Veil v-1

by Reginald Cook

  Fiona sat up and wiped her eyes. “You must think I’m a wimp,” she said. “Not exactly as tough as my billing.”

  “Not at all. Anyone would have a hard time in this situation, and none of us are as good as our press.”

  “Except you.”

  Robert cracked a smile. “Even I have my moments.” He fixed on her ocean blues, drawn by her vulnerable charm.

  “I really appreciate everything you’re doing for us,” she said.

  Before he could respond, she leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you.”

  Her eyes and lips invited him to kiss her. His body flinched forward.

  He pulled back.

  “I better help Thorne check the grounds,” he said, standing.

  “Yes,” said Fiona. “And I better get ready for tonight.” He helped her up and headed for the door.

  “Robert,” she called.

  He turned, wanting to go back. To hold her tight and kiss her hard.

  “Again, thank you.”

  He smiled and left the room.

  17

  Andre lingered in the woods behind a plain two-story house, and waited.

  He checked his watch. Four o’clock. He’ll be here soon. He opened the briefcase leaning against his leg. Two hundred thousand dollars in crisp counterfeit bills stared back. He closed the case and lit a cigarette.

  Two Winstons later, a black Ford Crown Victoria parked in the driveway, and the driver ran inside. Andre put the third smoke back in the pack, checked the area for nosey neighbors, and quickly strode to the back door. Two knocks and the door snatched open. “You’re late comrade.”

  “It couldn’t be helped. Come inside.”

  Inside, the house looked less impressive than outside.

  “You should move up in the world comrade. You’ve certainly earned enough.”

  “In due time. Extravagance draws attention I don’t need.” Andre understood, and admired the host’s restraint. “Here’s the money.” He tossed the briefcase and made himself a drink. “Count it if you like.”

  “No need. I trust you,” his host said. “And here’s the information you requested.”

  He handed Andre a thick folder. The Russian tucked it under his arm and drained his glass.

  “Aren’t you going to check it?”

  “I trust you too comrade,” said Andre, smiling. “Without trust, what do we have?” They laughed. He hugged his host and left. Back in the woods, he lit another Winston, and hummed a Russian tune.

  18

  Reporters, onlookers, and the naturally nosy, all vying for pictures, autographs and stories, packed the lobby, waiting areas, and lounges of the Ritz Carlton Hotel. The capitol city’s powerful and elite, polished up in after-five attire, waltzed about shaking hands and talking to the press.

  Robert and Thorne blended in nicely, an attractive couple, striking and exquisite. He in a midnight black Hugo Boss tuxedo, a Christmas gift from his mother, and a sleek black and gold Versace draped Thorne’s statuesque frame like a runway model. They glided through the impressive crowd on opposite sides of the lobby, subtly looking for anything suspicious or out of place.

  Robert hated large crowds. Unpredictable, any crazed, motivated fool could slip through unnoticed, despite the tightest security. Often, the problem saw you before you identified them. Robert remembered a peace rally in Israel they both were assigned to, where Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin, surrounded by some of the world’s preeminent security agents, was gunned down by Yigal Amir, a young right-wing extremist yielding a 9mm Beretta. Thorne, alone on assignment in Mexico, watched presidential nominee, Luis Colosio meet the same fate in Tijuana at a political rally in 94, by a motivated maniac who managed to work his way up-close in a crowd.

  Robert spotted Secret Service agents scattered liberally throughout the Ritz, visibly scanning the crowd. Well-attired undercover agents, coupled up in man/woman teams, mingled inconspicuously with the reception attendees. Robert remembered the drill. Agents were given false identities for cover, complete with phony family information, jobs that didn’t exist, and political allegiances they didn’t necessarily hold.

  Anyone exposing negative chatter about the President or U.S. government received special attention. Sometimes the agents were directed to start negative chatter without provocation, fishing for a potential threat. If a real hazard surfaced, they were quickly, quietly, whisked out to a waiting car and driven far away. If they were lucky, they’d only be detained for a week or two, and even after their release, they remained on a list the agency tracked around the clock.

  Thorne caught his attention with her eyes, and flashed a so far, so good nod and smile. He acknowledged her with a slight tilt of his head and kept moving, working the room like a pro, not lingering in one place too long, not offending anyone with his exit, gracious, while examining faces, cataloging names.

  Robert escaped the chatter of a well-to-do couple from Wisconsin: he, stout, red-faced, with a bulbous head, and she, over-adorned with jewelry and make-up, and eventually reached the ballroom doors. Two Secret Service killer mutant penguins, standing sentry, ran digital magnetic recorders over him, and the encoded identification card issued by the Justice Department.

  Inside the spacious, elegant main ballroom, the creme de la creme of Washington talked, planned, bragged, and schemed. Robert gazed at the ceiling, and marveled at the miniature recreation of Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel, the only one like it in the States. With the ease of a dolphin, he floated about the room, picking up bits and pieces of sensitive chatter.

  “I’ve been told that AquaPlatinum will split this week,” someone said.

  “We’ve got Senator Bradley in the bag. He’ll push the Gun Control Bill right through,” said another. “To hell with the NRA.” Still another bent the ear of a sympathetic comrade in riches with the equivalent of, “you just can’t find good help these days.” At the dais, Fiona chatted with a colleague. Robert moved to a spot just beyond her line of sight. Striking and chic in her long charcoal evening gown, she flaunted a beautiful but understated quality, sophisticated, but down to earth. He tried not to stare, but she’s got me.

  They almost kissed in her den, but he thought better of it. Now he watched her charm dazzle the room, and hoped the opportunity came again.

  Guests filed into the ballroom and Robert gave them the once over.

  Fiona’s eyes caught his. He smiled. She answered with a wink, then turned her attention to the next supporter jockeying for her attention.

  “Things seem to be under control,” said Thorne, gliding up to his side. She scanned Robert’s face, traced a beeline to Fiona, and smiled.

  “I knew it,” she said. “You looked a little too calm and collected back at the house, after you finished consoling her.”

  “Don’t worry. Nothing happened. I’ve got it all under control.”

  “Tell that to the little man in your pants.” Robert smiled. “Little?”

  Thorne laughed and went to her table on the far side of the ballroom.

  The schedule, seared into Robert’s memory, said President Claymore would arrive thirty minutes after everyone sat down. However, he knew the Secret Service actually never allowed the President to show up at a published time, and never announced which entrance he’d use. Not even the President knew the decision until the very last minute.

  In the corner of his eye, Robert caught a glimpse, a flash, of a familiar face. Someone watching, staring. Robert turned. The old man smiled.

  Edward Rothschild.

  19

  Andre meticulously studied the facts and photographs his connection supplied for the two hundred thousand. The well-paid contact, a leftover from his days in the KGB, came through as he had from the beginning, providing intimate details of each judge’s life, and information regarding security and security personnel.

  “Excuse me, waiter, can you please make sure I get the vegetarian meal? I called ahead.”

  “Not a problem. I’
ll see to it straight away, as soon as I finish filling the water glasses.”

  Andre, clean-shaven with coal black hair, latex, and make-up, sported a fifty-pound body suit, complete with beer belly. The servers at the Ritz wore the typical well-pressed, dark burgundy uniforms trimmed in gray with black bow ties, that contrasted with the rich pink linen tablecloths, white fan-folded napkins and gold-plated tableware. He looked like any other South American immigrant serving people who barely knew he existed, and didn’t get an awkward glance.

  Andre spotted Robert Veil, an intriguing figure highlighted in the file.

  Across the room, he eyed Nikki Thorne, Veil’s partner. Mildly impressed, he spent extra time memorizing details about the two. Not out of concern, but competition. He gave Thorne the once over. She intrigued him. The file said no romance existed between the two, something Andre found hard to believe.

  Getting a spot on the hotel’s banquet crew went smoother than Andre anticipated. He registered with almost every restaurant and event staff employment agency in town.

  The Ritz, short-handed, recognized his superior sense of decorum and etiquette, tricks he’d picked up dining at some of Europe’s finer bistros.

  They expedited his security check; ran his driver’s license and Social Security number; both came back clean; no felonies, no criminal history.

  Fifty thousand well spent.

  Andre spied Judge Patrick at the dais and looked for an opening, a chance to make his move before the President arrived with a wave of extra security.

  He locked in on Robert Veil, and followed his eyes to a stately old man standing twenty feet from where Andre poured ice water.

  Veil walked over to the regal old man. Andre edged toward the dais.

  20

  Robert glanced over and Thorne gave him a nod. He checked Fiona.

  An agent stood watch at each end of the stage. Additional agents came inside, some manning the exits, others scattering throughout the room.

  The President wouldn’t be far behind. Agent Sams stood just beyond the kitchen entrance with an easy view of the crowd. She’ll be safe for a few moments. Robert looked back at Edward. This is as good a time as any.

  “Mr. Veil, I presume,” said Edward, not extending his hand.

  “Mr. Rothschild,” answered Robert. He smiled. Hello asshole. How about a bullet in the skull?

  Edward folded his hands behind his back. “I’d say this was a real pleasure, but…”

  “But we both know that would be a lie.”

  “Mr. Veil, is there something I can do for you? I’m quite the busy man you know.”

  Robert inched closer. “There’s nothing you can do for me. But there’s quite a bit I intend to do for you.” Edward raised an eyebrow. “I’m all ears.”

  “I have several rare artifacts you might be interested in, including an exceptionally maintained rifle, in mint condition, a set of striking, one of a kind, black and white photographs of a former President, bullet fragments, books and papers of extreme historical value, and brain matter. A President’s brain matter. You see, the previous owner’s not with us anymore, but he did take time to document his opinions concerning the pieces, on videotape. The whole thing makes for quite a story, and should prove very valuable, especially to a man like yourself.” Edward bristled, but remained calm. “And exactly what does any of this have to do with me?”

  “By itself, nothing,” said Robert, leaning in close to Edward’s ear.

  “But as I said, the owner of these artifacts died, but said quite a bit on the record. Assassination, cover-ups and you.” Robert stepped back and gently brushed lint off Edward’s shoulder. His smile widened.

  Edward’s eyes stayed on Robert. He leaned forward slightly, never breaking his piercing stare. “Mr. Veil, don’t play over your head.

  There’s no upside in it, and someone may pull you from the game.”

  “Maybe. But before that happens, I’m going to see one of the players suffer. Him, and his entire family. If I get really lucky, I might get to laugh at a funeral or two.”

  “Now Mr. Veil, let’s be reasonable men,” Edward said, with a wicked smile. “Certainly there must be a great deal a man like me can do for a man like you.”

  Robert hesitated as a passerby stopped behind him looking for her seat, located her table, and continued walking. “There is something you can do for me,” answered Robert. “In fact, it’s something only you can do.”

  Edward’s ears perked up. “And that would be?”

  “Go back to your office. Write a nice long letter explaining President Kennedy’s assassination and your role in it. Smoke your favorite cigar, have a glass of wine, your rarest, if you prefer. Pull a gun from your collection. If you don’t own one I’ll be happy to lend you mine. Then open your mouth wide and blow.”

  Edward stole a glance at Thorne, then looked up at Judge Patrick.

  “You amuse me Mr. Veil. I’ll see if I can find some way to amuse you.”

  “That shit doesn’t scare me.”

  “I’m not trying to scare you. I mean what I say.” He looked at Fiona again. “You seem quite taken with our Supreme Court nominee. I understand you’re watching over her. Isn’t it ironic how bedfellows can grow out of such trying situations? I understand she has a daughter.”

  “I told you. I don’t scare that easy. However, since you’ve made something of it, how’s your son? Does he know about your plans in the Middle East? I understand the President does.” Hatred burst onto Edward’s face. His eyes hardened. “You’ll have to excuse me, Mr. Veil. I must get to my table. I believe the President is due to arrive any second.”

  Edward walked toward his table, then stopped. “Oh, and Mr. Veil.

  Give my love to your mother. It’s been awhile.” Robert headed back to his station. Okay. Edward Rothschild has to die.

  21

  Andre assisted a wealthy elderly woman and her husband to their seats, all the time studying, calculating, not wanting his plans to grind to a sudden, disastrous halt.

  “Thank you young man,” said the old woman.

  Her gratitude registered faintly in Andre’s ears. He smiled and nodded, his eyes tracking, watching.

  He watched Robert finish with the old man, then walk over to an agent stationed on the stage to the right of the judge. Robert whispered in the agent’s ear. Andre felt perspiration building under his fat suit and swallowed. Despite his cunning and nerve, once the President arrived, all bets would be off.

  Andre saw his connection, Agent Sams, standing near the kitchen entrance surveying the room like a well-trained German Shepherd. The agent panned the room several times, never once showing any sign he recognized the Russian. Good. Either my disguise is perfect, or he’s ignoring me.

  “Eduardo,” a voice whispered.

  Melissa Adams, the banquet manager, stood behind him, all smiles.

  “I need you to take a fresh water pitcher to the dais right away.

  Before the President arrives.”

  “Yes. Right away Ms. Adams. It’ll be my pleasure.” Andre walked past Agent Sams, who gave him the once over. Andre nodded subserviently, showing his slightly yellowed teeth. Nothing.

  “Here you go Eduardo. Take this up front right away.” He took the tray and returned to the ballroom. He panned the room, but couldn’t locate Robert or Thorne. Andre straightened up, discreetly slipped a folded note out of his vest pocket, and palmed it under the tray.

  He reached the right side of the stage where a poker-faced agent nodded and let him on stage. Judge Patrick sat to the right of the podium, caught up in conversation. He gently placed the tray next to the judge, allowing the note to protrude enough to be noticed by a sharp eye.

  He scanned the room again, spotted nothing out of the ordinary, and still didn’t see Veil or his partner. He caught one last look at the judge and headed for the kitchen, adrenaline raging, heart pounding. Two steely eyes locked in on his, almost bringing him to a stop. The old man he saw Veil talking
to earlier, smiled, nodded, then turned around as if he didn’t see a thing. Andre quickened his steps, but didn’t run.

  Ten feet from the kitchen, he saw Thorne take her seat, and Robert make his way to the dais

  Andre pushed the kitchen door open, knocking an angry, cursing server backwards. Just short of a trot, he headed for the loading dock area. Agent Sams stood in back of the kitchen, hand pressed to his earpiece, face intense. The agent looked up. Andre!

  22

  Furious, Robert briefed Thorne about his conversation with Edward.

  Secret Service agents poured into the lobby through the front door.

  “CHAMPION must be close by,” he whispered, using the President’s code name. “We better get back to the party.” Robert went to the stage to tell Fiona they wouldn’t be staying long after the reception, and any photo ops needed to be short. Whispering in her ear, he noticed a folded piece of paper barely visible under the silver serving tray on the table. He slid the note out and read it.

  Fiona gasped. DEATH BECOMES YOU. GIVE MY LOVE TO JESSICA. THE BEAR.

  Robert motioned to the agents and showed them the note. They frantically yelled into microphones hidden in their lapel pins and sleeves.

  “Abort! Abort!” one agent called into his sleeve, ordering the President back to the White House.

  Thorne ran onto the stage.

  “Fiona, did you see anything?” asked Robert.

  “No, Nothing! A waiter put the tray down only a few minutes ago.”

  “What waiter?”

  “He was just standing over…”

  Fiona, shocked and bewildered, pointed towards the camouflaged kitchen door.

  Robert told Thorne to take Fiona home. Surrounded by agents, they left the stage.