coughed hard into the towel spotting it with blood and phlegm. Robert replaced it with another.
“Who else knew about this, I mean, how far up did it go?” Robert asked.
“I was just a trigger man. These things usually go all the way to the top,” Charlie replied.
“You mean President Johnson?” Thorne asked.
“And Hoover,” Charlie added. “I’m convinced they both knew and didn’t raise a finger to stop it.”
“Now you sound like Oliver Stone,” Robert joked.
“Don’t laugh,” said Charlie, still serious. “He surprised even me.” Robert leaned forward. “How could you do it? He was the President of the United States for God’s sake. Where was your honor?”
“Things were different back then. I was different.”
“Really. You think so?” said Thorne.
“I don’t expect sympathy for what I’ve done,” said Charlie, his voice raspy, almost unintelligible. “I’ve lived a lifetime with the consequences.”
“Why bring it out now?” asked Robert. “Years have passed. Why didn’t you speak out a long time ago?”
“I thought about it every year. I mulled it over, but could never settle on the right moment. Now there’s DNA and other technology. And you’re the right man.”
Robert took a long drink of cold water, and sat the tall glass down on the coffee table. “How did you find out about me? You’ve been out of the loop for a long time. Homeless, living on the streets.”
“I still have a friend or two in the right places overseas,” Charlie answered. “They said you hate the Rothschild types as much as I’ve learned to. You’re not much different than I forty years ago. I made the wrong choices, you didn’t.”
“You make it seem like you picked out the wrong shirt,” said Thorne.
“It’s not that simple. We can go after Rothschild, but you pulled the trigger. What the hell do you expect us to do with you?”
“She’s right,” said Robert. “You’re as guilty, if not more, than Rothschild. You pulled the trigger. You deserve something worse than death.”
“I’ve lived a life worse than death,” Charlie shot back. “I’d rather be dead. If I didn’t have the evidence, I would’ve died a long time ago. If not by Rothschild, then by my own hand.”
“Where’s the evidence now?” Robert asked.
“Hidden,” Charlie told them. “In a mausoleum crypt at a cemetery here in the area. It’s been there since this whole thing started. I’d check on it now and then, no small task with Rothschild’s men watching. It’s the only thing that’s kept me going.”
“We’ll need the evidence if we’re going to make a case. Why did you take it back?
“Because you and your partner didn’t seem quite sure you were up to the task,” Charlie said. “I thought I’d made a mistake.”
“And now?” asked Thorne.
“Now it’s too late to stop. They know what we’re up to so our time is short. But before I give you the evidence, I need to know you’ll ride this out to the end.”
“We’re in all the way Charlie,” said Robert. “Only remember. You go down with the rest. You assassinated a President, and I don’t care how much remorse you feel or how long you’ve suffered on the streets.
We can’t just let you walk away.”
Charlie stared at Robert, his face wrinkled with grief. “I understand,” he said. 'I have come to believe that the whole world is an enigma, a harmless enigma that is made terrible by our own mad attempt to interpret it as though it had an underlying truth.”
“What’s that?” asked Robert.
“Just a quote I like,” said Charlie.
Robert motioned for Thorne to stop taping and follow him into the kitchen. He asked her to take the tapes and secure them in their office safe. He’d go with Charlie to get the evidence. They’d meet back at his apartment and take it from there.
The sound of breaking glass sent them flying into the living room.
Charlie lay sprawled out on the couch, blood pouring from his chest and stomach.
Thorne crouched low and slid over to the window, a nickel-plated forty-five in her grip. Shredded curtains and broken glass from the window covered the floor. Thorne spied a dark figure running along the rooftop of the building across the street. “No use,” she said. “He’ll be gone by the time we get downstairs.”
Robert propped Charlie’s feet up and placed a pillow behind his head.
He snatched open the old man’s shirt. “Charlie, Charlie. Where’s the evidence?”
Charlie tried to speak. Wisps of air came from his lips. Robert couldn’t make out a word. “Charlie, we need the evidence! Don’t die on us!”
Charlie smiled. Blood gushed from his mouth. He looked relieved.
He tried to speak again, but only gurgled. Blood streamed down his cheeks. His chest stopped heaving. Robert checked for a pulse. He’s dead.
Thorne leaned down. “What now?” she asked, calm, controlled. “We don’t know where the evidence is, and without it, we’re sunk.” Robert closed Charlie’s eyes. “First, let’s get rid of the body,” he said. “No police.”
“And then?”
Charlie’s confession pounded like a mallet in Robert’s head. The evidence. How are we going to find the evidence? Two miles away, a shiny black Suburban calmly eased down Pennsylvania Avenue. On the backseat, a high-powered rifle, complete with a heat seeking infrared scope and directional microphone, lay hidden out of view. The vehicle drifted down the empty street. The driver slid a Merideth Brooks CD into the player, and sang along with the song “Bitch”.
Marilyn London lit a cigarette and smiled.
11
Andre Perchenkov didn’t always work as a serial killer. In the old Soviet Union, young, brash and arrogant, the KGB served as his private playground.
Good fortune faded when Mikhail Gorbachev opened the door to democracy. Russia’s newfound freedom melted into catastrophe and chaos. The haves got more, the have-nots turned desperate for the simplest necessities. The new administration found itself buried in regional military conflicts, a worthless currency, and an uncontrollable beast-the Russian mafia.
Money came quickly, but to Andre’s dismay, his brother, Vladimir, kept his hands in politics, supporting an underground movement set on restoring Communism. Soon, Vladimir caught the eye of the West, who labeled him a threat. Andre tried to persuade Vladimir to leave Russia by organizing the biggest heist in Russian history.
Hidden deep in a bunker outside Moscow, near a small town called Tula, lay a billion dollars in flawless counterfeit one hundred dollar bills.
From time to time, the phony money bought weapons on the black market, or financed terrorism around the globe, and proved a target grand enough to entice Vladimir away from the CIA’s gun sights.
Forty-eight hours after stealing the money, bone-jarring gunfire riddled Vladimir’s compound. Andre, knocked unconscious, awoke the next morning unharmed, but couldn’t find Vladimir. No body, no blood, not a trace.
Months later, the London Times reported the capture of a notorious Russian mafia drug czar. Vladimir Perchenkov. Wanted by the Americans, extradition came swift, conviction faster still. A federal judge sentenced his brother to two consecutive life sentences he’d never serve. They found Vladimir, wrists slit, dead in his cell.
Distraught, Andre plunged into a depression. When he recovered, the killing began. Andre left his Brentwood Park townhouse for copies of USA Today, the Washington Post, New York Times, and a cafe latte. America he hated, but loved her creature comforts.
He no longer spent time tilling soil in Judge Patrick’s garden. Citing security reasons, the Secret Service asked her to reduce the yard crew.
Andre got the ax, but managed to scam the layout of Judge Patrick’s home and intimate details of her
