Veil v-1

by Reginald Cook

  They reached the guard, who checked his clipboard, peeked inside the car, and asked for their identification. Once identified, they pulled through the gate to another barrier, where a series of lasers and cameras scanned the car for explosives or weapons. They passed muster and continued to the side entrance, where Sarah Ellison, White House aide, waited at the curb.

  “Good morning Mr. Rothschild,” said Sarah, bright and cheery. “The President is looking forward to your meeting this morning.”

  “Wonderful,” Edward answered, amused. “Will anyone be joining us?”

  “Not this morning sir. The President wants to give you his undivided attention.”

  Odd, Edward thought. They passed through another checkpoint inside and continued on to the Oval Office. President Claymore never meets with me without a witness. Why the sudden change?

  He and Sarah marched in unison along the rich, deeply cushioned, blue carpet, passing portraits of former Presidents; Washington, Lincoln, Jefferson. Sarah headed for the Oval Office on automatic pilot.

  Edward’s sense of unease increased. The President never met with him alone, and never in the Oval Office, a level of respect Claymore denied him. They always met in one of the small conference rooms, an eight-year routine that never once changed.

  “Good morning Mr. Rothschild,” said Alice Thurman, the President’s secretary.

  “Good morning Alice. It’s so nice to see your lovely face,” he responded, kissing her extended hand. “I trust the President is in a good mood today.”

  “It always starts out that way,” she said, with a playful smirk.

  President Claymore’s staff, one of the most impressive in several administrations, touted Alice as its crowning glory. Not one to trust important positions to black people, a habit he’d picked up from his grandfather, Edward agreed. Smart, loyal, with the bite of a junkyard dog, Alice’s exploits stamped Washington folklore. She fiercely guarded his privacy, and turned down a million dollars from a tabloid to dish the dirt.

  “Mr. President, Mr. Rothschild is here for your nine o’clock,” Alice said into the phone. “Yes sir, I’ll send him in right away.” She nodded at two burly, stoic Secret Service agents who stepped aside as she pushed past.

  Sarah said something about escorting him back when he finished, but his mind shifted away from small talk to the President and the task at hand.

  Inside the Oval Office, President Claymore sat conferring with several men whom Edward recognized as Secret Service brass, and didn’t immediately acknowledge his presence. Alice motioned for Edward to remain quiet. Seconds later, the President wrapped up and sent the agents on their way.

  “Good morning Edward,” said President Claymore, stepping around his desk. The six-foot-two Commander in Chief extended his hand as though he and Edward were old friends, then nodded to Alice and Sarah, who left the room.

  Edward searched Claymore’s face for clues, smiled, and told him how well he looked. The President gripped his hand with an unusual forcefulness. Edward mustered his strength to match it.

  “I’m feeling great these days,” said the President. “I apologize for not rising when you entered. There’s a reception tonight for Judge Fiona Patrick, my Supreme Court nominee. I was finishing a security update on her when you entered.”

  “No apologies necessary, Mr. President. I’ll be attending the reception myself. Judge Patrick is an extraordinary jurist. I’m sure she’ll sail right through.”

  “From your mouth to God’s ears,” the President said, laughing. “It’s the last major appointment before I leave office. My job’s almost done and I’m looking forward to fly fishing and time with my grandchildren.” He motioned for Edward to take a seat on one of the small couches in the middle of the office and sat across from him. “My wife’s had enough of politics,” he continued. “Now it’s her time.” They continued their customary small talk for two or three minutes, feigning concern for the minutia of each other’s lives.

  “So tell me Edward. What can I do for you this morning?” The President rested back in the couch, a smile barely discernable on his face.

  “Well, as you know, Mr. President, my son is making a bid for the White House.”

  “Ah yes, young Charleston. Sure, I’m fully aware. I understand he’s doing quite well in preliminary polls. Congratulations. Seems like you might finally get control of this office after all.” So, he does have something on his mind. “Whatever do you mean, Mr. President? I’ve never had anything but respect for this office, and admiration for those who’ve held it.”

  President Claymore sat up and stared him in the eye. “Let’s not kid each other Edward. You only admire the things you can own or control.

  That’s certainly not a state secret.”

  Edward leisurely crossed his legs. Others might treat you like royalty, but you’re more like trailer trash to me. “We’re both cut from the same cloth, Mr. President. You didn’t come to this office thinking otherwise. Or have you forgotten your roots?” The President’s eyes danced. “I haven’t forgotten, but that was a long time ago, a different place and time. You come to see things differently from this office, a lot differently.”

  “I understand, Mr. President. It’s just funny how men never come to that realization until they’re sitting in this office. Before getting here, they only want to know how to win.”

  “Even so, I’ve always put the country first,” said the President, leaning back. “Way ahead of any personal gain.” True, you boy scout. You’ve been more trouble than you’re worth.

  “You’ve accomplished many noble things Mr. President. However, none of us can forget our place in the order of things. That mistake has been tragic for many a man in your seat.” President Claymore looked visibly dismayed. “And exactly where do you fall in the order of things Edward?”

  “At the top of the food chain, Mr. President. The very top.”

  “Some say this office is the top.”

  “They’re wrong, Mr. President,” said Edward, with the arrogance of Napoleon. “You know that as well as I do, sir.” Afraid he’d pushed the envelope too far Edward decided to move the conversation in another direction.

  “Mr. President, I didn’t come here to spar with you this morning.”

  “Why are you here Edward? My Presidency’s a lame duck. You can’t hope to squeeze out more blood. Or can you?”

  “One can never have too many friends when running for this office, sir, which brings me to the reason for my visit. I’d consider it a great favor and would be eternally in your debt, if you would come out in support of my son for the Presidency. I’ll let bygones be bygones.” The President shook his head. “Even if I didn’t consider you the devil’s gift to man, you know that’s not possible. The Vice President is a good man, and a good friend, not to mention my allegiance to the Democratic Party. It’d be suicide.”

  Edward wanted to laugh and remind him there were no such things as Democrats and Republicans, but bit his tongue. “Which is why it would mean even more and have a tremendous impact, Mr. President. Breaking rank would signal to the American people a real change in Washington.

  Trust me, I’ve made the rounds on the Hill. You won’t be alone.”

  “It would also mean I’ve lost my political mind.”

  “Yes, there will be a few initial tremors,” said Edward, “but they’d pass. In the end you’ll walk away with a legacy of political genius, a maverick ahead of his time.”

  President Claymore cleared his throat. “I’ve seen a lot in this office Edward. Seen a lot, and dealt with a lot, including, wars, economic catastrophes, death. I’ve taken it all in stride; it comes with the territory.

  I have sorrows, but only one regret. Catering to men like you.” President Claymore walked to his desk, pulled a large red file from his top drawer and sat back down. The file looked familiar. A dossier.

  It meant the President had a card to play. A move Edward expected.

  “Scare tactics are beneath you, M
r. President. There’s nothing you can say about me or my family I don’t already know.” President Claymore ignored Edward’s comment and opened the folder. “I knew this day would come Edward. The day you’d walk through those doors and I’d have to use this file.” Edward sat silent, wondering what the file contained.

  “At first I couldn’t figure out why a man like you would want an office like this,” the President continued, slipping on his reading glasses.

  “So I looked into your activities. Looked very closely.”

  “You wouldn’t be the first,” said Edward.

  “I know your little secret,” said the President, looking up from the folder.

  Edward, annoyed, his patience thin, fought to keep control.

  “Oil,” the President continued.

  Edward’s blood pressure rose. His face reddened.

  “You want control of this office so you can deal with our friends, or should I say, your friends, in the Middle East. At least that’s what I gather from these reports.”

  Edward’s head pounded. Stay cool. Just play it cool.

  “Access to our most sensitive nuclear, chemical, and defense technology,” the President continued, “including weapons, manpower, and who knows what else, for almost six hundred acres of oil rich territory in the Middle East.” The President closed the folder. “My God, Edward, have you given any thought to what this would do to the world?

  It would destroy our foreign relationships with every ally from Israel to Britain.”

  “My compliments, Mr. President, but I’ve done nothing wrong. I don’t know where your information comes from, but your report is inaccurate. I’ve never discussed trading or selling secrets to anybody.

  That would be treason.”

  “Not if you controlled policy from this office,” said the President. “A Cabinet of your choosing. Greased palms on the Hill and in the Senate.

  You’d have the run of the castle.”

  Edward smiled. “Like I said, I have no such intentions, and by the way, discussing oil isn’t illegal Mr. President.”

  “No, it’s not. Then again, we’re not just talking oil, are we? No westerner has ever owned oil-producing property outright in the Middle East, have they? You’d be the first. What’s that worth? Ten, twenty billion a year? A hundred? Not to mention the stranglehold you’d have over more than a few nations. Japan? Germany?” Edward girded himself. “If a man did acquire that kind of reach, Mr.

  President, how do you think he’d treat his friends, and his enemies?” The President took a deep breath and looked out into the rose garden.

  “I’ve learned to be content with what I have.” He looked back at Edward. “And at this point in my life, I don’t worry about my enemies.”

  “Some would call that foolish,” said Edward.

  “Some would call you crazy,” answered the President.

  “If you believe the things you’re saying,” said Edward, “then why haven’t you done something about it?”

  “You’re right. This is all unconfirmed.” The President tossed the folder on the table in front of them. “Or you’d already be in jail. Or worse.”

  “Please don’t threaten me, Mr. President.”

  “Oh, you’re not the man to threaten, Mr. Rothschild. I’ll grant you that.” The President crossed his legs. “But I guess your good friend Charlie Ivory found that out, didn’t he?” Edward’s breath shortened, his heartbeat quickened. The President sat silent, as though watching the noose tighten.

  “I’m not familiar with the gentleman,” Edward lied. “Should I be?”

  “Where were you November 22, 1963?” asked the President.

  “At the top of the food chain,” replied Edward, his confidence a bluff.

  The President stood, towering over Edward. “I can’t prove it, you bastard, but I wanted you to know. I know who you are. I know what you’ve done. You’re an evil, despicable man, Edward Rothschild. Now get out of this office. And I hope hell has a special place just for you.” The President stomped over to his desk and pushed a buzzer. Edward sat frozen. He wanted to say something, to fire back, but the words choked up in his throat. He finally stood. The Oval Office door opened.

  He barely made eye contact with Alice. His head spinning, dizzy, he fought the urge to throw up.

  “Oh, and Edward,” said the President, not looking up from his desk.

  “Tell young Charleston I wish him all the best. He’s going to need it.” Edward didn’t answer. He wandered into the hallway, feeling Alice’s glare on the back of his neck. Sarah came bounding down the hallway, all smiles and talking fast, but he couldn’t make out a word.

  Familiar aides and staffers greeted him, their words hollow in his ears. He went through the motions, shaking hands, slapping backs, and accepting encouragement for Charleston’s Presidential effort.

  He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face. The President knew about his overseas plans. More importantly, he knew about Charlie Ivory. Who else knows? Why didn’t Vernon know about this? What the hell am I going to do?

  Edward slid inside his limo. Sarah’s goodbye echoed in a cave. The door closed. His hands trembled. Edward bit his lip. Think, dammit, think. He grabbed a bottle and poured a generous brandy. What the fuck am I going to do?

  15

  Edward’s chauffeur, on his instructions, drove around the Beltway, biding time. An hour and three brandies later, anxiety subsided, his trembling hands relaxed.

  President Claymore’s dossier outlined his two biggest secrets.

  Charlie Ivory, dead, he could handle. The Middle East oil opened another matter.

  Suraya Khomeini, arms dealer from Iran, sent him an invitation five years earlier inviting him to a private reception at the United Nations.

  Edward eventually agreed to attend, and the large, imposing Iranian told him a pulsating, enriching tale.

  Israeli researchers perfected the ground breaking science, molecular nanotechnology, and stood a few short steps from being able to manufacture inexpensive oil, without exploration, drilling or refining.

  The technology provided the breakdown of structured matter, allowing the manipulation of molecular codes, and the production of natural resources the way a tree produced leaves. Israeli oil, for pennies on the dollar, would dominate the global market, and neuter every other country in the region. Israel named it Project Genesis, a new beginning.

  Suraya estimated Genesis would be up and running in less than seven years, and asked Edward for help. He named his price. Prime oil land ownership for life. Six months later, Suraya sent word. It’s a go.

  Edward set up control of the White House. Suraya and his associates planned Saddam Hussein’s downfall. The President of the United States, (Charleston, if Edward succeeded) with strong support from the Senate and Congress, would step in to “help a wounded nation” by providing weapons, military advisors, and humanitarian support. Suraya and his partners would enjoy access to cutting-edge military technology and weapons, including an advanced nuclear program. A unified Muslim front backed up by nuclear weapons, would aggressively attack Israel.

  Edward’s part of the deal would be done. World War III could begin.

  Edward ordered his driver back into D.C. proper, called Marilyn, Vernon, and Simon, and ordered them to the club right away. He’d light a fire and get them to find the evidence. He’d be clean. Then it wouldn’t matter what President Claymore knew.

  Edward stomped the foyer’s marble floor like a bull. Patra, the club hostess, greeted him. “Your guests are waiting in private dining room number three.”

  He gave a gruff thank you and continued through the lobby. The club’s old-fashioned elevator, complete with sliding gate and red paisley couch, inched to the third floor. Edward played the situation over in his head. The elevator stopped, he flung open the gate, took a few steps, then paused in front of an antique mirror.

  A Rothschild stared back at him, bold, strong, in control. Nobody’s gonna fuck
this up! Nobody!

  Marilyn, Simon, and Vernon, seated at the far end of the room, looked puzzled. Edward tossed his coat on a small couch behind Marilyn.

  “I was in the middle of an important briefing at the Pentagon,” hissed Vernon. “Don’t you think this is a little dangerous?” Edward, hands on his hips, glared at them. “Have you confirmed Charlie’s death?”

  “Yes,” said Marilyn, “I saw to it myself. Two hits, one in the stomach, one in the chest. I used a. 30 caliber long-range rifle with armor piercing rounds. He’s gone.”

  “What about the body?” asked Vernon.

  “I don’t know what they did with it. I checked the emergency dispatch logs. There were no calls from Veil’s apartment. No cell phones either. They must’ve disposed of the body or hid it somewhere.

  It doesn’t matter.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” said Simon, sneering.

  “No it doesn’t,” she said, cool and matter of fact. “A bullet riddled body would raise questions Veil couldn’t answer, especially after Patrick Miller’s death. He did us a favor.”

  “I agree,” said Edward. “Which brings me to my next question.” Marilyn looked down at the table nervously and cleared her throat.

  “There’s one problem.”

  They all waited.

  “It seems Mr. Veil and Thorne videotaped Charlie. I watched them for about thirty minutes waiting for a clear shot. They asked questions and he talked. By the time I fired they were finished.”

  “I’ll have their places searched. Maybe we can squash it right away,” said Vernon.

  “Tiss, tiss,” said Simon. “Are you sure you couldn’t have killed Charlie before they finished the tape? I mean, you heard what they were discussing.”

  Marilyn’s face contorted. Simon chuckled.

  “Enough,” snapped Edward. “What about the evidence? If we get the evidence, the tape won’t matter.”

  “We can track down the evidence,” said Vernon. “At this point Veil is the only one who can lead us to it, so for now, he’ll have to stay alive.

  Simon can trail them, and call in if he sees something. I’ll have a team ready to go at a moments notice.”