Veil. Part 18

"Here ya go my friend," said the bartender, sitting a tall, dark gla.s.s of beer down in front of him. Andre took a long, slow swig, eyes half closed, and savored the thick, foamy brew.

He sat the gla.s.s down and nodded for another, turning his attention to the soundless television above the bar. A reporter pointed to the Ritz Carlton hotel, as police and agents hustled in and out. Judge Patrick, her face sheet white, dove inside a waiting car with Veil's partner, Thorne, right behind her.

"Hot plate," said a bright-eyed waitress, sitting his food on the bar.

He tipped her and dug into the shrimp, first sucking off the seasoning, then tearing away the sh.e.l.l, swallowing the Cajun flesh whole.

He stopped and looked around. He wished Vladimir were there eating shrimp, getting drunk and laid. Memories of the past played in his head like an old family movie. The more he remembered, the more he seethed with venom.

"Can you believe this?" the bartender interrupted, turning up the sound. "Did you hear what happened?"

"No," Andre lied. "I've been working."

"That nut case tried to kill another judge," the bartender continued.

"Judge Patrick no less."

"The Supreme Court nominee? That's a shame."

"It's unbelievable what people will do. I hope they fry the a.s.shole."

"Yeah, he deserves it." Andre finished his beer and motioned for yet another. A new stout replaced his empty gla.s.s, then another, and another. He continued to eat and drink, drink and think. He drained the last stout and paid the bill, tired, sleepy. A line of cabs waited out front.

A service for overzealous drinkers.

He gave the driver his address, jumped in back, and fought off the fog of sleep. The confirmation hearings were scheduled to start soon, and he'd put his final plan in motion. He knew his little act at the Ritz wouldn't stop the judge. She's stubborn and arrogant. After she's sworn in, I'll make my final statement. Take my final revenge.

I'm going to kill Fiona Patrick in her chambers. At the Supreme Court.

24.

Halfway to his Virginia estate, Edward received an urgent call from Suraya on his secure line. The Middle Eastern dealmaker and the others involved in their deal, needed to see him, tonight. He directed his driver back into the city. To the Royal Emba.s.sy of Saudi Arabia.

Edward stared out at nothing in particular, calculating his next move.

Not since Kennedy's a.s.sa.s.sination, did he have more at stake. Marilyn and Vernon walked out on him, but returned for an amount he agreed on, against his better judgment. Hesitant, he remembered his grandfather's words.

"Make a man rich and you make a new friend. But bring a man into our rarified world, give him the keys only G.o.d can offer, and you'll give birth to a force that'll serve you as though you were the Blessed Father himself. They'll wors.h.i.+p and follow you. They'll pray to your very name."

So Edward offered them the chance to be born again, and wrapped it up nicely in fifty million dollars each. More money than he'd ever paid anyone outside the Rothschild family. He wired half to three separate accounts in the Isle of Man, each masked by separate corporate personas.

He gave them the account numbers, codes, and instructions. When he held the evidence in his hands, and Robert Veil and his partner were dead, the other half would be deposited, and their business done. He never wanted to see the three of them again.

Edward's limousine glided along the asphalt past the Ritz. A few news trucks and police cars remained. He shook his head, astonished at the sideshow he witnessed in the ballroom.

After his confrontation with Veil, he pretended to be interested in Ian Goldberg's ranting. A waiter carrying a silver tray of ice water toward Judge Patrick caught his eye. When the waiter sat the tray down, Edward got a quick glimpse of the note. He smiled and returned to his conversation with Ian, relis.h.i.+ng the additional pressure Robert Veil would endure because of the incident.

Later, the FBI and Secret Service questioned him privately, asking if he'd seen anything. "Now what kind of American would I be if I saw something and said nothing?" he responded. After a few more questions that led nowhere, they let him go.

His limo pulled into a wide winding driveway and stopped at the Saudi Emba.s.sy's black iron gate. Lawrence announced their arrival.

Several cameras panned the car and license plate, and a red laser grid pa.s.sed back and forth over the car, scanning for explosives. Edward admired the Saudis for their diligence when it came to security. Only the Israelis impressed him more. Two minutes later, the gates slowly opened and a Saudi emissary met him at the emba.s.sy's marble steps.

"Good evening, Mr. Rothschild. I am Ali. They're waiting for you upstairs in the library. Please follow me." Edward thanked the tall thin Saudi, who moved with the effortless grace of a swan, and followed. Just how many men in the Middle East are named Ali?

Edward considered the Saudi emba.s.sy the most exquisite in Was.h.i.+ngton. It boasted museum quality artwork and a stunning foyer, redecorated twice a year, complete with new artwork, sculptures, and furnis.h.i.+ngs. Extravagance enjoyed by bottomless oil rich pockets.

He followed Ali up two short flights of stairs then down a long hall adorned with antiques and more art including a Van Gogh original, Starry Night over Rhone. They reached two heavy mahogany doors, carved images of Saudi cities cut masterfully into the wood. Ali braced himself, clutched what Edward guessed to be solid gold handles, and slowly opened both doors to the library as though their entrance were part of a formal ceremony, announcing Edward as if he were royalty.

"Good evening, Mr. Rothschild. We're happy you could come on such short notice," said the Amba.s.sador, s.h.i.+rin-banoo Muhammadi, a princely fellow with smooth dark skin and knowing eyes. He approached Edward arms extended, and hugged him like an old dear friend, kissing him on each cheek.

"It's my pleasure, Mr. Amba.s.sador," Edward lied, irritated at being summoned. "Suraya said you have some concerns. I'm sure I can clear them up without a problem."

"You're most gracious sir, especially at this late hour." The amba.s.sador led him over to a small circle of men, some in suits, others wearing traditional Arab and Persian clothing. "Of course you know the others."

The five men rose and Ali backed out of the room. Edward greeted them as he did the amba.s.sador, paying compliments and making small talk like a tolerant relative at a family reunion. After the greetings, they sat down in seats arranged in a semicircle, leaving a lone empty chair for Edward-facing them.

In addition to the Amba.s.sador, the rest of the group read like the Who's Who of the Middle East power elite. Aziz Bakhtauar, an attorney, dark-skinned with bright, sharp eyes, represented the United Arab Emirates in any negotiations involving their oil resources. Farzeen Dihmubidi, a direct link to the highest levels of influence in Iran, including the military, Ha.s.san Mahmudnizhad, arms dealer to the Palestinians, Muhammad Sa'ud, cousin and Counsel to the King of Saudi Arabia, and Minister of Oil and Edward's main contact, Suraya Khomeini, representing the interests of both Qatar and Kuwait.

"It seems we have a problem, Mr. Rothschild," said Suraya, all niceties finished.

"How may I be of help?"

"Yes," chimed Aziz. "Some of us have received information through our intelligence networks that your government is aware of, and none to happy with, our plans."

"I for one would like to know how they found out," said the Amba.s.sador.

"We've got a lot at stake here," said Ha.s.san, "and we can't afford to have anyone, or anything, get in the way. You do understand, Mr.

Rothschild?"

Edward sat back in the leather chair and smiled. "Gentlemen, the situation is under control. I don't know how they found out, but there's no need for alarm. President Claymore is on his way out. Support for my son is on the rise, and once we're in the White House everything will fall smoothly into place."

Silence washed over the room.

"Forgive us if we don't share your unabashed optimism," said Aziz.

"Some of us are risking everything, including our relations.h.i.+p with the United States, a relations.h.i.+p I might add, already on the mend."

"Understood," said Edward. "We all knew the risks involved when we started down this road. Besides, if Israel starts manufacturing crude oil at two dollars a barrel, and gas prices drop to twenty-five cents a gallon, your relations.h.i.+p with the United States will be the least of your worries. Molecular Nanotechnology and Israel's Project Genesis will change everything in the Middle East, gentlemen. None of you will be players on any kind of scale."

Edward watched their faces. He knew they were scared to death.

Scared of losing their place in the world's pecking order. Terrified of financial extinction.

"With a small crude-oil field," Edward continued. "Israel will duplicate oil's molecular structure, causing it to multiply billions of times over, creating an endless supply. Somewhere in a small compound forty kilometers outside Beersheba, the Israelis are about to change the world. And in one fell swoop, you will no longer be relevant."

"We can always strike a deal with Israel," said Suraya." Maybe work out an agreement that includes the disposal of one of their nagging problems."

The others murmured in agreement with Suraya.

"Of course you're referring to the Palestinians," said Edward. "Well, anything's possible, but you've been tunneling money to the Palestinians for decades. Why would Israel accept your friends.h.i.+p, when in less than a year of introducing Project Genesis, you won't even exist?" Edward crossed his legs and relaxed. "No gentlemen, the only way to preserve your survival is to stop Israel in its tracks. The only way to do that is war, and the only war you can win is the one I can structure for you." More murmuring filled the room. "Are you still sure you'll be able to orchestrate this deal without interference?" asked the amba.s.sador.

"Support of Israel remains very popular. How can you ignore the pressure that will come from Tel Aviv?"

"Mr. Amba.s.sador, you will have nuclear and chemical weapons, technology to fight your common enemy, Israel. When you attack, the United States will stay silent. Yes, there will be an uproar, but one I'll control. You're familiar with the resources already at my disposal. Soon I'll hand pick everybody from the National Security Advisor to the Joint Chiefs and everywhere in-between."

"You're a Jew, Mr. Rothschild," said Farzeen. "How does all of this make you feel?"

"Like a diamond, Mr. Dihmubidi. Very rare and very valuable." Even Suraya winced, giving Edward pleasure.

"Mr. Rothschild," the Amba.s.sador cleared his throat. "Once again, we would like to offer our a.s.sistance. Your problems seem to be mounting, and although we know you to be most capable, it would give us great comfort..."

"Thank you Mr. Amba.s.sador, but I must again decline your gracious offer. I a.s.sure you, everything is under control."

"I'm afraid we must insist, Mr. Rothschild," said Muhammad.

"Things have changed substantially since we last met, and we want to insure our investment in you and your son."

"I'm afraid I don't understand," Edward said, his eyes narrowing.

"Exactly what has changed?"

Muhammad reached down and picked up his attache case, opened it, and handed Edward a thick brown envelope. Inside were pictures and notes. Photographs of Charlie Ivory, Robert Veil, Thorne, Marilyn, Vernon and Simon. The typed and handwritten notes covered details on each of them and summarized revelations about Edward's involvement in the Kennedy a.s.sa.s.sination. His pulse quickened. He uncrossed his legs and looked up.

"You've been following me, checking into my business?"

"What did you expect?" said Farzeen. "That we'd just hand over hundreds of billions of dollars in land and oil reserves without knowing everything about you?"

Edward rifled through the file and came across several photos of President Kennedy at the moment his head exploded from Charlie's final shot.

"It's not our business how you handle your affairs here in the States," Suraya continued. "a.s.sa.s.sination is a way of life in all our countries, however, your situation is far too explosive. We want to make sure you succeed."

Edward tossed the envelope back to Farzeen, who fumbled and dropped it on the floor. Pictures and papers splattered across the Persian rug.

"I'll say it again. I don't need your help." Aziz and Suraya looked at each other, then at Edward. "We're afraid it's too late for refusals," Suraya told him. "We have a team on its way to Was.h.i.+ngton. They'll be here in forty-eight hours and they're set to take action at our discretion."

Edward's head went light. A death squad.

"We've instructed them to eliminate this Mr. Veil fellow. The bounty hunter and his partner, who are giving you so much trouble," added Ha.s.san. "We need to remove all obstacles. We'll not have anyone, including you, get in the way. Not at the price we're paying." Edward's head pounded and his mouth went dry. He struggled to keep himself together, and sat back in his seat.

"Okay gentlemen, as you wish. But a death squad is extreme, and unnecessary."

"Strange words coming from a man who had his own President killed," said Aziz.

Edward ignored the quip. "Nevertheless, I will cooperate, although I insist on being kept abreast of any move your team makes, and I don't want anyone killed without my knowledge."

"Agreed," said Suraya.

There is one other thing," said Muhammad. "President Claymore."

"What about him?"

"We've prepared our team to kill him too, if necessary. It's a precautionary measure. We just wanted you to be prepared for the possibility."

Edward, exasperated, didn't let it show. For the first time, he wondered is it worth it. "I can appreciate your concern gentlemen, but I'm sure your men won't be needed. My people are very close to shutting down Robert Veil, and President Claymore is no problem at all.

I'll be in touch with you very soon. This predicament will be over. I give you my word."

"Thank you, Mr. Rothschild," said the amba.s.sador. "Please remember, our men will be here in two days. Not long after, we'll turn them loose."

They stood and bid him well. He acknowledged them with a slight bow of his head. Ali appeared at the door.

"I trust your business went well, Mr. Rothschild," said Ali.

"Thank you, Ali, it went just fine."

Green florescent numbers on the limo's ceiling clock read four a.m.

Edward dialed Stuart Hall, the senator slated to chair the confirmation hearings. Senator Hall answered his private line, coughing, annoyed, and agitated. Edward didn't care. "It's me," he said, through grinding teeth. "I need you to turn Fiona Patrick's life to s.h.i.+t."

25.

Robert reached the estate and found things predictably intense.

"Where were you and Ms. Thorne?"

"Why did you leave the room?"

"How long were you gone?"

"When did you come back inside?"

Robert hammered back. "You're the Secret Service. Where were you?" Thorne told them what to kiss and where to put it.

Two hours of interrogation and the questions stopped, but not without a.s.surances of more later.