Veil

and Charlie dead, before things got out of hand. He looked over at his trump card. Marilyn London.

Marilyn never failed him. That’s why he called her first from his limo the day Vernon informed him Charlie talked to Veil. Marilyn loved to hunt and kill. Her greed almost surpassed his. The perfect killing machine.

“I want you to take care of Robert Veil and the others as soon as possible,” said Edward, lighting the cigar. “You’ve made contact, right?”

“Certainly,” said Marilyn. “He’s working on the murders of those federal judges. You know, the Bear.”

“So I’ve heard,” said Edward. “Perfect. Then you won’t have trouble getting close to him.”

Marilyn smiled. “No, I won’t.”

“What about his partner, Thorne?” Edward asked.

Marilyn’s brow furrowed. “I’ll kill Veil and Charlie, no problem.

But I want that bitch to suffer.”

Edward laughed. Thorne managed to get under Marilyn’s skin. A feat not easily accomplished.

“There is one small matter to tend to first,” said Marilyn. “Money.”

“We have a deal already,” Edward sneered. “Five million for the lot.”

“I didn’t know all the details. Just how involved were you in Kennedy’s death?”

“Kennedy’s not the issue here. Five million’s the deal; take it or leave it.”

“Ten million dollars in my offshore account in the Isle of Man. Half now, half in a Swiss account, to be transferred later as I instruct.” She smiled. “Or you can go fuck yourself.”

Maniacal bitch. Edward puffed the expensive tobacco. She’s right to squeeze. I would. “Done,” he told her.

Marilyn locked the door, unbuttoned her blouse, walked over and dropped to her knees. She undid his pants and swallowed his manhood.

He moaned. Yes. She is the antichrist.

10

Four weeks passed. Charlie, asleep on Robert’s deep cushioned sofa, snored heavily. Robert sipped a cup of coffee, watching the old man from the kitchen, on a slow burn.

Charlie gave him a scare, passing out a month earlier. He thought the old man died right there on his carpet, but finally managed to resuscitate him with mouth to mouth. Reluctantly, Robert called in a favor from Dr.

Ronald Jones, an old friend from the Marines whose life he’d once saved. Dr. Jones diagnosed Charlie’s condition as advanced stage tuberculosis, and put him on aggressive antibiotic therapy. The doctor couldn’t be sure without x-rays, but guessed Charlie probably had very little lung tissue left, and gave him at most six months to live.

Charlie drifted in and out of consciousness, slowly getting stronger and coughing less. Robert didn’t bring up Rothschild or the assassination, giving the old man a chance to recover before pressing him. Now Charlie felt better and Robert wanted details.

Thorne arrived with the video equipment, all business, and without so much as a hello, quickly set up the camera and recorders. Robert woke Charlie, who sat up straight and rubbed his eyes. Robert pulled up a chair. Thorne checked the equipment, and signaled.

“State your name for the record,” said Robert. “Then tell us how you got involved with Rothschild, and what took place that day.” Thorne positioned herself behind the camera next to a small color monitor and tape recorder.

Charlie stated his name, spelled it, then lowered his head. “It’s difficult,” he said, in a broken voice.

Robert’s heart pounded. Thorne’s hand quivered as she adjusted the controls.

“Two governments have always existed side by side. One visible, the other invisible,” said Charlie. “When President Kennedy, arrogant, and so sure of himself, said he wanted to splinter the CIA into a thousand pieces and scatter it to the winds, the invisible emerged and ended his life.”

Charlie took a long, slow drink of water from a glass Robert placed in front of him and cleared his throat.

“In other countries,” he continued, “the object of assassination is to shift power from one regime to another. Just look at history. But the object of President Kennedy’s assassination was to keep the country’s power in the same hands. To maintain the status quo.” Charlie shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “They fell like dominos after that,” he said. “Robert Kennedy, Martin Luther King, Governor George Wallace, John Lennon, even that fiasco at Chappaquiddick. It was all orchestrated to maintain control over the electoral system, to control the power of the Presidency.”

Robert stroked his chin. “To whose benefit?” Charlie looked blankly at the camera, then looked away. He finished the last of the water. Perspiration beaded on his face. The circles around his eyes darkened, his breathing turned shallow and heavy. Robert tossed him a towel. Thorne poured a fresh glass of water.

“There were four of us riding in a used Ford station wagon that day,” Charlie continued. “Two lookouts, a spotter, and myself. We rode through Dallas in silence. The weather report we received from Langley said it would stay warm and cloudless all day, with the temperature about sixty-eight degrees. I crosschecked the report to make sure it was accurate. If it’d rained, we would’ve called it off. Too many things go wrong in bad weather.”

Charlie wiped his face again and closed his eyes tight, as though trying to fight off a nightmare. His lids lifted, eyes beet red, hands trembling.

“We knew traffic would be heavy. To avoid it, we mapped out a route around the crowded streets to a short dirt road in the railroad yard behind the knoll. At eleven-fifty a.m., we heard over the Secret Service radio frequency that the President had left Love Field airport. We drove around the yard one last time, then pulled back out onto the street, parked for fifteen minutes, following the motorcade’s progression by radio. At twelve-fifteen we went back into the railroad yard to set up.” Charlie asked for a break so he could use the bathroom. Thorne checked the camera. Robert refilled the glass of water. Ten minutes later, Charlie emerged looking more relaxed. He sat down without a word. Thorne restarted the equipment.

“We’d been planning the hit for months and had every angle covered.

I’d checked out several spots, including the railroad overpass across the Stemmons Freeway, but from there I’d be too visible.”

“The stockade fence on the knoll was perfect. It faced Elm Street dead on, and you couldn’t drive past without facing the fence. The President would pass directly in front of me, only a few yards away.

Afterwards, we’d be able to get away easily without being noticed. If anyone did run up on us, we’d simply flash our Secret Service credentials and ask them to leave the area.” Charlie wrung his hands and rocked back and forth. “I moved into position at exactly twelve-twenty. While I unwrapped the rifle, the spotter surveyed the area with binoculars and continued to follow the radio reports, moment by moment. The other two men watched our back, pin-pointing a railroad worker in a tower behind us, a little over seven hundred feet away. We thought the tower would be empty because of the motorcade. It didn’t matter though. Mr. Bowers told the Warren Commission he saw men moving around the fence, but couldn’t be sure because his view wasn’t clear. Of course, he died a year later, alone, in a single car accident. They probably didn’t want to chance his memory clearing up.”

Charlie gulped more water, spilling it down his chin. “At twelve twenty-five I checked the rifle one last time, propped it up on the fence and waited.”

“How did you feel knowing you were about to assassinate your own President?” asked Robert.

“Ice cold,” Charlie responded. “At the time it wasn’t murder as far as I was concerned. I was trained to kill for political reasons. The assignment paid well, so it was business. I didn’t care much for President Kennedy anyway, his politics or his family. That made it easier, or so I thought at the time.”

Robert saw Thorne struggling to keep silent, glad she didn’t have her shotgun. He quelled his own anger. Anger with Charlie, more with Edward Rothschild. “Go ahead,” he told him. “Continue.” Charlie closed his eyes. “The spotter tapped my right shoulder, which meant the President’s car was passing the book depository. I pointed the rifle up Elm and noticed the excitement of the crowd increase. To my left, I saw a man holding a film camera,