succeed.”
Edward tossed the envelope back to Farzeen, who fumbled and dropped it on the floor. Pictures and papers splattered across the Persian rug.
“I’ll say it again. I don’t need your help.” Aziz and Suraya looked at each other, then at Edward. “We’re afraid it’s too late for refusals,” Suraya told him. “We have a team on its way to Washington. They’ll be here in forty-eight hours and they’re set to take action at our discretion.”
Edward’s head went light. A death squad.
“We’ve instructed them to eliminate this Mr. Veil fellow. The bounty hunter and his partner, who are giving you so much trouble,” added Hassan. “We need to remove all obstacles. We’ll not have anyone, including you, get in the way. Not at the price we’re paying.” Edward’s head pounded and his mouth went dry. He struggled to keep himself together, and sat back in his seat.
“Okay gentlemen, as you wish. But a death squad is extreme, and unnecessary.”
“Strange words coming from a man who had his own President killed,” said Aziz.
Edward ignored the quip. “Nevertheless, I will cooperate, although I insist on being kept abreast of any move your team makes, and I don’t want anyone killed without my knowledge.”
“Agreed,” said Suraya.
There is one other thing,” said Muhammad. “President Claymore.”
“What about him?”
“We’ve prepared our team to kill him too, if necessary. It’s a precautionary measure. We just wanted you to be prepared for the possibility.”
Edward, exasperated, didn’t let it show. For the first time, he wondered is it worth it. “I can appreciate your concern gentlemen, but I’m sure your men won’t be needed. My people are very close to shutting down Robert Veil, and President Claymore is no problem at all.
I’ll be in touch with you very soon. This predicament will be over. I give you my word.”
“Thank you, Mr. Rothschild,” said the ambassador. “Please remember, our men will be here in two days. Not long after, we’ll turn them loose.”
They stood and bid him well. He acknowledged them with a slight bow of his head. Ali appeared at the door.
“I trust your business went well, Mr. Rothschild,” said Ali.
“Thank you, Ali, it went just fine.”
Green florescent numbers on the limo’s ceiling clock read four a.m.
Edward dialed Stuart Hall, the senator slated to chair the confirmation hearings. Senator Hall answered his private line, coughing, annoyed, and agitated. Edward didn’t care. “It’s me,” he said, through grinding teeth. “I need you to turn Fiona Patrick’s life to shit.”
25
Robert reached the estate and found things predictably intense.
“Where were you and Ms. Thorne?”
“Why did you leave the room?”
“How long were you gone?”
“When did you come back inside?”
Robert hammered back. “You’re the Secret Service. Where were you?” Thorne told them what to kiss and where to put it.
Two hours of interrogation and the questions stopped, but not without assurances of more later.
Robert checked in on Fiona. Two detectives and an FBI agent sat in the den peppering her with questions. She calmly answered each, her left hand shaking, a glass of wine in the other, in a voice tired and raspy.
When they finished, Robert took her to see Jessica who lay safe in her room sound asleep. Tired from the day, and after taking the sedative her doctor prescribed, Fiona bedded down for the night. With Fiona safe, Robert and Thorne piled in the Range Rover, pulled out past a lone television truck and headed for the first mausoleum on their list.
Parklawn Cemetery. They exited Interstate 270, made a right at Veirs Mills Road, and parked two miles from the front gate. Heavy trees and brush stacked each side of the street, the air, cold and crisp, stood still. They crept alongside the road just beyond the woods. An owl hooted a warning.
You’re not welcome here!
They reached Parklawn’s driveway. The gate locked. The fence short.
At the top of a narrow winding road, towered an impressive white marble, gold trimmed mausoleum, with two oversized bronze lions guarding the entrance. A monument, out of place deep in woods.
Robert checked their rear. The wind whipped up harder. You’re not welcome here!
“If the stuff’s in here, you can’t say Charlie didn’t have taste,” said Robert, admiring the edifice.
“He killed the President, who gives a fuck.”
“Walked into that one,” Robert mumbled under his breath.
Inside, a dim yellow mist clouded the marble cavern from low-watt lights hanging ten feet apart on the walls.
“I can barely see the names on the crypts,” said Thorne, pulling a flashlight from her jacket. “I checked these tombs before as closely as I could, but there’re so many I might’ve missed a few.” Robert shined his own light down the long corridor, keeping the beam away from the stained glass windows. “I’d say you could’ve missed a few.” The crypts, stacked six in a row, floor to ceiling, seemed to stretch a mile. “If it’s here, it’s in one of the crypts lower to the ground,” he continued. “Easy access.”
Thorne flashed her light on the wall closest to her. “I’ll buy that. I’ll take this side. Think he did us a favor and used his real name?” with an I’m disgusted shake of her head.
“He knew we were coming,” said Robert. “So it’s something we’d recognize.”
They walked to the farthest end of the row on opposite sides, and worked their way back. Robert made a mental snapshot of the rear exit, aimed his flashlight at the wall, and scanned from the top down.
Hardly naive about life’s limits, it shook Robert how many people his age or younger lay resting behind the marble. Jonathan Mason-Loving Son-1959-1994, Alicia Vickers-Daughter-Wife-Mother-1962-1999, all not much younger or older than he or Thorne.
Soon, flickers of daylight bounced through the skylights and they put the flashlights away. Robert focused hard on each name, date, and epitaph, struggling to find a puzzle-piece that fit. Two hours later, two-thirds of the way finished, Thorne pulled off one of her shoes and massaged her foot. “I’m feeling more and more like we should just walk up to Rothschild and start shooting.”
Robert opened his mouth…then heard the front door open. He felt for his gun.
“Excuse me,” a feeble voice said. “Can I help you people with something?”
A thin, grandfatherly security guard stood in the doorway, in a Marine pressed uniform, creased and polished.
Robert stepped forward, hand extended. “I’m Robert Veil, and this is my partn…friend Nikki.” Thorne’s eyebrows flinted upward. He rarely used her first name.
“Tim Billingsly,” the guard answered, a benevolent smile on his face.
“Can I offer you some assistance?”
Robert started to say no, but thought better of it. “Yes, we’re trying to find the crypt of an old family friend. It’s his birthday and we want to pay our respects. His name’s Charlie, Charlie Ivory.” Tim lowered his head in thought, took off his cap, and scratched his half-bald head. “Charlie Ivory,” he muttered. “Can’t say I remember a Charlie Ivory, but that don’t mean much. Been here twenty years. So many people come in day to day you just can’t keep up with’em.”
“Do you think they might know at the office,” asked Thorne. “I came in a few days ago, but maybe they missed it.” Tim scratched his head again. “It wouldn’t be the first time,” he said.
“I’m on my way there now, but they’ve been a little testy lately about giving out information.”
