attendees. Robert remembered the drill. Agents were given false identities for cover, complete with phony family information, jobs that didn’t exist, and political allegiances they didn’t necessarily hold.
Anyone exposing negative chatter about the President or U.S. government received special attention. Sometimes the agents were directed to start negative chatter without provocation, fishing for a potential threat. If a real hazard surfaced, they were quickly, quietly, whisked out to a waiting car and driven far away. If they were lucky, they’d only be detained for a week or two, and even after their release, they remained on a list the agency tracked around the clock.
Thorne caught his attention with her eyes, and flashed a so far, so good nod and smile. He acknowledged her with a slight tilt of his head and kept moving, working the room like a pro, not lingering in one place too long, not offending anyone with his exit, gracious, while examining faces, cataloging names.
Robert escaped the chatter of a well-to-do couple from Wisconsin: he, stout, red-faced, with a bulbous head, and she, over-adorned with jewelry and make-up, and eventually reached the ballroom doors. Two Secret Service killer mutant penguins, standing sentry, ran digital magnetic recorders over him, and the encoded identification card issued by the Justice Department.
Inside the spacious, elegant main ballroom, the creme de la creme of Washington talked, planned, bragged, and schemed. Robert gazed at the ceiling, and marveled at the miniature recreation of Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel, the only one like it in the States. With the ease of a dolphin, he floated about the room, picking up bits and pieces of sensitive chatter.
“I’ve been told that AquaPlatinum will split this week,” someone said.
“We’ve got Senator Bradley in the bag. He’ll push the Gun Control Bill right through,” said another. “To hell with the NRA.” Still another bent the ear of a sympathetic comrade in riches with the equivalent of, “you just can’t find good help these days.” At the dais, Fiona chatted with a colleague. Robert moved to a spot just beyond her line of sight. Striking and chic in her long charcoal evening gown, she flaunted a beautiful but understated quality, sophisticated, but down to earth. He tried not to stare, but she’s got me.
They almost kissed in her den, but he thought better of it. Now he watched her charm dazzle the room, and hoped the opportunity came again.
Guests filed into the ballroom and Robert gave them the once over.
Fiona’s eyes caught his. He smiled. She answered with a wink, then turned her attention to the next supporter jockeying for her attention.
“Things seem to be under control,” said Thorne, gliding up to his side. She scanned Robert’s face, traced a beeline to Fiona, and smiled.
“I knew it,” she said. “You looked a little too calm and collected back at the house, after you finished consoling her.”
“Don’t worry. Nothing happened. I’ve got it all under control.”
“Tell that to the little man in your pants.” Robert smiled. “Little?”
Thorne laughed and went to her table on the far side of the ballroom.
The schedule, seared into Robert’s memory, said President Claymore would arrive thirty minutes after everyone sat down. However, he knew the Secret Service actually never allowed the President to show up at a published time, and never announced which entrance he’d use. Not even the President knew the decision until the very last minute.
In the corner of his eye, Robert caught a glimpse, a flash, of a familiar face. Someone watching, staring. Robert turned. The old man smiled.
Edward Rothschild.
19
Andre meticulously studied the facts and photographs his connection supplied for the two hundred thousand. The well-paid contact, a leftover from his days in the KGB, came through as he had from the beginning, providing intimate details of each judge’s life, and information regarding security and security personnel.
“Excuse me, waiter, can you please make sure I get the vegetarian meal? I called ahead.”
“Not a problem. I’ll see to it straight away, as soon as I finish filling the water glasses.”
Andre, clean-shaven with coal black hair, latex, and make-up, sported a fifty-pound body suit, complete with beer belly. The servers at the Ritz wore the typical well-pressed, dark burgundy uniforms trimmed in gray with black bow ties, that contrasted with the rich pink linen tablecloths, white fan-folded napkins and gold-plated tableware. He looked like any other South American immigrant serving people who barely knew he existed, and didn’t get an awkward glance.
Andre spotted Robert Veil, an intriguing figure highlighted in the file.
Across the room, he eyed Nikki Thorne, Veil’s partner. Mildly impressed, he spent extra time memorizing details about the two. Not out of concern, but competition. He gave Thorne the once over. She intrigued him. The file said no romance existed between the two, something Andre found hard to believe.
Getting a spot on the hotel’s banquet crew went smoother than Andre anticipated. He registered with almost every restaurant and event staff employment agency in town.
The Ritz, short-handed, recognized his superior sense of decorum and etiquette, tricks he’d picked up dining at some of Europe’s finer bistros.
They expedited his security check; ran his driver’s license and Social Security number; both came back clean; no felonies, no criminal history.
Fifty thousand well spent.
Andre spied Judge Patrick at the dais and looked for an opening, a chance to make his move before the President arrived with a wave of extra security.
He locked in on Robert Veil, and followed his eyes to a stately old man standing twenty feet from where Andre poured ice water.
Veil walked over to the regal old man. Andre edged toward the dais.
20
Robert glanced over and Thorne gave him a nod. He checked Fiona.
An agent stood watch at each end of the stage. Additional agents came inside, some manning the exits, others scattering throughout the room.
The President wouldn’t be far behind. Agent Sams stood just beyond the kitchen entrance with an easy view of the crowd. She’ll be safe for a few moments. Robert looked back at Edward. This is as good a time as any.
“Mr. Veil, I presume,” said Edward, not extending his hand.
“Mr. Rothschild,” answered Robert. He smiled. Hello asshole. How about a bullet in the skull?
Edward folded his hands behind his back. “I’d say this was a real pleasure, but…”
“But we both know that would be a lie.”
“Mr. Veil, is there something I can do for you? I’m quite the busy man you know.”
Robert inched closer. “There’s nothing you can do for me. But there’s quite a bit I intend to do for you.” Edward raised an eyebrow. “I’m all ears.”
“I have several rare artifacts you might be interested in, including an exceptionally maintained rifle, in mint condition, a set of striking, one of a kind, black and white photographs of a former President, bullet fragments, books and papers of extreme historical value, and brain matter. A President’s brain matter. You see, the previous owner’s not with us anymore, but he did take time to document his opinions concerning the pieces, on videotape. The whole thing makes for quite a story, and should prove very valuable, especially to a man like yourself.” Edward bristled, but remained calm. “And exactly what does any of this have to do with me?”
“By itself, nothing,” said Robert, leaning in close to Edward’s ear.
“But as I said, the owner of these artifacts died, but said quite a bit on the record. Assassination, cover-ups
