Veil v-1

by Reginald Cook

  “Don’t be silly,” said Robert. “You’re one of the toughest people I know. Who else could hold up under this kind of pressure? Anybody else would’ve caved weeks ago.”

  A soft knock on the door, and his mother, tailed by Thorne, entered the room.

  “Ahhh, Ms. Veil,” said Pearle, walking over to greet her. “It’s nice to see you again.”

  Barbara shook his hand. “Thank you Chief Pearle. And it’s a pleasure seeing you again. But if you’ll be so kind, I need a word with my son and Judge Patrick.” She placed a firm hand on Pearle’s shoulder.

  “It won’t take long, then this old woman will get out of your way.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” said Pearle. “I have to get back to the White House anyway.” He walked over to Fiona. “I’ll fax over a list of possible questions in an hour.”

  Fiona thanked him and the room cleared. Robert watched Pearle avoid walking past Thorne, obviously remembering the patented ass whipping he’d received in the desert outside Kuwait.

  Barbara stared soothingly at Robert. Thorne sat down next to Fiona.

  “What’s going on?” Fiona asked.

  Barbara moved closer to Robert, her eyes never leaving his. “My son has a few things he needs to share with you. Tell her, son, it’s all right. I understand, but she needs to know.”

  “Know what?” said Fiona, looking at Thorne, then up at Robert.

  Robert knelt down in front of her, the mound in his throat the size of a grapefruit. He told her the story. Her eyes widened in disbelief. She looked from Barbara to Thorne, as though waiting for the punch line.

  “It’s all true, honey,” said Thorne. Barbara nodded her concurrence.

  Fiona put her head in her hands. “My God,” she exclaimed. “My God!”

  28

  “Mr. Rothschild, your ten o’clock appointment just pulled into the parking garage.”

  “Send him right in when he gets upstairs.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Seventy-two hours from his sobering meeting at the Saudi Embassy, Edward sat dreading the arrival of Suraya, without the evidence, and no closer to a solution. He thumped his desk in staccato then swiveled around facing the window. A clear view of early morning Washington filled the wide panels of plate-glass like his own personal picture postcard.

  What Mr. Veil? What were you looking for at Parklawn? It’s the evidence. It has to be.

  He felt the eyes of his father and grandfather on the nape of his neck, staring over his shoulder from the painting behind him. Don’t fail us!

  Protect the name! Protect the legacy! Kill them all!

  “Mr. Rothschild, Mr. Khomeini has arrived.” Suraya swung the door open and rolled his considerable girth through the door. Edward arranged an extra-wide leather chair for the Iranian, a detail not unnoticed by Suraya, effusive in his appreciation. Pleasantries aside, the Iranian turned serious, carefully measuring his words as though other ears might be listening. Edward assured him they could talk freely.

  “I hope you have good news for us, Mr. Rothschild,” said Suraya.

  “My partners and I are ready to move in your favor.”

  “Thank you, Suraya. Everything is in order. I’d like you and the others to hold off just a little longer. Everything will be over in a couple of days, then we can move forward without interruption.” Suraya stared Edward down with cold black eyes. “That’s unfortunate,” he said. “Our people are in place and soon they’ll be ready to go. We need your little situation to cease now, not a few days from now.”

  “Listen,” Edward said, his teeth clenched, nostrils flaring. “I too have much riding on this. But there are a few loose ends I must clean up before any action is taken.”

  “And what do these loose ends entail?” Edward ran his long pianist fingers across his chin. “As you can imagine, it’s very sensitive or I would’ve taken care of the issue long ago.”

  “One wonders,” answered Suraya. “Maybe age has cost you your nerve.”

  Edward smiled. “I can assure you and your friends my resolve is the least of your worries.”

  “Nevertheless, time is not on our side, is it?” asked Suraya. “We’ve been moving along pretty much as planned, but in sensitive situations it doesn’t take much to catapult things in the wrong direction. So I hope you understand our need to intervene.”

  “I understand better than you the importance of resolving this matter.

  As you probably already know, there’s a Supreme Court confirmation hearing going on for Judge Fiona Patrick.”

  “Yes, I’ve met her at receptions on several occasions. So?”

  “The hearing figures into my plans. I need you to pull back your men until after the hearing. If the situation isn’t concluded by then, do what you will.”

  Suraya rose and walked over to the painting of Edward’s father and grandfather. “They were involved too, no?” he sneered.

  Edward’s nostrils flared. “Suraya, I’m afraid if you and your partners insist on going forward with your plans, I’ll have to withdraw my support, and, as painful as it would be, call off our deal. If there’s so much as a hint of your involvement, especially since nine-eleven, it won’t matter what you’re offering.”

  Suraya, breathing hard, eyes red, leaned forward on the desk. “Our people will proceed immediately,” he said, measuring his tone through gritted teeth. “They will handle things expeditiously, including the White House, if it comes to that. They have instructions to carry on as they wish, so they can strike at any moment. Even we will not know when or where. So whatever you have to do Mr. Rothschild, you’d better hurry.”

  Wet concrete filled Edward’s chest. Suraya walked to the door. “It’s a mistake Suraya.”

  “No, Mr. Rothschild, it’s war,” said Suraya, a jihad storm in his eyes.

  “And don’t think for one second our offer places your value above our cause. Our purpose is a holy one and Allah directs our steps. Get in our way and we’ll be happy to add the name Rothschild to the list.” Suraya stomped out of the office. Edward slammed his fist down breaking his phone into several pieces. The threat didn’t bother him, not having the evidence did. He paced the room. The cemetery. Why were you there, Mr. Veil?

  He removed a back-up secure cell phone from a wall safe and dialed.

  “Hello Vernon. It’s too late to let nature take its course. We’ll have to do without the evidence. Inform Simon and Marilyn, continue to track Veil, and all of you meet me here the morning of Judge Patrick’s confirmation hearing. He didn’t wait for a comment.

  Edward sat back down and stared out at the city, the painting of his father and grandfather reflecting in the window. Don’t fail us! Protect the name! Protect the legacy! Kill them all!

  29

  A bare bones skeleton crew of reporters hovered outside Fiona’s front gate. A platoon of agents patrolled the area, their presence not nearly as ominous.

  Robert sulked along the garden, hands in pockets. The bright splashes of floral color, red roses, yellow daffodils, lavender and creamy paper-whites, did little to improve his mood. He told Fiona everything.

  Charlie, Edward, the evidence. Everything. The news brought her to a near breakdown, and she didn’t say a word to him afterwards.

  His mother sent him outside, so she could talk to Fiona in private.

  Thorne, sensing his desire to be alone, disappeared upstairs with Jessica.

  At the end of the garden, Robert sat down on a white stone bench and leaned back against the wall. Guards and agents, some with shotguns, some with dogs, marched back and forth across the expansive, perfectly cut lawn in pairs, and for the first time he admitted to himself he not only cared about what happened to Fiona, he cared for her. She managed to dredge up feelings he kept submerged for a very long time, and he’d see her through the ordeal, or give up his life trying.

  Robert left the bench and started back towards the house. We need help. Another pair of eyes. Someone ballsy enough to handle things wi
thout folding. He stopped in the middle of the garden, and dialed his cell. He cursed under his breath. Voice mail. “Hello Marilyn, this is Robert. I need your help. Please call me on my cell phone as soon as you get this message. It’s urgent. You have the number.” He hung up and turned. Thorne stood behind him. “What’s up?”

  “I just left a message for Marilyn London. I think we should bring her in to help us out.”

  “Have you lost your mind? We don’t know that bitch from Adam.” Robert noticed several guards looking in their direction, and moved to a more secluded spot. “We need help on this,” he said in a whisper.

  “We’re running out of time. If we don’t catch a break soon, we’re fucked.”

  “Look Robert, I know the confirmation hearings are about to start, and Fiona’s in the hot seat, but this is not the time for new faces. We don’t know enough about Marilyn London, and I don’t trust her.”

  “We don’t have a choice. We can use another pair of eyes and ears.”

  “Why in the hell would she show us that kind of generosity anyway?

  What makes you think she won’t run to her bosses and turn us in?” Robert really couldn’t be sure. “It’s just a hunch,” he told her.

  “Your hunches got us here, remember?”

  “If you have a better idea, let’s hear it.”

  “I think we should go around and kill every single one of them,” she answered. “Edward Rothschild, that little weasel asshole who works for him, and anyone else who shows up.”

  “It might come to that, and when it does you know I’m good for it.

  However, for now let’s finish searching those crypts. Parklawn should be clear now; it’s been three days. You check the others on your list. I’ll go back and finish Parklawn, then continue with my half of the brochures. “And if Rothschild’s men show up this time…”

  “I’m way ahead of you partner. They show, they die.”

  “Be careful,” he told her.

  Thorne smiled, went to her Rover, and drove off. Robert tried Marilyn again, and again, got voice mail. He jumped in the Mustang and left.

  He reached Parklawn, parked in the same spot he and Thorne used before, cut through the thick trees and brush, and stopped at the fence just beyond the mausoleum. He waited for the last flicker of light to disappear over the horizon. An hour later, he stood at the entrance, ripping down police yellow tape. A sign tacked to the door read “Police Crime Scene: Do Not Enter” and detailed penalties for those who chose to ignore the warning.

  He heard the faint, distant sound of tires flying down the highway, less than a mile away. He stood at the door and listened. A tail followed him when he left Fiona’s, but he lost them downtown before jumping on the freeway. Nothing. All clear.

  He slipped under the tape and tried the door. Locked, but easily defeated, he cracked it open enough for him to slip through, then relocked it behind him.

  Inside, the mausoleum showed no sign of the struggle or murder. No lifeless, crumpled body on the floor, head blown apart. No blood splattered on the crypts and floor. All eyewitnesses eternally asleep.

  Robert worked both walls with systematic precision, searching, studying, praying. He thought about Charlie and the things he’d said, hashing and rehashing the assassin’s words over in his mind, hoping for a morsel of recognition.

  He spotted several “Charlie’s” laid to rest behind the marble, “Charlie Williams” “Charles Kensington” and “Charlie Noble” but none registered the slightest spark of discovery.

  Outside, the wind kicked up like an enthusiastic worker back from lunch, eager to tackle a satisfying assignment, whistling through unseen crevices in the mausoleum, blowing an eerie, howling symphony, like a ghostly siren’s song.

  He stopped and listened. Voices? No, the wind. Standing statue still, he grazed the grips of his automatics and turned up his internal receiver, tuning in, listening. Several minutes passed. Nothing. Only the wind.

  Robert resumed the search. Crunch! He spun around. Twigs, breaking under someone’s feet. He honed in on…a voice, a phrase, a single phrase, one he’d siphoned out of blowing sand in the desert outside Kuwait. A whisper, Over here in Arabic. He listened longer, but heard nothing. My mind must be playing tricks. Robert tip toed to the door, gun now in hand, a slender flashlight in his mouth. He pressed an ear to the door. All quiet.

  He glanced back at the last few rows. A drum pounded in his ears, his heart thumped, his mouth went dry. He cast the light on one of the crypts and stepped closer. “Shit.” He stared at the name on the tomb, and pressed his hand on the cold marble in disbelief. Julie Rice! We did it! We’re going to tell the world!

  Lights from an approaching vehicle splattered through the stained glass windows. He peeked outside. Security.

  Robert trotted to the rear of the building and hid behind a large wooden podium on a small stage in a tiny sanctuary.

  “I still can’t believe Tim is dead,” a female voice said, with solace.

  “Who the hell would blow away an old man, and for what?”

  “I know,” said a sober male voice. “Poor bastard. We had his retirement party planned and everything.” Their footsteps clomped in his direction. Robert tensed. One of them stepped up on stage. He crouched a little lower and caught a whiff of perfume. Bijon. One of Thorne’s favorites. The female guard stood directly in front of the podium, her flashlight illuminating the area behind him.

  “This place is empty except for our usual guests. Let’s get out’a here,” she said.

  “Yeah, I’m starving,” said her partner. “How about Johnny O’s? I could use a nice pastrami.”

  The woman chuckled. “Fred, you could eat a horse after Thanksgiving dinner.”

  They laughed and left the building, locking the door behind them.

  Robert waited until he heard them pull away, then emerged and started for the door. A whisper in the wind stopped him in his tracks.

  Arabic chatter, coming in his direction.

  He ran for the rear exit. The front door crashed open. Four men, Middle Eastern as far as he could tell, all armed with automatic weapons, searched the hall with darting eyes.

  Robert slid outside, but like a whistleblower, the wind slammed the door shut, and he heard footsteps stampede toward him. He bolted over the fence into the woods. Machinegun fire ripped behind him. He darted out to the street, ass on fire, to his car. More gunfire peppered the air sending birds skyrocketing out of the trees, and him diving to the ground. He flipped over and returned fire with both Berettas. The four men hit the dirt, two taking hits in the leg and shoulder.

  Robert scrambled to the Mustang and fired up the engine. The back windshield exploded. He crouched low, and smashed the accelerator to the floor.

  He checked the rear view mirror. Nobody. Back in the city, he swerved off the freeway into downtown Washington and pulled over.

  Passersby gawked at the blown out windshield and bullet holes, but he didn’t care. He sat, fists tight, knuckles white, eyes badger angry. He poured through his memory, struggling to place the exact dialect of his attackers. He closed his eyes and played the words over in his mind, concentrating on their inflection. He lifted his eyelids . Iraq.

  Somewhere near the Euphrates River, most likely the city Ar Ramadi.

  He called Thorne. No answer. He tried again. Nothing. The Mustang’s engine growled. Ten minutes later, he pulled past the policeman posted at Fiona’s gate, and spotted Thorne’s Rover. He parked behind her and headed for the door.

  “Mr. Veil,” a voice called from behind.

  Robert stopped halfway up the stairs. An agent in jeans and an FBI windbreaker stood below.

  “Your partner asked us to send you over when you arrived. She’s in the garden.”

  Without a word, Robert bounded down the stairs and found Thorne pacing back and forth. Her short-barreled shotgun hung from her shoulder. Her eyes narrowed. Her teeth clenched. “A hit,” she said, gripping the handle. “A mother funkin hit!.
”

  “I know,” he answered, his own anger boiling. “They tried to kill me too.”

  “The assholes followed me inside the first mausoleum I went to, but I got the drop on ‘em. Shot one in the face with Bessie here,” she said, stroking the barrel.

  Robert looked over his shoulder and made sure they were alone.

  “Were they Iraqi?”

  Her face lit up. “Yes. I recognized the dialect right away. Definitely Iraq.”

  “I think our friend Rothschild has raised the stakes.”

  “But the Iraqis don’t hire themselves out for mercenary missions.”

  “It must tie in with the deal he’s got going. But it really doesn’t matter, does it?”

  Thorne hesitated. “No, it doesn’t. But what the fuck are we going to do?”

  “First, let’s get the evidence.”

  “That’s what we’ve been trying to do,” she said, her voice rising.

  A guard looked in their direction. Robert winked, and the agent kept moving. He leaned in close to Thorne. “I found a crypt with Julie Rice’s name on it. I think we hit pay dirt.”

  30

  Only a splatter of people remained inside the house, and most of them security personnel making the last rounds. Robert spotted his mother sitting at the end of the couch in the living room dozing off, her head propped up in one hand, her lap covered with the hand knitted green and white afghan she kept in her trunk. She looked older to him sitting there, and he wondered how much longer he’d have her around. He knelt in front of her. She smiled without opening her eyes.

  “How are you son? You made it back.” Her eyes opened and she kissed his forehead. “Where’s Thorne?”

  “I’m all right,” he said. “Thorne’s outside. We came back to see how you and Fiona are holding up.”

  “I’m okay, and she’ll be fine. Don’t worry, she’s strong.” Robert dropped his head. “I should’ve told her sooner, but I…” Barbara gently placed her fingers under his chin and lifted his head.