Veil. Part 13

"No, but I'm trying to find her. Any idea where she might be?"

"Haven't seen her for some time now," Beth answered. "She and Charlie fell out about somethin, and it must'a been a beaut, cause those two thick as thieves."

Most of the papers on the floor looked useless and unimportant. Old magazines, newspaper articles, junk mail, coupons, and incoherent scribbling on several legal pads.

But to Robert's surprise, included in the pile of junk, were more than a dozen cemetery brochures, all featuring mausoleums and crypts.

"I need to take these brochures."

"Take'em. Don't know why Charlie kept'em anyway. He always lookin at em, like he was gonna die any day. I told'em carryin those things around was bad luck."

Robert examined the brochures closely, but didn't see markings or notes on any of them, not an indication one stood more important than the other. "Did he have a favorite?"

"Never talked about 'em," said Beth. "Least not to me. I asked him once. He almost bit my head off. I said to h.e.l.l with it, and never asked again."

Robert helped Beth up. He thanked her and asked if she needed any help.

"No, but thank you anyway," she said, friendly and relieved.

Robert stuck the brochures in the inside pocket of his coat, placed a gentle hand on Beth's shoulder, said goodbye, and left. If the evidence is in one of these twelve, we have a chance. He jumped in his car and threw on Earth Wind and Fire, dialed Thorne, and headed straight for the office.

14.

Old and cliche, visiting the White House no longer held a commanding presence for Edward. Until recently.

Over the years, he held at least one face-to-face with every President since Lyndon Johnson, initially joining his father and grandfather. He marveled at the command and authority the senior Rothschilds exerted over the Commander in Chief. He learned even Presidents took orders, answering to more than Congress or the American people.

His limo reached Pennsylvania Avenue and the White House came into view. President William Claymore twice shunned his request for this meeting, until Edward finally sent an "urgent" message through back channels. He often found himself at odds with President Claymore, who proved a most irreverent and difficult President to control.

However, today Edward wanted to secure President Claymore's endors.e.m.e.nt and support for Charleston's Presidential bid, a move certain to spark controversy, especially since the Vice President, Lucas Springfield, confirmed his candidacy the day before. A risky move, getting Claymore's support would be difficult but not impossible.

Edward held a few chips he intended to call in. Favors he planned to cash out. Not to mention several Presidential indiscretions recently brought to his attention. I'll turn the screws if necessary.

A procession of sedans, limousines and government vehicles, lined-up in the White House driveway waiting for the impeccably uniformed Secret Service guard to wave them through. The parade included presidential aides, cabinet members and staff on their way to give the early round of briefings, on everything from foreign affairs to the world economy. Edward smiled. Many of these individuals worked on his payroll, and provided him with the same information as the President, sometimes more.

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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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 cus.h.i.+oned, blue carpet, pa.s.sing portraits of former Presidents; Was.h.i.+ngton, 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 Was.h.i.+ngton 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 s.h.i.+fted 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 bra.s.s, 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 finis.h.i.+ng 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 G.o.d'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 fis.h.i.+ng 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 n.o.ble 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 Was.h.i.+ngton.

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 pa.s.s. 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, Mr. 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 gla.s.ses.

"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 G.o.d, Edward, have you given any thought to what this would do to the world?

It would destroy our foreign relations.h.i.+ps 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. j.a.pan? 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d, 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 h.e.l.l 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 h.e.l.l 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 f.u.c.k am I going to do?