His limo pulled into a wide winding driveway and stopped at the Saudi Embassy’s black iron gate. Lawrence announced their arrival.
Several cameras panned the car and license plate, and a red laser grid passed back and forth over the car, scanning for explosives. Edward admired the Saudis for their diligence when it came to security. Only the Israelis impressed him more. Two minutes later, the gates slowly opened and a Saudi emissary met him at the embassy’s marble steps.
“Good evening, Mr. Rothschild. I am Ali. They’re waiting for you upstairs in the library. Please follow me.” Edward thanked the tall thin Saudi, who moved with the effortless grace of a swan, and followed. Just how many men in the Middle East are named Ali?
Edward considered the Saudi embassy the most exquisite in Washington. It boasted museum quality artwork and a stunning foyer, redecorated twice a year, complete with new artwork, sculptures, and furnishings. Extravagance enjoyed by bottomless oil rich pockets.
He followed Ali up two short flights of stairs then down a long hall adorned with antiques and more art including a Van Gogh original, Starry Night over Rhone. They reached two heavy mahogany doors, carved images of Saudi cities cut masterfully into the wood. Ali braced himself, clutched what Edward guessed to be solid gold handles, and slowly opened both doors to the library as though their entrance were part of a formal ceremony, announcing Edward as if he were royalty.
“Good evening, Mr. Rothschild. We’re happy you could come on such short notice,” said the Ambassador, Shirin-banoo Muhammadi, a princely fellow with smooth dark skin and knowing eyes. He approached Edward arms extended, and hugged him like an old dear friend, kissing him on each cheek.
“It’s my pleasure, Mr. Ambassador,” Edward lied, irritated at being summoned. “Suraya said you have some concerns. I’m sure I can clear them up without a problem.”
“You’re most gracious sir, especially at this late hour.” The ambassador led him over to a small circle of men, some in suits, others wearing traditional Arab and Persian clothing. “Of course you know the others.”
The five men rose and Ali backed out of the room. Edward greeted them as he did the ambassador, paying compliments and making small talk like a tolerant relative at a family reunion. After the greetings, they sat down in seats arranged in a semicircle, leaving a lone empty chair for Edward-facing them.
In addition to the Ambassador, the rest of the group read like the Who’s Who of the Middle East power elite. Aziz Bakhtauar, an attorney, dark-skinned with bright, sharp eyes, represented the United Arab Emirates in any negotiations involving their oil resources. Farzeen Dihmubidi, a direct link to the highest levels of influence in Iran, including the military, Hassan Mahmudnizhad, arms dealer to the Palestinians, Muhammad Sa’ud, cousin and Counsel to the King of Saudi Arabia, and Minister of Oil and Edward’s main contact, Suraya Khomeini, representing the interests of both Qatar and Kuwait.
“It seems we have a problem, Mr. Rothschild,” said Suraya, all niceties finished.
“How may I be of help?”
“Yes,” chimed Aziz. “Some of us have received information through our intelligence networks that your government is aware of, and none to happy with, our plans.”
“I for one would like to know how they found out,” said the Ambassador.
“We’ve got a lot at stake here,” said Hassan, “and we can’t afford to have anyone, or anything, get in the way. You do understand, Mr.
Rothschild?”
Edward sat back in the leather chair and smiled. “Gentlemen, the situation is under control. I don’t know how they found out, but there’s no need for alarm. President Claymore is on his way out. Support for my son is on the rise, and once we’re in the White House everything will fall smoothly into place.”
Silence washed over the room.
“Forgive us if we don’t share your unabashed optimism,” said Aziz.
“Some of us are risking everything, including our relationship with the United States, a relationship I might add, already on the mend.”
“Understood,” said Edward. “We all knew the risks involved when we started down this road. Besides, if Israel starts manufacturing crude oil at two dollars a barrel, and gas prices drop to twenty-five cents a gallon, your relationship with the United States will be the least of your worries. Molecular Nanotechnology and Israel’s Project Genesis will change everything in the Middle East, gentlemen. None of you will be players on any kind of scale.”
Edward watched their faces. He knew they were scared to death.
Scared of losing their place in the world’s pecking order. Terrified of financial extinction.
“With a small crude-oil field,” Edward continued. “Israel will duplicate oil’s molecular structure, causing it to multiply billions of times over, creating an endless supply. Somewhere in a small compound forty kilometers outside Beersheba, the Israelis are about to change the world. And in one fell swoop, you will no longer be relevant.”
“We can always strike a deal with Israel,” said Suraya.” Maybe work out an agreement that includes the disposal of one of their nagging problems.”
The others murmured in agreement with Suraya.
“Of course you’re referring to the Palestinians,” said Edward. “Well, anything’s possible, but you’ve been tunneling money to the Palestinians for decades. Why would Israel accept your friendship, when in less than a year of introducing Project Genesis, you won’t even exist?” Edward crossed his legs and relaxed. “No gentlemen, the only way to preserve your survival is to stop Israel in its tracks. The only way to do that is war, and the only war you can win is the one I can structure for you.” More murmuring filled the room. “Are you still sure you’ll be able to orchestrate this deal without interference?” asked the ambassador.
“Support of Israel remains very popular. How can you ignore the pressure that will come from Tel Aviv?”
“Mr. Ambassador, you will have nuclear and chemical weapons, technology to fight your common enemy, Israel. When you attack, the United States will stay silent. Yes, there will be an uproar, but one I’ll control. You’re familiar with the resources already at my disposal. Soon I’ll hand pick everybody from the National Security Advisor to the Joint Chiefs and everywhere in-between.”
“You’re a Jew, Mr. Rothschild,” said Farzeen. “How does all of this make you feel?”
“Like a diamond, Mr. Dihmubidi. Very rare and very valuable.” Even Suraya winced, giving Edward pleasure.
“Mr. Rothschild,” the Ambassador cleared his throat. “Once again, we would like to offer our assistance. Your problems seem to be mounting, and although we know you to be most capable, it would give us great comfort…”
“Thank you Mr. Ambassador, but I must again decline your gracious offer. I assure you, everything is under control.”
“I’m afraid we must insist, Mr. Rothschild,” said Muhammad.
“Things have changed substantially since we last met, and we want to insure our investment in you and your son.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Edward said, his eyes narrowing.
“Exactly what has changed?”
Muhammad reached down and picked up his attache case, opened it, and handed Edward a thick brown envelope. Inside were pictures and notes. Photographs of Charlie Ivory, Robert Veil, Thorne, Marilyn, Vernon and Simon. The typed and handwritten notes covered details on each of them and summarized revelations about Edward’s involvement in the Kennedy assassination. His pulse quickened. He uncrossed his legs and looked up.
“You’ve been following me, checking into my business?”
“What did you expect?” said Farzeen. “That we’d just hand over hundreds of billions of dollars in land and oil reserves without knowing everything about you?”
Edward rifled through the file and came across several photos of President Kennedy at the moment his head exploded from Charlie’s final shot.
“It’s not our business how you handle your affairs here in the States,” Suraya continued. “Assassination is a way of life in all our countries, however, your situation is far too explosive. We want to make sure you
