Veil. Part 2

He walked to the door.

"What about the Bear?"

He paused.

"Or have you forgotten that quickly?"

Robert shut his eyes and cursed under his breath. Caught up in Charlie's confession, he'd forgotten about Andre Perchenkov. The Bear.

A Russian Mafia crime lord, turned serial killer, executed three DEA agents and viciously murdered five federal judges. Grudgingly, Justice Department officials hired Robert and Thorne to find him, dead or alive, for a one million dollar bounty.

Normally the federal law enforcement community didn't work with outsiders, but the FBI and Secret Service were at a stand still, and the White House, desperate to keep U.S. citizens calm, wanted him caught right away.

"You're right," he said, turning to face her. "I forgot about the Bear."

"Then we'll drop this matter," she said, showing a little relief. "Let's tell the old man to shove off."

Robert stroked his chin, walked over to the chair directly across from her and sat down.

Tabling the Kennedy matter for even a minute annoyed him, but Thorne hit a nerve. The Bear would strike again soon, and they needed a break in the case. Fast.

However, the chance to break the Kennedy case, he couldn't pa.s.s up.

The gun, bullet fragments, and brain matter would have to be a.n.a.lyzed, and he'd find a safe place to hide Charlie until he confirmed his story.

No. Both. Charlie and the Bear.

"Thorne, this is why we left the service. Or have you forgotten?

We'll get the Bear. We'll get him. But don't ask me to turn my back and let this one walk away."

Thorne's face twisted in frustration. Robert combed his fingers back through his hair. "Do you remember the day Kennedy was killed?"

"Vaguely," said Thorne. "We were a little young back then."

"Well I remember. Eighty-three people were murdered in the United States on November 22, 1963. One of them, President John Fitzgerald Kennedy. Another, Thomas Randolph Veil." Thorne's face softened. "Your father. I'd forgotten."

"Neither President Kennedy nor my father were perfect men," he continued. "But neither deserved to die the way they did, and in both cases, no one was ever held responsible. Now, my father was just a construction worker, and one death had nothing to do with the other." He stopped, eyes narrow, breathing heavy. He wanted to continue, but couldn't. The rancid flavor of acid rose up in the back of his throat.

"Let's get these guys and burn their a.s.ses. Burn'em straight to the ground."

"Robert, I understand how you feel," Thorne said, in a gentle voice.

"Some creep took my mother from me long ago, but this isn't about us.

This is something else, something bigger." Robert glared through her, his mind traveling back to his parent's kitchen, the day they heard about President Kennedy's death. He didn't fully understand at the time, but he'd never seen his father break down and cry. Later, Thomas Veil went out to the grocery store. Robert had no idea it would be the last time he'd see his father alive. He heard detectives explain to his mother how his dad tried to stop a robbery.

They never found the men who killed him. The country wept for Kennedy. Robert cried for a man he'd have to grow up without.

Thorne picked up her shotgun and stood, resting the weapon on her shoulder. "I haven't forgotten why we quit working for Uncle Sam.

Deep down I want these b.a.s.t.a.r.ds too. But you better be right partner. If not..." She smiled. "You know I've got your back. Just promise me if this does turn out to be legit, we won't give an inch. It's all or nothing." Robert's anger leveled. "Agreed," he said, returning her smile.

"Now let's go tell our new friend."

"You mean your new friend," said Thorne. "He's goin' down in flames with the rest of em. I don't care how long he's been livin' on the streets."

They walked out of the conference room and down the hall. Robert noticed drops of blood on the hallway floor.

In unison, they quietly stepped to opposite sides of the door and readied their weapons. Robert released the safety on his Berretta.

Thorne racked her shotgun.

He carefully tried the doork.n.o.b to his office. Open. He signaled Thorne with three fingers.

On three, they burst inside, guns pointing in every direction.

Charlie's chair lay turned over on its side next to a small pool of blood.

They relaxed their weapons, bewildered.

Charlie and the evidence were gone.

3.

Andre Perchenkov thought himself the perfect hunter. Growing up in St.

Petersburg, Russia, the hunting trips he and his brother, Vladimir, took with their alcoholic father were the high point of a debilitating, abusive childhood.

Those trips made up the few pleasant moments he could remember growing up. Killing his father during one of those outings, another.

Hidden in the thick branches of a leafless tree, twenty yards from an elegant Georgetown townhouse, Andre, ski masked and dressed in black, watched Superior Court Judge Jonathan Weiss pack for what looked like a long tropical vacation.

Harsh piercing wind cut through the tree like p.r.i.c.kly needles. Andre sat unmoved. Months in Siberian wastelands hardened him to the bitter cold long ago. There to take a life, his sixth judge since this ritual began, nothing else mattered.

He glared into the master bedroom with cold indifference, as though the magistrate were a deer, or a rabbit. The judge disappeared from sight, walking into a large luxurious bathroom. Andre absorbed every detail. The olive colored his and hers towels, the brilliant gold fixtures on the sink and shower, the ice white Italian marble floor, and the Irish Spring soap. He watched the judge open a fresh bar, missing the trashcan with the wrapper.

Judge Weiss closed the bathroom door out of habit, Andre supposed.

n.o.body else was home. He watched the last of the servants leave earlier.

Mrs. Weiss left hours ago, and he planned to have the judge decomposing by the time she returned.

He climbed down from the tree. The area, well lit but splotched with plenty of shadows, provided enough cover for him to disappear to the rear unnoticed.

An icy gust whipped up a funnel of snow powder. A rush surged when he reached the rear door, but he suppressed it.

Excited and anxious to kill, his vitals fell steady, his heart rate even.

He unscrewed the overhead floodlight. "Never get too excited right before a kill," his father once exhorted. "Your prey can smell your excitement." Andre reflected that his father never smelled him coming.

He picked the double locked door with no trouble and found the alarm just as simple. Entering the house increased his sense of excitement and expectation, but he remained calm. Tiptoeing through the kitchen, he smelled the fading aroma of garlic and roast duck, and heard the judge moving around upstairs humming Beethoven's Fifth.

He found his way around in the dark with ease, having entered the place for dry runs twice, once while the staff attended to their duties.

At the top of the stairs, Andre stopped, removed the ski mask, and listened. It was stone quiet except for the judge's self-symphony, which moved from Beethoven to Mozart. Perfect.

He inched down the thickly carpeted hallway toward the bedroom door. Luciano Pavarotti replaced the judge's humming. The tenor's aria of Donizetti's La Fille Du Regiment, poured through the wall speakers and filled the townhouse.

From a sheath strapped to his ankle, he slid out a ten-inch buck knife, stopping at the bedroom door. Pavarotti hit an effortless High C and Andre closed his eyes. One of nine he hit that evening, he recalled. New York Metropolitan Opera, 72. I had good seats that night. He slid the knife back into place. I'll use my hands tonight.

Andre cracked the bedroom door open and watched the judge sort clothes. The judge caught a glimpse of him in the dresser mirror, swung around, stumbled, and tripped over a suitcase on the floor. Andre smelled his fear. His heart raced. He pounced, punching the judge hard about the face, crus.h.i.+ng his nose into a clump of mush and blood.

"Urrrhhh," the judge cried, obviously not used to pain.

A shame. If you'd grown up in Russia, your nerve would be stronger and you might have a chance to survive.

The judge's face transformed from fear and terror to desperate anger.

Good. A fight for a change. I was beginning to think Americans lacked the will to live. The judge punched and kicked wildly, knocking Andre on his back, jumped to his feet and ran for the door like he was twenty.

Andre, calm, but deliberate, followed his sixth victim down the staircase. The judge ran into the den and slammed the door. Andre heard the lock slide into place, and turned the cherry lined panels into firewood with his shoulder.

Judge Weiss unlocked a gun cabinet hidden in a panel behind his desk. Andre leaped over the oak, landed on the judge, knocking him to the floor.

"Why are you doing this?" the judge asked, collapsing, deflated.

"Because Lenin would want it this way," Andre told him, speaking in his native tongue.

A woman's scream seared the air. The judge's wife stood rigid in the doorway, a pile of packages and shopping bags at her feet.

"Run Emily!" the judge screamed, fighting, trying to push the Russian off.

Andre, ready to finish, snapped the judge's neck with one quick twist.

Mrs. Weiss screamed louder and ran upstairs.

He didn't mind killing women, but considered letting the judge's wife go. Unfortunately, her sudden interruption broke his concentration, ruining the thrill, leaving him unfulfilled. No matter.

To Andre's delight, Judge Weiss married a woman half his age. He remembered her smooth velvety skin, round b.r.e.a.s.t.s and hard nipples from his last dry run only a few days before.

Yes. I'll kill her after all. Besides, I haven't had s.e.x in awhile.

4.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen, please!" Edward chimed. "Let's save the sparring for another time."

He paused, allowing each of the four men sitting before him a moment to gather themselves. Each was given the opportunity to debate what he considered meaningless issues for almost an hour. Occasionally, he commented on their opinions out of feigned politeness. Now, he wanted their undivided attention.

"I've asked you here at this late hour because I have a very special request. As you know, my son Charleston has been Governor of New York for the past three years. What you may not know is that the White House is his next stop. I intend to pave the way for his ascension to the Presidency, and I hope we'll have your full, unwavering support." Edward Rothschild III leaned back into a courtly, burgundy leather chair that held great men from Churchill to Eisenhower. He puffed his Cuban. A rich cloud from Havana's finest temporarily masked his stern countenance, fierce green eyes and silvery gray hair. The others sat comfortably on sofas and chairs strategically positioned around a highly polished antique coffee table, a precious heirloom from the eighteenth century donated to the Cosmos Club by Edward's long deceased grandmother.

The club's main pavilion was closed, with most of the staff gone for the night. A skeleton crew stayed on during the late hours to tend to the small number of members and guests who stayed in the club's residence overnight. Tonight Edward handpicked the servants. Over the years, he'd learned whom he could trust.

The occasions for these men to meet were rare. When they did, things changed. Stock markets rose or crashed, governments struggled or achieved peace, wars started and ended, leaders lived or died. Their very existence as a group fueled the obsession of conspiracy theorists from New York to Moscow, and Edward was their leader-as much as a group of men like these could have one.

A black, white-coated waiter appeared from a hidden wall panel, the lines in his face a testament to years spent weathering storms and hearing many secrets. Smooth and effortless, he glided to Edward's side, leaning over slightly so the wine he caressed in his white-gloved hands could be inspected. Edward gave the bottle a cursory glance. It was from the 1855 cla.s.sification of Bordeaux, a Chateau Mouton-Rothschild.

The waiter poured a small amount into a crystal wine goblet on the table in front of Edward, who picked it up by its stem, swirled it around in the dim light, then placed the gla.s.s up to his proud, regal nose. Eyes closed, lungs fully expanded, he took a full, deep whiff, leaned his head back slightly and poured the entire contents past his lips, making sure the grape touched his tongue first before filling the rest of his mouth. He swirled the juice around for twenty seconds, swallowed, then nodded his approval. His gla.s.s was filled halfway, then the waiter moved to the others.

Edward snuffed out his gift from Castro and surveyed the room, reading each man as a parent would a child, condescending, knowing.

Only he could call a meeting like this, and only in matters of extreme importance. Up until now, his reason remained a mystery.

"I'm afraid I don't find young Charleston quite ready for the Presidency," said Ian Goldberg, his sausage fingers gripped tightly around the Waterford. "Maybe after another term or two as governor, we can revisit this."

Each of the other three men sat quietly, contemplation etched on their faces. Edward knew Ian would be the first to speak. The portly Chairman of the two hundred billion dollar First Global Trust had his own plans for the White House. Rumors speculated he intended to jockey his nephew, a Senator from Arizona, into office.

Edward never cared much for Ian, or anybody outside of his immediate family. However, in addition to being the world's most eminent financial wizard, Ian Goldberg could keep a secret. He did business with some of the world's most notorious characters; individuals who wouldn't trust G.o.d, but would yield to Ian Goldberg information that could bring down nations. Edward needed him on the team.

"I agree," added Charles Kinston, waving off the waiter, pa.s.sing on the wine. "Your son is a fine boy and a very capable politician, but there are others in line ahead of him. I think we should choose someone from the stable we've already prepared. What makes you think he deserves it now anyway? He hasn't paid his dues."

Charles, for once could you pull your nose out of Ian's behind, Edward thought. The waiter disappeared back through the panel.

Charles Kingston. The name synonymous with media, he ran a worldwide empire, including, newspapers, magazines, television, radio, and internet companies that dominated opinions in almost every area of the globe. He held considerable influence over public opinion, yet he often fell in line with Ian like a schoolboy. Edward often wondered what secret Ian held over the media mogul.

"I might remind all of you that having someone of our own choosing sitting as President, someone who will a.s.sist us without question, is vital to our continued prosperity," Edward told them. "Having a President we can maneuver and direct is in our best interest, and how much closer can you get than having a son in the White House?" he added, a cold look of brutal seriousness on his face.

"How special for you," shot Victor Roselli. "A son in the White House, how nice. But he's your son, not ours." Victor Roselli, smooth and dapper. Boss of what Edward termed the new Mafia. Without firing a shot, Victor orchestrated one of the biggest takeovers in American history. Organized crime.

Movies like The G.o.dfather, and flamboyant, overzealous bosses like Gotti, gave the mob far too much exposure. They were famous. Great if you're Al Pacino, but horrendous for those who actually killed for a living. Victor saw to it that many of the old bosses were indicted, sent to jail, or killed. He preferred stocks, bonds, credit cards, IPO's, and mergers over drugs, prost.i.tution and extortion, and except for The Sopranos, he even managed to limit newspaper and television coverage.

Edward found it amusing that because so many of the old dons were dead or in jail, some fools actually believed the Mafia no longer existed.

"Yes Victor, he is my son, and the sentimental part of me is a proud father. But first and foremost, I'm a businessman. I never forget my friends-or my enemies. Question is, on which side will you fall?" Victor's face told Edward he'd made his point. The others also seemed to grasp the message. However, men like these didn't achieve success by being bullied. Edward felt the tension rise.

"You wouldn't be the first man I've had to count as an enemy Edward. I don't like being threatened, you know that. Remember, I'm not your brother Nicholas," said Victor.