Veil v-1

by Reginald Cook

  “I told you, I have no idea what you’re talking about, and who is Charlie Ivory?”

  Simon stepped toward Robert. “Mr. Veil…” Robert spun his body in a whirlwind, smashed a roundhouse kick into Simon’s chest and sent him crashing to the floor. The two men closest to Thorne rushed her. A hard, fast blow to the nose, and she sent the biggest to the floor, blinded by blood and watery eyes.

  A hard tackle jarred Robert to the floor, fists pounding his face and body. He punched and kicked upward, desperate to get back on his feet.

  A pile-driving kick to the groin, and one of the men shirked like a haunting spirit.

  Robert heard bones break and men cry out. Thorne’s taking care of business.

  He wiggled free and scrambled to his feet. He glanced back at his partner. One man lay on the floor, his kneecap several inches from where God intended, his right arm mangled and twisted like an old, bent coat hanger. Thorne, pinned down on her back, a large guerilla on top, struggled to break free, punching his face like a middleweight. Smiling, the giant grabbed her throat and choked. Robert took a step toward them. A hockey check dropped him to the floor.

  Robert hit the ground hard and kicked upward, landing back on his feet.

  “My eyes! My eyes! You bitch! My eyes!” Two gunshots ricocheted off the marble, sending everyone, except Simon, to the floor.

  Tim, the security guard, stood just inside the front door, the barrel of his thirty-eight revolver pointing at Simon.

  Everybody raised their hands, except the large guerilla. He sat against the wall bawling like a newborn, both eye sockets mushy and covered in blood. Thorne’s chest heaved deep and heavy, both thumbs soaked in blood.

  “Good job Tim,” said Robert, breathing hard, his hands now on his knees.

  “Good job my ass,” said Tim, quivering. “ Stay where you are. I’ve already called the police. They’re on their way.”

  “But sugga,” said Thorne, “Let us explain.”

  “That ain’t gonna fly hot stuff. Both you and your boyfriend just stay where you are.” In the distance, Robert heard the faint whine of sirens. “Tim, listen to me,” said Robert.

  “Yes, Tim,” said Simon. “Listen.”

  A mosquito whisper cut through the air, splattering blood and brain on the crypts. Tim’s lifeless body hit the floor like a sack, his nose bubbling foamy red.

  Robert looked back, and saw the silencer pointed at him.

  “Stop, you idiot,” shouted Simon. “I told you we need them alive!

  Let’s go! Now!”

  Mangled and twisted, Simon’s men hustled to their feet. The giant, blind and whimpering, assisted by two of the others. Thorne took a step forward, her face sculpted in anger. She picked up her gun.

  “Thorne,” shouted Robert, pulling her back. “We can’t get caught in here! Let’s go!”

  Thorne snatched away and looked down at Tim. His mouth was open, his eyes wide with shock.

  Robert put a hand on her shoulder. “Let’s go, Thorne. He’s gone.

  Let’s go.”

  They hit the back door and jumped a fence fifty feet from the mausoleum as tires screeched to a halt, and police rushed inside. More sirens cried in the distance. Thorne’s Rover hit Interstate 270 and sped back towards Fiona’s estate. Thirty minutes later, a red pond surrounded Tim Billingsley like a putrid moat.

  “What a mess,” said one of the paramedics, to detectives organizing the scene. “I knew he was gone as soon as we hit the door, and I saw the back of his head.”

  “Must’ve been quite a fight. There’s splatters of blood all over the place,” said the detective. “Who the hell would want to kill a security guard in a cemetery?”

  More detectives and officers showed up with the regular team of investigators and forensic analysts. Among them, Marilyn London.

  She twice gave the place a once-over, making sure nothing could lead back to Simon or the others. Satisfied, she asked for samples of the blood and fingerprints.

  “Make sure you get a sample of the blood on this crypt over here,” she told one of the detectives.

  “Which one?” he asked, sounding annoyed.

  “Over here,” said Marilyn, unconcerned with his attitude. “It’s on the third tomb from the right, second from the bottom. It reads Julie Rice, A Friend Worth More Than Gold.”

  26

  Every muscle in Robert’s body ached, but he ignored it. Thorne, silent, showed no sign of stress, strain, or anger. Through schoolyard fights and wars, Robert knew her easy calm meant one thing. Hell lurked just around the corner.

  “We better hit the office,” she said, her eyes searching, checking the rearview mirror. “I know the place is probably wired for sound, but the Georgia State Police will be calling about Julie Rice, and we better make sure Evelyn’s okay.”

  Robert pulled out his cell phone and dialed. No answer. Not even the machine. He checked his watch. Too early for lunch. “ Drive to the alley across the street,” he said. “We can cut across and enter from the parking deck.”

  Thorne sliced through the city like a pro, pulled into the alley a block from Dupont Circle, and parked alongside the Dupont Hotel. They ran down the alley to the street and looked up, mouths agape.

  Smoke and flames raged from their office window. Black flakes of ash snowed down on everything, and everyone, with not a fire truck in sight. Thorne started for the building. Robert pulled her back. “It’s way past too late. See if you can spot Evelyn.” They searched the growing mob for several minutes. Nothing.

  “There she is,” Thorne said, pointing, breathing a sigh of relief.

  Evelyn, surrounded by six other frantic tenants, sprinted from the building and disappeared inside the hotel. Robert’s cell phone rang.

  “Evelyn, are you okay?” Robert heard her fight back tears.

  She arrived at the office late, found it ransacked and full of smoke, dropped her purse and ran.

  “I’m glad you’re okay,” Robert told her.

  She sobbed gently. “What if I’d been there when they came to the office? I’d be…”

  “You’re alive. That’s all that counts right now,” said Robert. “Look, don’t go home,” he ordered. “It’s not safe. Do you have the safe key?”

  “Yes,” she replied, blowing her nose.

  Inside a locker at Union Station, they kept a large green gym bag filled with emergency items. The bag contained two guns, a forty-five automatic and a ten millimeter Glock, plenty of ammunition, a set of open airline, bus, and train tickets, two encrypted cell phones, keys to their safehouse in upstate New York, and twenty-five thousand dollars in cash. They each kept a key; Evelyn usually pinned hers in her bra.

  Robert told her to get the bag and take the bus to the safehouse. He’d call when things blew over. Evelyn sniffled and cleared her throat.

  Thorne took the phone and offered last minute advice. They said their goodbyes, and waited until her cab pulled away.

  Fire trucks finally hit the scene and hopelessly showered the building, their job more containment than salvage.

  Let’s get to Fiona’s house,” said Robert.

  Thorne hesitated. “Robert, we’d better check on Barbara.” He dialed. The phone rang too many times; she always picked up by the third ring. He hung up and dialed again. Three rings, five, six. She finally answered. “I was indisposed, ” she told him.

  “I need you to meet me at Fiona’s house right away! I’ll call ahead so they know you’re coming.”

  Cantankerous, she drilled him for information, demanding to know why.

  “Mother, get over to Fiona’s house! Now!” Dead silence.

  “Okay, son. I’ll leave right away.”

  27

  News trucks, police cars, and government issued Chryslers packed every available space in front of Fiona’s house. Reporters, camera-toting photographers, and a highly visible contingent of agents and police officers scurried up and down the block, checking every crack and crevice.

 
The reporters, some Robert recognized from half a block away, looked pensive and restless, standing behind a taped off barrier like groupies.

  Thorne, puzzled, leaned forward on the steering wheel. “What the hell is this?”

  “I have no idea, but the sharks are out, so the blood must be fresh.”

  “Or it’s Rothschild,” shot Thorne.

  Before Robert could respond, two black police escorted SUV’s with dark tinted windows and flashing lights, led a long black limousine inside the estate. Thorne pulled in behind the caravan, showed the guard their credentials and followed them inside.

  They climbed out and looked around. Thorne let out a long, slow whistle. “It looks like Fort Knox around here.” Robert agreed. “I’ve never seen this much security at a private residence. It looks like the Quantico training yard.” Thorne shook her head and laughed. “If the Bear makes it past this mess, we should hire him.”

  Inside the house, new faces scampered back and forth; some on cell phones, others huddled in groups. They passed through the kitchen and playroom into the living room. Loud conversations fell to whispers, stares turned into hard looks.

  “Is my bra showing?” asked Thorne. “Or did we make America’s Most Wanted?”

  “I’m not sure, but right now I don’t give a shit Robert spotted his mother sitting on the couch, next to a portly fellow dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief. Barbara’s face lit up when she saw them, and a smile pushed its way across her lips. She excused herself mid-chatter, and stopped half a foot short of Robert’s chest.

  He gently touched her shoulder. “Glad you made it here okay.”

  “What’s going on Robert? It has to be something important for you to snap at me the way you did.”

  “I’ll explain it to you later. Where’s Fiona?”

  “She’s in the den with the Chief of Staff. Robert, I heard your office burned down. What’s going on?”

  “Louis Pearle?” said Robert, in an unpleasant overtone. Thorne smiled. “I’ll let Thorne fill you in, about our office and all the rest. I need to talk to Fiona right away.”

  Barbara studied him, searching his face. “Okay, but I want to talk to you after you’re finished.”

  Robert stepped toward the den. A tender touch stopped him.

  “Whatever it is, son, we’ll deal with it.” Even at her age, his mother’s tone assured him she meant it.

  “I know,” he said, kissing her hand. “Just don’t hurt anyone till I give the word.”

  “You know I will,” she said in jest, her eyes glassy. “Now go.” She shooed him away, dabbed at the corners of her eyes and left the room with Thorne. Robert watched them walk into the garden, wondering how his mother would react. Too old to fight, it didn’t mean she wouldn’t try.

  The den, subdued compared to the rest of the house, still felt thick and tense. A handful of yuppie stiff shirts, huddled around a laptop like children watching Sesame Street, packed up and left the room.

  Louis Pearle, the President’s Chief of Staff, sat in front of the couch, his arms crossed, an unlit cigar in his hand. Across from him, looking up with tired eyes, sat Fiona, her face weary, shoulders slack. She caught sight of him.

  “Robert!” she exclaimed, excusing herself from Pearle. She ran over and gave him a firm, prolonged hug.

  “Hello Fiona, how are you holding up?”

  She hugged him tighter and didn’t let go. The Chief of Staff frowned and cleared his throat. Fiona finally let go, but the expression on her face said save me.

  “I don’t understand it,” she said. “It was all going so well, then…things just seemed to fall apart after that monster…” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

  “It’ll be alright,” said Robert, wiping her cheeks.

  Louis Pearle walked over, his gaze shifting back and forth between them.

  “Oh I’m sorry, Chief Pearle,” said Fiona, with genuine embarrassment. “This is…”

  “Robert Veil,” said Pearle, hand extended.

  “It’s been a long time,” said Robert, shaking hands only for Fiona’s sake.

  Robert’s memories of Louis Pearle were not exactly pleasant. Pearle worked for the CIA when Robert and Thorne fought in Kuwait. He delivered the orders telling them to execute Saddam’s family. When they didn’t, he led the call for their court martial. “They’re just towel heads,” Robert remembered him saying, like the Tennessee redneck he was. “Just a few less Seven-Eleven workers.”

  “Good to see you back in the trenches,” said Pearle.

  Fiona looked surprised. “You know each other?”

  “Oh, we go way back,” Pearle added. “Been through some tense times together.”

  “And here we go again,” said Robert, a stern look on his face.

  The Chief of Staff smiled and rolled the cigar between his fingers.

  “You’re just in time,” he told Robert. “We’re discussing security for the hearings. The President wants to take every precaution to make sure our nominee is safe.”

  “I hope you don’t plan the same sort of overkill you have here at the house,” said Robert. “It’s a zoo out there, and I’m sure the judge feels a little claustrophobic.”

  Fiona looked at Robert with a sense of relief. Chief Pearle looked as though he’d said something ungrateful. “It’s for her protection, and it’s for the best. We don’t want a repeat of what happened at the Ritz, now do we Mr. Veil? You were there, right?”

  “Yes, but now we’re at her home, and although we want her safe we shouldn’t overdo it. The hearings start soon and she could probably use a little peace.”

  “Robert,” Fiona interjected. “I’m sure they’re just taking precautions.

  I feel safe and comfortable.”

  Robert took a step closer to the Chief of Staff. “So, the President’s poll numbers must have taken a huge plunge for him to send all this firepower. CNN or UPI?”

  “I’ll ignore that, Mr. Veil. Fact is, the President’s on his way out of office, so he doesn’t care about the numbers. He does, however, care a great deal for this little lady, and wants her as safe as possible.”

  “And I’m sure his legacy never entered his mind.”

  “Can we please move on to something else,” asked Fiona, annoyed.

  “Good,” said Pearle. “Let’s talk about the questions. Now, as I was saying before Mr. Veil walked in, it’s going to get a little more personal than we first thought.”

  Fiona sat back down on the couch. “Personal?”

  “Yes,” Pearle continued. “We’ve been informed that several of the Senators are going to delve into your personal life. Namely, your relationship with Carlos Medina.”

  Robert’s eyes flashed over to Fiona. “The money launderer?” That’s why all the press outside.

  “Yes,” she said, sounding a little surprised, but not ashamed. “The FBI cleared me. We dated for a short time. Nobody, including me, knew about his dealings with the Columbian cartels. Not the DEA, the FBI, or anyone else. As far as anyone was concerned he was a respected banker, a Vice President, and had been for years.” Robert knew a lot about Carlos Medina. One of the biggest money launderers in the United States, he cleaned more than $10 billion in drug cartel profits a year. The week after he entered witness protection, somebody riddled him with bullets at a Seattle Dairy Queen.

  “She was cleared, Mr. Veil,” Pearle added. “We believe her. Carlos Medina fooled a lot of smart people.”

  “Then why is it coming up now? If she was cleared by the FBI, why bother?” It’s Rothschild! I know it’s him!

  “You know how this game is played,” said Pearle. “Someone has a problem with Judge Patrick and wants her nomination killed. Question is, who and why?”

  “Who could it be?” Fiona asked. “I have enemies, but I never thought it would come to this.”

  “The White House doesn’t have a clue?” I’m sorry Fiona. It’s my fault. Rothschild is after me, not you.

  “No,” said Pea
rle. “Whoever’s rattling the cage is highly placed.

  Virtually every member of the Judiciary Committee has given us the cold shoulder overnight. This hasn’t happened since Bork’s nomination in

  ‘87.”

  “I’m sorry all this is happening so quickly, Judge Patrick,” Pearle continued. “We didn’t see it coming.” He lowered his head. “And I hate to add more to your plate, but…” Pearle turned to Robert. “It’s about you, Mr. Veil.”

  “What about me?”

  The Chief of Staff sat down next to Fiona. “We believe you’d be better served if Mr. Veil were no longer involved. It was a courtesy in the first place, and only because you insisted. Given the events at the reception and in light of these new developments…well, we have more than enough men to do the job.”

  “Out of the question,” snapped Fiona. “He was no more at fault than the Secret Service.”

  “I understand how you feel, but even the President has concerns. Mr.

  Veil’s background at the Agency could come into question, and who knows what else? You two are being linked as an item.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Fiona insisted. “Exactly who’s linking us?”

  “I’m not here to pass judgment. I’m only telling you what we hear in the halls. And please beg my pardon for saying this, but that hug you gave Mr. Veil when he walked in wasn’t exactly platonic.” Fiona fell silent. Robert fumed. “That three ring circus you’ve got out there isn’t going to make her any safer,” he said, knowing the fix was in.

  “And neither did you. The Bear walked right past you at the Ritz, so don’t get on that famous high horse of yours,” snapped Pearle.

  Fiona leaned back against the sofa, head back, eyes closed.

  Robert took a deep breath. “Okay, if it’ll make things run smoother I’ll step out of the picture. But I’ll still hang out around here. It’s still her house, isn’t it?”

  Pearle nodded his approval. Robert sat down next to Fiona. “Don’t worry, they’ll take good care of you, and I won’t be too far away.” Fiona’s eyes watered, the tears didn’t fall. “If you say so. I just hope I can get through this in one piece.” Pearle handed her a clean handkerchief from his pocket.