knife from his ankle…five…four… and slashed Sams’ throat with the smooth end of the blade…two…one.
He didn’t stick around to see the spray of blood.
He sprinted down the alley to the street, and ran fifty yards to another off 22nd Street. Off came the uniform, fat suit, facial latex, and yellowed false teeth. On went a pair of stone washed blue jeans, a Georgetown University sweatshirt, Redskins cap and black leather jacket he hid there as a precaution, one of several spots in and outside the hotel where he stashed changes of clothing. He stepped onto the street a different man.
Andre opened his eyes, stretched, and grabbed a plastic bag hidden under the basement steps. He traded the Georgetown sweatshirt for a blue, button-down Oxford, slipped on a pair of black penny loafers, a navy-blue London Fog windbreaker, and gold-rimmed glasses, pronounced himself yuppie and climbed back outside. He hit an empty New Hampshire Avenue and hailed a cab. “Georgetown,” he told the driver, in his best American accent; Bostonian this time, his favorite.
The driver turned down M Street, back toward the hotel. Andre spotted a long line of slow moving cars up ahead. A roadblock. The cab driver, a burly black man, complained as though he and Andre were well acquainted.
“It’s just like that sometimes, Nathaniel,” said the Russian, reading the name off the cab license hanging on the dashboard. “Don’t worry about it,” he added, his enunciation pure Cambridge Ivy League. “I’m in no hurry.”
They moved closer to the front. Andre rehearsed an escape scenario in his head, mapping out what he’d do if the police got suspicious and asked him to step out of the cab. He examined his new drivers license and mumbled under his breath. “Bradley Stevenson, Portfolio Manager from Boston. Mutual funds. Fidelity.”
They reached the head of the line, where two testy police officers stepped to each side of the cab. “We need to see identification for both of you,” said the officer at the driver’s window.
Nathaniel handed him his driver’s and cab licenses. Andre passed his I.D. to the officer on his side. He leaned inside and bounced his flashlight along the backseat and floor like a prison spotlight. The light hit Andre’s face. The Russian dropped his mouth open and tightened his forehead, as though genuinely concerned. “What seems to be the problem officer?”
The officer focused hard on Andre’s face and license. It took so long for the officer to answer, Andre thought he’d been discovered.
“Where’re you heading tonight, Mr. Stevenson?” The officer didn’t crack a smile.
“To J Paul’s for a little dinner,” answered Andre, pushing his glasses up on his nose. “I’m only in town for the night.” Several more glances and the officer nodded to his partner. “No problem, Mr. Stevenson. Sorry about the inconvenience.”
“Thank you,” said Andre, feigning nervous relief.
Less than ten minutes later, the cab dropped him on the corner of 30th and M. He hoofed it through the crowd to one of his favorite restaurants, J Pauls.
College students, foreigners, business people and tourists, packed the restaurant like sardines, laughing, talking, and joking, unaware a brutal murderer stood only a few feet away. Andre headed for the bar, his usual spot, where he could watch the news report.
“What’s up chief?” asked the bartender.
“Spicy shrimp,” said Andre. “A double order. And a Guinness stout.
I’ve worked up an appetite.”
Americans. S o easily fooled, so easily frightened.
“Here ya go my friend,” said the bartender, sitting a tall, dark glass of beer down in front of him. Andre took a long, slow swig, eyes half closed, and savored the thick, foamy brew.
He sat the glass down and nodded for another, turning his attention to the soundless television above the bar. A reporter pointed to the Ritz Carlton hotel, as police and agents hustled in and out. Judge Patrick, her face sheet white, dove inside a waiting car with Veil’s partner, Thorne, right behind her.
“Hot plate,” said a bright-eyed waitress, sitting his food on the bar.
He tipped her and dug into the shrimp, first sucking off the seasoning, then tearing away the shell, swallowing the Cajun flesh whole.
He stopped and looked around. He wished Vladimir were there eating shrimp, getting drunk and laid. Memories of the past played in his head like an old family movie. The more he remembered, the more he seethed with venom.
“Can you believe this?” the bartender interrupted, turning up the sound. “Did you hear what happened?”
“No,” Andre lied. “I’ve been working.”
“That nut case tried to kill another judge,” the bartender continued.
“Judge Patrick no less.”
“The Supreme Court nominee? That’s a shame.”
“It’s unbelievable what people will do. I hope they fry the asshole.”
“Yeah, he deserves it.” Andre finished his beer and motioned for yet another. A new stout replaced his empty glass, then another, and another. He continued to eat and drink, drink and think. He drained the last stout and paid the bill, tired, sleepy. A line of cabs waited out front.
A service for overzealous drinkers.
He gave the driver his address, jumped in back, and fought off the fog of sleep. The confirmation hearings were scheduled to start soon, and he’d put his final plan in motion. He knew his little act at the Ritz wouldn’t stop the judge. She’s stubborn and arrogant. After she’s sworn in, I’ll make my final statement. Take my final revenge.
I’m going to kill Fiona Patrick in her chambers. At the Supreme Court.
24
Halfway to his Virginia estate, Edward received an urgent call from Suraya on his secure line. The Middle Eastern dealmaker and the others involved in their deal, needed to see him, tonight. He directed his driver back into the city. To the Royal Embassy of Saudi Arabia.
Edward stared out at nothing in particular, calculating his next move.
Not since Kennedy’s assassination, did he have more at stake. Marilyn and Vernon walked out on him, but returned for an amount he agreed on, against his better judgment. Hesitant, he remembered his grandfather’s words.
“Make a man rich and you make a new friend. But bring a man into our rarified world, give him the keys only God can offer, and you’ll give birth to a force that’ll serve you as though you were the Blessed Father himself. They’ll worship and follow you. They’ll pray to your very name.”
So Edward offered them the chance to be born again, and wrapped it up nicely in fifty million dollars each. More money than he’d ever paid anyone outside the Rothschild family. He wired half to three separate accounts in the Isle of Man, each masked by separate corporate personas.
He gave them the account numbers, codes, and instructions. When he held the evidence in his hands, and Robert Veil and his partner were dead, the other half would be deposited, and their business done. He never wanted to see the three of them again.
Edward’s limousine glided along the asphalt past the Ritz. A few news trucks and police cars remained. He shook his head, astonished at the sideshow he witnessed in the ballroom.
After his confrontation with Veil, he pretended to be interested in Ian Goldberg’s ranting. A waiter carrying a silver tray of ice water toward Judge Patrick caught his eye. When the waiter sat the tray down, Edward got a quick glimpse of the note. He smiled and returned to his conversation with Ian, relishing the additional pressure Robert Veil would endure because of the incident.
Later, the FBI and Secret Service questioned him privately, asking if he’d seen anything. “Now what kind of American would I be if I saw something and said nothing?” he responded. After a few more questions that led nowhere, they let him go.
