Veil. Part 10

In a large brown enveloped stamped FBI, I found the bullet fragments. In a large tin cylinder sitting in a freezer, I found President Kennedy's brain, mangled and sliced open. I took it all, combined it with the rifle, notes, and everything else, then hid it all where no one would look."

"I sent a message to Rothschild. Vernon Campbell and several others met me in the bas.e.m.e.nt of Old Ebbits Grill. Things didn't go well.

They roughed me up, and tried to make me tell where I'd hid the evidence. When I wouldn't, Rothschild showed up. I still didn't talk. If I did, I'd be dead. I told Edward I'd made arrangements for the evidence to go to the Was.h.i.+ngton Post if they killed me. They backed off and let me go."

"They trailed me night and day. The next thing I know, one year turned into almost forty. I could've played hardball and blackmailed Rothschild, but the whole thing took its toll. I just wanted to be left alone. The next thing I knew, Robert Kennedy, King, and so many others, died. All the markings of a coup, and I'd started it all." Charlie coughed hard into the towel spotting it with blood and phlegm. Robert replaced it with another.

"Who else knew about this, I mean, how far up did it go?" Robert asked.

"I was just a trigger man. These things usually go all the way to the top," Charlie replied.

"You mean President Johnson?" Thorne asked.

"And Hoover," Charlie added. "I'm convinced they both knew and didn't raise a finger to stop it."

"Now you sound like Oliver Stone," Robert joked.

"Don't laugh," said Charlie, still serious. "He surprised even me." Robert leaned forward. "How could you do it? He was the President of the United States for G.o.d's sake. Where was your honor?"

"Things were different back then. I was different."

"Really. You think so?" said Thorne.

"I don't expect sympathy for what I've done," said Charlie, his voice raspy, almost unintelligible. "I've lived a lifetime with the consequences."

"Why bring it out now?" asked Robert. "Years have pa.s.sed. Why didn't you speak out a long time ago?"

"I thought about it every year. I mulled it over, but could never settle on the right moment. Now there's DNA and other technology. And you're the right man."

Robert took a long drink of cold water, and sat the tall gla.s.s down on the coffee table. "How did you find out about me? You've been out of the loop for a long time. Homeless, living on the streets."

"I still have a friend or two in the right places overseas," Charlie answered. "They said you hate the Rothschild types as much as I've learned to. You're not much different than I forty years ago. I made the wrong choices, you didn't."

"You make it seem like you picked out the wrong s.h.i.+rt," said Thorne.

"It's not that simple. We can go after Rothschild, but you pulled the trigger. What the h.e.l.l do you expect us to do with you?"

"She's right," said Robert. "You're as guilty, if not more, than Rothschild. You pulled the trigger. You deserve something worse than death."

"I've lived a life worse than death," Charlie shot back. "I'd rather be dead. If I didn't have the evidence, I would've died a long time ago. If not by Rothschild, then by my own hand."

"Where's the evidence now?" Robert asked.

"Hidden," Charlie told them. "In a mausoleum crypt at a cemetery here in the area. It's been there since this whole thing started. I'd check on it now and then, no small task with Rothschild's men watching. It's the only thing that's kept me going."

"We'll need the evidence if we're going to make a case. Why did you take it back?

"Because you and your partner didn't seem quite sure you were up to the task," Charlie said. "I thought I'd made a mistake."

"And now?" asked Thorne.

"Now it's too late to stop. They know what we're up to so our time is short. But before I give you the evidence, I need to know you'll ride this out to the end."

"We're in all the way Charlie," said Robert. "Only remember. You go down with the rest. You a.s.sa.s.sinated a President, and I don't care how much remorse you feel or how long you've suffered on the streets.

We can't just let you walk away."

Charlie stared at Robert, his face wrinkled with grief. "I understand," he said. "I have come to believe that the whole world is an enigma, a harmless enigma that is made terrible by our own mad attempt to interpret it as though it had an underlying truth."

"What's that?" asked Robert.

"Just a quote I like," said Charlie.

Robert motioned for Thorne to stop taping and follow him into the kitchen. He asked her to take the tapes and secure them in their office safe. He'd go with Charlie to get the evidence. They'd meet back at his apartment and take it from there.

The sound of breaking gla.s.s sent them flying into the living room.

Charlie lay sprawled out on the couch, blood pouring from his chest and stomach.

Thorne crouched low and slid over to the window, a nickel-plated forty-five in her grip. Shredded curtains and broken gla.s.s from the window covered the floor. Thorne spied a dark figure running along the rooftop of the building across the street. "No use," she said. "He'll be gone by the time we get downstairs."

Robert propped Charlie's feet up and placed a pillow behind his head.

He s.n.a.t.c.hed open the old man's s.h.i.+rt. "Charlie, Charlie. Where's the evidence?"

Charlie tried to speak. Wisps of air came from his lips. Robert couldn't make out a word. "Charlie, we need the evidence! Don't die on us!"

Charlie smiled. Blood gushed from his mouth. He looked relieved.

He tried to speak again, but only gurgled. Blood streamed down his cheeks. His chest stopped heaving. Robert checked for a pulse. He's dead.

Thorne leaned down. "What now?" she asked, calm, controlled. "We don't know where the evidence is, and without it, we're sunk." Robert closed Charlie's eyes. "First, let's get rid of the body," he said. "No police."

"And then?"

Charlie's confession pounded like a mallet in Robert's head. The evidence. How are we going to find the evidence? Two miles away, a s.h.i.+ny black Suburban calmly eased down Pennsylvania Avenue. On the backseat, a high-powered rifle, complete with a heat seeking infrared scope and directional microphone, lay hidden out of view. The vehicle drifted down the empty street. The driver slid a Merideth Brooks CD into the player, and sang along with the song "b.i.t.c.h".

Marilyn London lit a cigarette and smiled.

11.

Andre Perchenkov didn't always work as a serial killer. In the old Soviet Union, young, brash and arrogant, the KGB served as his private playground.

Good fortune faded when Mikhail Gorbachev opened the door to democracy. Russia's newfound freedom melted into catastrophe and chaos. The haves got more, the have-nots turned desperate for the simplest necessities. The new administration found itself buried in regional military conflicts, a worthless currency, and an uncontrollable beast-the Russian mafia.

Money came quickly, but to Andre's dismay, his brother, Vladimir, kept his hands in politics, supporting an underground movement set on restoring Communism. Soon, Vladimir caught the eye of the West, who labeled him a threat. Andre tried to persuade Vladimir to leave Russia by organizing the biggest heist in Russian history.

Hidden deep in a bunker outside Moscow, near a small town called Tula, lay a billion dollars in flawless counterfeit one hundred dollar bills.

From time to time, the phony money bought weapons on the black market, or financed terrorism around the globe, and proved a target grand enough to entice Vladimir away from the CIA's gun sights.

Forty-eight hours after stealing the money, bone-jarring gunfire riddled Vladimir's compound. Andre, knocked unconscious, awoke the next morning unharmed, but couldn't find Vladimir. No body, no blood, not a trace.

Months later, the London Times reported the capture of a notorious Russian mafia drug czar. Vladimir Perchenkov. Wanted by the Americans, extradition came swift, conviction faster still. A federal judge sentenced his brother to two consecutive life sentences he'd never serve. They found Vladimir, wrists slit, dead in his cell.

Distraught, Andre plunged into a depression. When he recovered, the killing began. Andre left his Brentwood Park townhouse for copies of USA Today, the Was.h.i.+ngton Post, New York Times, and a cafe latte. America he hated, but loved her creature comforts.

He no longer spent time tilling soil in Judge Patrick's garden. Citing security reasons, the Secret Service asked her to reduce the yard crew.

Andre got the ax, but managed to scam the layout of Judge Patrick's home and intimate details of her life.

Brentwood Park, a typical, quiet suburb, proved the perfect place to hide. Andre's clean-cut "white boy" facade blended in nicely. No one questioned his comings, goings, or how he managed to afford such an expensive townhouse. He kept to himself, rarely entertaining visitors, except for the occasional prost.i.tute he'd sneak in during the middle of the night.

Andre paused in front of his townhouse and skimmed the front page of the Times. His heart raced. SUPREME COURT CHIEF JUSTICE DIES OF HEART ATTACK. PRESIDENT TO APPOINT FIONA PATRICK.

"Mr. Bardoff! Mr. Bardoff! How are you this morning?" His neighbor, Gloria Parsons, an attention starved redhead, waved to him from her front door. Still in her nightclothes, a pink sheer robe, she motioned with one finger, inviting him over. The sunlight lit her silhouette from behind. Andre wondered why she wore anything at all.

"Sorry Ms. Parsons, but I'm in somewhat of a hurry this morning," he said, in his best Eastern European accent.

"Now, now, Mr. Bardoff, I'll have none of that," she continued, making her way over to him. "We Americans appreciate a good neighbor you know."

Scintillating in the morning glimmer, her forceful, rich green eyes said today's excuses would not go over without a fight. Her hair, usually pulled back into a conservative bun, draped her shoulders like red strands of silk. Propped up on long, alluring, milky white legs, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s full and firm, (not the work of a surgeon), her thick dark nipples, like him, were hard, erect. Smiling, she put her hands on her hips and shook her finger at him in jest. "You've turned down my invitation for coffee every time mister, and quite frankly, I'm insulted." Her robe fell open, and a white lace thong snuggled where he now longed to be.

"I'm sorry Ms. Parsons. It's just that I'm so busy and..." She s.n.a.t.c.hed him toward her place. He didn't put up much of a fight.

"p.u.s.s.y can do what ten men with machine guns can't, and with not nearly the mess." Vladimir's words rang in his ears as she pulled him inside and shut the door.

Gloria pushed Andre back against the door and kissed him hard. His instincts said stop, leave, but his erection offered a different opinion. He kissed her back, his thoughts drifting to Fiona Patrick.

He spun Gloria around, pushed her up against the door, s.n.a.t.c.hed off her robe, and tore off her thong. He licked her body and sucked her b.r.e.a.s.t.s hard. "That a boy!" she said, wrapping a long leg around his back. "That's what mama's been waiting for." Andre threw her down on the couch and quickly undressed. Gloria licked her lips. He closed his eyes and saw himself choking the life from Fiona Patrick's body. The thought excited him. He straddled her, angrily thrusting and ramming hard.

"Oh! You're a bad boy!" Gloria shouted. He flipped her over and sodomized her. "Not so hard honey, it's been a while." He felt Gloria's muscles tighten. She pounded the couch and screamed. Unsatisfied, he grabbed her by the hair, and forced her down to her knees. He felt the back of her throat, imagining how he'd do the same thing to Judge Patrick. His o.r.g.a.s.m erupted, knocking Gloria to the floor.

"Honey, you've got to come over here more often," she said, gasping for air.

"Sorry," he said, catching his breath. "It has been a while for me too."

Andre slipped into his slacks, staring at the newspapers now strewn across the floor. A picture of Judge Patrick, shaking the President's hand, blanketed the inside page of the Was.h.i.+ngton Times.

"I think she'll do great on the Supreme Court, don't you?" asked Gloria, picking up the paper, not bothering to dress. "Not bad looking either."

"I don't concern myself much with your politics." Andre took the paper from her and folded it under his arm. Outside, he looked around to see if anyone was watching.

"Don't be a stranger," Gloria shouted. She winked, smiled, and closed the door.

In his living room, Andre leered at the picture of Fiona Patrick. The article promised a quick confirmation. Fine with me. The faster she'll die. First, I'll send her a little message.

12.

Robert's cell phone vibrated.

"I need to see you right away," said Barbara Veil. "Stop by as soon as possible."

He tried to put it off for a few days. "Mother, I'm busy."

"No, I want to see you today."

"What's it about?"

"I'll explain when you get here." Click.

Robert hit Interstate Fifteen towards Great Falls, Virginia. The image of Charlie, dead on his living room floor, elbowed its way into his thoughts.

They wrapped the corpse up in sheets and an old rug, hauled it down to Thorne's Rover, and had it cremated by a mortician who owed Thorne a favor. On their way to the office, his partner tossed the ashes in a dumpster. "He'd want it this way," she joked.

Charlie's videotape confession now worthless, Robert focused on the evidence hidden somewhere in the city. It might as well be at the bottom of the ocean. Thorne stayed at the office compiling a list of cemeteries and mausoleums. .

Robert growled and slammed his fist on the dashboard. The Mustang swerved, almost hitting another car. A grandmother in a s.h.i.+ny red Volvo blew her horn, and gave him the finger.

Interstate Fifteen merged onto Route Eighty-Nine. Robert exited Twenty Second Street into Great Falls. Five miles later, he swung into the driveway of a modest red brick colonial with ice white shutters. He shut off the engine. Where do we start? Popeye. I'll start with Popeye.

He bounded up the cobblestone walkway. It struck him how things hadn't changed much in the neighborhood in thirteen years. He grabbed the bra.s.s lion-head knocker he purchased in Cairo, then remembered his key. The door swung open before he could use it.

"Bobby," Barbara Veil shouted, lunging into his arms. Her strength still amazed him. She stepped back and gave him the once over.

"Haven't been eating again I see."

"Good to see you too mother," said Robert. "Chasing down bad guys keeps you thin."

"Excuses, excuses. Boy, I tell you, what's a mother to do," Barbara responded, shaking her head in jest.

Age stalked Barbara Veil, but at a d.i.c.k Clark pace. Her hair, thick and full, showed very little gray, and for a sixty-eight year old woman, her figure held a respectable shape.

"I'm here, so what's up?"

"I need a favor, a small one," she told him, slipping her arm through his, guiding him toward the den.