removed a large brown envelope.
He handed it to Edward.
“I put together a file detailing this guy. The Justice Department has him on contract at this very moment. He’s helping track down that serial killer, the one who’s been killing judges. Vernon finished his wine, put out his cigar, and stood. “President Kennedy’s ghost just won’t die, will it?”
Edward looked at the envelope, forced a smile, then gathered his Fedora and black cashmere from the coat rack. “No, seems he won’t,” he said. “Keep me informed.”
“We can’t kill him right away,” added Vernon. “We need the evidence first. If Charlie’s talking maybe he’ll bring it out in the open or lead us to it.”
“Where’s Charlie now?” Edward asked, his calm facade intact.
Vernon lowered his gaze. “We lost him. Veil and his partner left their office and we searched the entire building. He disappeared.” Edward felt alarm, but held it together. “Vernon, wrap this up quickly. I want my son to announce his Presidential bid as soon as possible. I don’t want this hanging in the air.” Edward abruptly left the room and bounded down the winding marble stairs. His chauffeur, Lawrence, a stocky, well-built Englishman, barely made it around to open the door.
Inside, Edward poured himself a glass of B amp;B. “Take the long route home,” he ordered.
“Yes, Mr. Rothschild. Will we be making any other stops?”
“No. Just take your time.”
Edward raised the partition and downed the sixty-year-old liqueur in one gulp. His heart pounded as though he were a burglar about to be discovered. Charlie lurked like a phantom from his past. A haunting figure-a nightmare. Vernon and his men watched Charlie for years.
Edward even hired his own teams from time to time, to make sure Charlie stayed buried on the streets. Over the years, he let his guard down, convinced the assassin’s self-imposed life sentence wore away any possibility of resolve.
The black Lincoln glided onto Pennsylvania Avenue an hour before sunrise. They passed the White House and Edward rolled down his window. Numbing, freezing air rushed in. He stared at the white marble. He needed Charleston to assume the Presidency. His plans depended on it. His nostrils flared. The Presidential residence disappeared. Edward raised the window and leaned back. His grip tightened around the crystal glass, crushing it. Blood seeped from his rigid fist and he dropped the pieces on the floor. He grabbed a white towel from the bar, wrapped it around his hand, then relaxed against the seat and closed his eyes.
His father and grandfather, members of Wall Street’s elite, commanded holdings in the railroads, banking and finance, and military equipment. Edward joined the company after finishing graduate school at Cambridge.
John F. Kennedy assumed the Presidency. Not exactly a banner day for the Rothschilds. Most of their political contributions and influence went to Richard Nixon, his father’s favorite. The loss hurt, but they recovered just in time to ride the military bandwagon to Vietnam, where they stood to make billions from government contracts. Relationships long nurtured by his grandfather when the CIA was called the Office of Strategic Services, the OSS, kept them square in the old boy network.
Then the President decided to pull out of the war before it really got started. The old boys protested, and Kennedy promised to break the CIA into pieces. The threat spawned whispers, and ultimately ended his life.
It wasn’t difficult. Edward’s grandfather recruited him to manage a large portion of the details, to be a project manager of sorts. A word here, a suggestion there, and the pieces slid into place. The Kennedy clan counted many friends, but more enemies. Robert Kennedy, the President’s brother and U.S. Attorney General, angered mob boss Sam Giancana. Add to the mix a group of pissed off Cuban rebels, still stinging from a failed Bay of Pigs invasion, and it didn’t take much to get the ball rolling.
Twenty assassins were considered; two were hired. Lee Harvey Oswald got the nod as patsy, with a team of Cuban guerrillas led by a CIA field officer, actually doing the shooting from the sixth floor of the book depository.
Vernon, a young pup on the intelligence fast track, introduced Edward to Charlie Ivory, a wet boy, who killed at the behest of the CIA.
At the time, Charlie worked as a freelancer, a hired gun. His reputation as one of the world’s best impressed the Rothschilds. A no miss killer with no allegiances, no family, no friends. Edward considered it one million dollars well spent.
With the time and place chosen, a plan agreed upon, they combed through the final details and set everything in motion.
Then, against Edward’s advice, the old boys, his father and grandfather included, decided not to take any chances, and gave orders for Charlie to take the fall with Oswald. They missed. Charlie got away, disappearing with crucial pieces of evidence.
The assassin surfaced, empty-handed, and despite their best efforts, they were unable to find the pictures, documents, bullet fragments, and other items Charlie had in his possession. Information that could link them all to the assassination.
Edward smelled a payoff. It didn’t come. Charlie said he wanted to be left alone. That as long as they kept their distance, the evidence wouldn’t surface. Insincere assurances were given. Edward ordered an around the clock tail on him-to no avail. They watched and waited.
Charlie didn’t so much as cough their way. Until now.
Twenty miles from his estate, Edward opened his eyes. He stretched and picked up the large brown envelope Vernon gave him. Reading it increased his anxiety. I can’t leave this to Vernon to handle alone. If things go wrong, everything will come tumbling down.
He slid the wooden panel on the car door aside and pulled out a hidden satellite phone. An accessory Vernon suggested. He dialed, examining his blue blood soaked hand. I’m not about to let a dead President sully what I’ve worked so hard to build.
The phone clicked several times, routing the call through Paris, Johannesburg, or some other part of the world, then rang. Someone on the other end picked up.
“Hello, this is Edward,” he said. “I have a problem.”
5
Daybreak crested the fringe of Washington’s skyline and hung on the horizon like a luminous vapor. Charlie stooped low in the brush and waited. Another fifteen minutes and Tim Billingsly, the cemetery’s nightshift guard, would finish his rounds and not return for an hour. It would give him just enough time.
Tim disappeared down an endless black road. Charlie picked up his baggage and trotted toward the mausoleum. The icy wind made his bones ache, his knees creak.
Except for three small wooden pews, the mausoleum lay empty.
Charlie crept across the white marble floor as though he might wake the dead. Names on the crypts read like a guest list of old friends he’d come to know well. Martha Parker 1933-1986, Loving Mother; Percy Wintergreen 1913-1991, Husband and Father. So many lives, so many secrets. He wondered who would mourn for him. First, unfinished business.
Each wall of the monument held row upon row of tombs, stacked six high and numbered at the bottom for easy identification. Dim sunlight swelled through the skylights providing just enough illumination for him to find his way. He stopped at row 61D-66D.
Charlie put the duffle bag and blanket wrapped rifle on the floor next to crypt 61D, pulled a pair of pliers and a screwdriver from his urine stained overcoat, and loosened four screws that held the tomb’s marble panel in place. A decorative brass ball no bigger than a marble covered each bolt. Careful not to damage them, he removed each one and pulled a long steel rod from each corner of the slab.
The marble square came easily loose and he gently lowered it to the floor, exposing a dark wooden casket with tarnished gold fittings. He pulled it out halfway and leaned it down to the floor.
An uncontrollable ache hit his lungs. Charlie coughed violently, covering his mouth with a blood-soaked
