification. Dim sunlight swelled through the skylights providing just enough illumination for him to find his way. He stopped at row 61D-66D.
Charlie put the duffle bag and blanket wrapped rifle on the floor next to crypt 61D, pulled a pair of pliers and a screwdriver from his urine stained overcoat, and loosened four screws that held the tomb’s marble panel in place. A decorative brass ball no bigger than a marble covered each bolt. Careful not to damage them, he removed each one and pulled a long steel rod from each corner of the slab.
The marble square came easily loose and he gently lowered it to the floor, exposing a dark wooden casket with tarnished gold fittings. He pulled it out halfway and leaned it down to the floor.
An uncontrollable ache hit his lungs. Charlie coughed violently, covering his mouth with a blood-soaked handkerchief. He clutched his chest and hacked, careful not to stain the floor. A rancid odor filled the air. His chest rattled, his eyes watered. He leaned on one of the tombs for balance. It took a few moments for him to regain his strength. Death whispered. Come. “Not today,” Charlie answered, and quickly went back to work.
Charlie opened the casket, put the duffle bag and rifle inside, locked it, then quickly slid it back into place. The last bolt fastened the slab tight. The door cracked open. Tim.
A thousand needles pierced Charlie’s lungs and he struggled to suppress the bloody burst. Tim turned down his row, Charlie dipped down the next, and headed for the back door.
“Hey you! Stop!”
Charlie hit the door holding his chest, blood running from his nose.
He disappeared into the brush on the south side of the cemetery, just behind the mausoleum.
He struggled over a short metal fence and vanished down a path he’d traveled for four decades. Charlie looked back. Nothing. He fell to his knees and coughed so hard he almost passed out in the grass. Tears filled his eyes. He shut them tight, and saw President Kennedy’s head explode, over and over.
The attack passed. He went on his way. The evidence safe once again.
6
Robert and Thorne searched their building and the immediate area around it. Nothing. They fanned out separately covering a half-mile radius, but Charlie was a ghost. Robert grabbed a couple of winks on the couch in his office then headed for Skid Row and the homeless area across town. Thorne opted to look for the Bear.
By noon, most of Washington shook off the Monday morning blues and charged full steam into another week of the important and unimportant. Only a trace of the previous night’s cold remained, and a clear cloudless sky teased the first hint of spring.
Robert’s shark gray Mustang muscled in and out of the traffic. At Constitution Avenue he waited for ten minutes as two busloads of British children crossed the street to the Capitol Building, cameras flashing, fingers pointing. Ten minutes later, the pristine buildings, Hugo Boss suits, leather briefcases, and Rolex watches, disappeared; giving way to the bastard child half of the city’s strange dichotomy.
Homeless men, women, and children lined the streets less than a few miles from the White House. Robert pulled past the aftermath of failed lives and empty promises, unconcerned. Sad, but not my problem .
He parked in a narrow alley between two dingy brick buildings and negotiated with six grime-covered, half toothless men eager to insure his car’s safety. Minutes later, he methodically navigated through an endless maze of cardboard condos and rusted-out shopping carts, carefully searching each weathered face, describing Charlie to anyone lucid enough to understand.
“Help me get something to eat?”
“Brother, can you spare a quarter?”
“Mister, I’m hungry and can’t find my mommy.”
“My wallet was stolen and I need carfare to get home.”
“I ain’t gonna lie. I need some money for beer. Will you help?” Panhandlers, drug addicts, the mentally ill. Some slept under staircases, between garbage dumpsters, and in open fields, their bodies wrapped in large sheets of plastic or copies of the Washington Post.
Soup and bread lines stretched for blocks, like concert-goers waiting for tickets to see Springsteen or Madonna. Kids “dumpster dived” for food or things they could trade, and an elderly black man in dark glasses played a plastic flute for spare change.
“No, I ain’t never seen nobody like that,” a bag lady stammered, swigging beer from a can in a brown paper sack. “If ya gots a few dollars I’ll be careful to watch out tho.” Robert smiled, declined her offer, and moved through a small park in the middle of the area. Crowded with destitute men, prostitutes, johns, drug dealers, addicts, and a few neglected children, used needles and crack vials peppered the grass like common pieces of trash, picked up, examined, and reused at random. Urine and decay fermented the air.
Sirens competed for attention with rap music pounding from a boom box.
At picnic tables, some played chess and dominos, while onlookers drank wine, stared blankly into space, or just talked to themselves.
Ninety minutes later, Robert got the feeling even if they did know, no one here would tell him where to find Charlie. An outsider, he could expect little more than silence. He finished up in the park and headed back for his car.
“Hey you, Mister,” a cement mixer voice shouted.
A haggard man in a wheelchair waved to him from a half a block away, rolling in his direction. Legless from the knees down, his clothing looked so worn, it was not readily obvious he wore Marine dress blues.
Three tarnished medals dangled from his chest.
“Popeye Michaels at your service,” he said, pushing long salt-and-pepper hair out of his eyes. “People around here call me Popeye.” Robert introduced himself and shook Popeye’s hand. He recognized one of the ornaments clinging to the old vet’s chest. The Congressional Medal of Honor.
Popeye wrapped his hair in a ponytail, securing it with a rubber band.
“I understand you’re looking for someone, and thought I could be of help.”
“Can you?” asked Robert.
“That depends on who you are,” answered Popeye. “Folks around here ain’t big on strangers, especially ones carrying that kind of heat.” He pointed to the bulges under Robert’s arms. “Looks like nine’s from here.”
Robert smiled and knelt down. The stench of cheap gin on Popeye was strong, but better than most of what he’d smelled that day.
“Yes, they’re nines,” said Robert. “Look, Charlie’s a friend, and I need to speak to him. It’s urgent.”
Popeye flashed a mouthful of deep yellow teeth and black cavities.
“Everything’s urgent around here, Mr. Veil,” he said. “And I’m sorry, but Charlie ain’t got no friends.”
He spun the chair around and rolled away, forcing several cursing peop
le off the sidewalk.
Robert caught up and jumped in his path.
“You idiot,” Popeye snapped. “You could’ve killed me.” Robert took a deep breath. “Listen, Charlie came to my office last night looking for help, then disappeared. No, we’re not friends, but it’s very important that I see him right away.” Popeye’s eyes narrowed into slits. He leaned his head to one side.
“Okay,” he said, after a long minute. “Follow me into my office.” He wheeled up the street, whirled into an alley, and stopped. “Exactly what do you want with ole Charlie?”
Exasperated, Robert bit his tongue. “Like I said, he came to me with a problem, then disappeared.”
“What kind of problem?”
“I can’t say. It’s confidential.”
“Good,” said Popeye, a smile on his face. “I like that. You sure you’re not a cop?”
“No, I’m not,” said Robert. “Let’s just say I’m a freelancer.” Popeye sucked air through one of his cavities then took a deep breath.
“I don’t exactly know where he is,” he said. “Charlie’s always moving around, coming and going. And around here, everybody minds their own business.”
Robert pulled out his wallet, a business card and two twenty’s, and handed them to Popeye.
“I know you probably don’t like charity,” said Robert.
“Whatever gave you that impression?” answered Popeye, snatching the money from his hand.
Robert laughed. “If you hear or see anything, hit a pay phone and call me.”
Popeye pocketed the card and money. “I never said I didn’t have any info for you. I just said I didn’t know where Charlie was right now.” Robert raised an eyebrow.
“Go over to the Crossroads Rescue Mission on R Street NW. Ask for Patrick Miller. He’ll be able to help you. Meanwhile I will keep an eye out.”
Robert jumped out of the way as Popeye hurled out of the alley. He called out to the crippled vet, who turned his chair.
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