It would destroy our foreign relationships with every ally from Israel to Britain.”
“My compliments, Mr. President, but I’ve done nothing wrong. I don’t know where your information comes from, but your report is inaccurate. I’ve never discussed trading or selling secrets to anybody.
That would be treason.”
“Not if you controlled policy from this office,” said the President. “A Cabinet of your choosing. Greased palms on the Hill and in the Senate.
You’d have the run of the castle.”
Edward smiled. “Like I said, I have no such intentions, and by the way, discussing oil isn’t illegal Mr. President.”
“No, it’s not. Then again, we’re not just talking oil, are we? No westerner has ever owned oil-producing property outright in the Middle East, have they? You’d be the first. What’s that worth? Ten, twenty billion a year? A hundred? Not to mention the stranglehold you’d have over more than a few nations. Japan? Germany?” Edward girded himself. “If a man did acquire that kind of reach, Mr.
President, how do you think he’d treat his friends, and his enemies?” The President took a deep breath and looked out into the rose garden.
“I’ve learned to be content with what I have.” He looked back at Edward. “And at this point in my life, I don’t worry about my enemies.”
“Some would call that foolish,” said Edward.
“Some would call you crazy,” answered the President.
“If you believe the things you’re saying,” said Edward, “then why haven’t you done something about it?”
“You’re right. This is all unconfirmed.” The President tossed the folder on the table in front of them. “Or you’d already be in jail. Or worse.”
“Please don’t threaten me, Mr. President.”
“Oh, you’re not the man to threaten, Mr. Rothschild. I’ll grant you that.” The President crossed his legs. “But I guess your good friend Charlie Ivory found that out, didn’t he?” Edward’s breath shortened, his heartbeat quickened. The President sat silent, as though watching the noose tighten.
“I’m not familiar with the gentleman,” Edward lied. “Should I be?”
“Where were you November 22, 1963?” asked the President.
“At the top of the food chain,” replied Edward, his confidence a bluff.
The President stood, towering over Edward. “I can’t prove it, you bastard, but I wanted you to know. I know who you are. I know what you’ve done. You’re an evil, despicable man, Edward Rothschild. Now get out of this office. And I hope hell has a special place just for you.” The President stomped over to his desk and pushed a buzzer. Edward sat frozen. He wanted to say something, to fire back, but the words choked up in his throat. He finally stood. The Oval Office door opened.
He barely made eye contact with Alice. His head spinning, dizzy, he fought the urge to throw up.
“Oh, and Edward,” said the President, not looking up from his desk.
“Tell young Charleston I wish him all the best. He’s going to need it.” Edward didn’t answer. He wandered into the hallway, feeling Alice’s glare on the back of his neck. Sarah came bounding down the hallway, all smiles and talking fast, but he couldn’t make out a word.
Familiar aides and staffers greeted him, their words hollow in his ears. He went through the motions, shaking hands, slapping backs, and accepting encouragement for Charleston’s Presidential effort.
He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face. The President knew about his overseas plans. More importantly, he knew about Charlie Ivory. Who else knows? Why didn’t Vernon know about this? What the hell am I going to do?
Edward slid inside his limo. Sarah’s goodbye echoed in a cave. The door closed. His hands trembled. Edward bit his lip. Think, dammit, think. He grabbed a bottle and poured a generous brandy. What the fuck am I going to do?
15
Edward’s chauffeur, on his instructions, drove around the Beltway, biding time. An hour and three brandies later, anxiety subsided, his trembling hands relaxed.
President Claymore’s dossier outlined his two biggest secrets.
Charlie Ivory, dead, he could handle. The Middle East oil opened another matter.
Suraya Khomeini, arms dealer from Iran, sent him an invitation five years earlier inviting him to a private reception at the United Nations.
Edward eventually agreed to attend, and the large, imposing Iranian told him a pulsating, enriching tale.
Israeli researchers perfected the ground breaking science, molecular nanotechnology, and stood a few short steps from being able to manufacture inexpensive oil, without exploration, drilling or refining.
The technology provided the breakdown of structured matter, allowing the manipulation of molecular codes, and the production of natural resources the way a tree produced leaves. Israeli oil, for pennies on the dollar, would dominate the global market, and neuter every other country in the region. Israel named it Project Genesis, a new beginning.
Suraya estimated Genesis would be up and running in less than seven years, and asked Edward for help. He named his price. Prime oil land ownership for life. Six months later, Suraya sent word. It’s a go.
Edward set up control of the White House. Suraya and his associates planned Saddam Hussein’s downfall. The President of the United States, (Charleston, if Edward succeeded) with strong support from the Senate and Congress, would step in to “help a wounded nation” by providing weapons, military advisors, and humanitarian support. Suraya and his partners would enjoy access to cutting-edge military technology and weapons, including an advanced nuclear program. A unified Muslim front backed up by nuclear weapons, would aggressively attack Israel.
Edward’s part of the deal would be done. World War III could begin.
Edward ordered his driver back into D.C. proper, called Marilyn, Vernon, and Simon, and ordered them to the club right away. He’d light a fire and get them to find the evidence. He’d be clean. Then it wouldn’t matter what President Claymore knew.
Edward stomped the foyer’s marble floor like a bull. Patra, the club hostess, greeted him. “Your guests are waiting in private dining room number three.”
He gave a gruff thank you and continued through the lobby. The club’s old-fashioned elevator, complete with sliding gate and red paisley couch, inched to the third floor. Edward played the situation over in his head. The elevator stopped, he flung open the gate, took a few steps, then paused in front of an antique mirror.
A Rothschild stared back at him, bold, strong, in control. Nobody’s gonna fuck this up! Nobody!
Marilyn, Simon, and Vernon, seated at the far end of the room, looked puzzled. Edward tossed his coat on a small couch behind Marilyn.
“I was in the middle of an important briefing at the Pentagon,” hissed Vernon. “Don’t you think this is a little dangerous?” Edward, hands on his hips, glared at them. “Have you confirmed Charlie’s death?”
“Yes,” said Marilyn, “I saw to it myself. Two hits, one in the stomach, one in the chest. I used a. 30 caliber long-range rifle with armor piercing rounds. He’s gone.”
“What about the body?” asked Vernon.
“I don’t know what they did with it. I checked the emergency dispatch logs. There were no calls from Veil’s apartment. No cell phones either. They must’ve disposed of the body or hid it somewhere.
It doesn’t matter.”
“Doesn’t matter,” said Simon, sneering.
“No it doesn’t,” she said, cool and matter of fact. “A bullet riddled body would raise questions Veil couldn’t answer, especially after Patrick Miller’s death. He did us a favor.”
“I agree,” said Edward. “Which brings me to my next question.” Marilyn looked down at the table nervously and cleared her throat.
