the time for new faces. We don’t know enough about Marilyn London, and I don’t trust her.”
“We don’t have a choice. We can use another pair of eyes and ears.”
“Why in the hell would she show us that kind of generosity anyway?
What makes you think she won’t run to her bosses and turn us in?” Robert really couldn’t be sure. “It’s just a hunch,” he told her.
“Your hunches got us here, remember?”
“If you have a better idea, let’s hear it.”
“I think we should go around and kill every single one of them,” she answered. “Edward Rothschild, that little weasel asshole who works for him, and anyone else who shows up.”
“It might come to that, and when it does you know I’m good for it.
However, for now let’s finish searching those crypts. Parklawn should be clear now; it’s been three days. You check the others on your list. I’ll go back and finish Parklawn, then continue with my half of the brochures. “And if Rothschild’s men show up this time…”
“I’m way ahead of you partner. They show, they die.”
“Be careful,” he told her.
Thorne smiled, went to her Rover, and drove off. Robert tried Marilyn again, and again, got voice mail. He jumped in the Mustang and left.
He reached Parklawn, parked in the same spot he and Thorne used before, cut through the thick trees and brush, and stopped at the fence just beyond the mausoleum. He waited for the last flicker of light to disappear over the horizon. An hour later, he stood at the entrance, ripping down police yellow tape. A sign tacked to the door read “Police Crime Scene: Do Not Enter” and detailed penalties for those who chose to ignore the warning.
He heard the faint, distant sound of tires flying down the highway, less than a mile away. He stood at the door and listened. A tail followed him when he left Fiona’s, but he lost them downtown before jumping on the freeway. Nothing. All clear.
He slipped under the tape and tried the door. Locked, but easily defeated, he cracked it open enough for him to slip through, then relocked it behind him.
Inside, the mausoleum showed no sign of the struggle or murder. No lifeless, crumpled body on the floor, head blown apart. No blood splattered on the crypts and floor. All eyewitnesses eternally asleep.
Robert worked both walls with systematic precision, searching, studying, praying. He thought about Charlie and the things he’d said, hashing and rehashing the assassin’s words over in his mind, hoping for a morsel of recognition.
He spotted several “Charlie’s” laid to rest behind the marble, “Charlie Williams” “Charles Kensington” and “Charlie Noble” but none registered the slightest spark of discovery.
Outside, the wind kicked up like an enthusiastic worker back from lunch, eager to tackle a satisfying assignment, whistling through unseen crevices in the mausoleum, blowing an eerie, howling symphony, like a ghostly siren’s song.
He stopped and listened. Voices? No, the wind. Standing statue still, he grazed the grips of his automatics and turned up his internal receiver, tuning in, listening. Several minutes passed. Nothing. Only the wind.
Robert resumed the search. Crunch! He spun around. Twigs, breaking under someone’s feet. He honed in on…a voice, a phrase, a single phrase, one he’d siphoned out of blowing sand in the desert outside Kuwait. A whisper, Over here in Arabic. He listened longer, but heard nothing. My mind must be playing tricks. Robert tip toed to the door, gun now in hand, a slender flashlight in his mouth. He pressed an ear to the door. All quiet.
He glanced back at the last few rows. A drum pounded in his ears, his heart thumped, his mouth went dry. He cast the light on one of the crypts and stepped closer. “Shit.” He stared at the name on the tomb, and pressed his hand on the cold marble in disbelief. Julie Rice! We did it! We’re going to tell the world!
Lights from an approaching vehicle splattered through the stained glass windows. He peeked outside. Security.
Robert trotted to the rear of the building and hid behind a large wooden podium on a small stage in a tiny sanctuary.
“I still can’t believe Tim is dead,” a female voice said, with solace.
“Who the hell would blow away an old man, and for what?”
“I know,” said a sober male voice. “Poor bastard. We had his retirement party planned and everything.” Their footsteps clomped in his direction. Robert tensed. One of them stepped up on stage. He crouched a little lower and caught a whiff of perfume. Bijon. One of Thorne’s favorites. The female guard stood directly in front of the podium, her flashlight illuminating the area behind him.
“This place is empty except for our usual guests. Let’s get out’a here,” she said.
“Yeah, I’m starving,” said her partner. “How about Johnny O’s? I could use a nice pastrami.”
The woman chuckled. “Fred, you could eat a horse after Thanksgiving dinner.”
They laughed and left the building, locking the door behind them.
Robert waited until he heard them pull away, then emerged and started for the door. A whisper in the wind stopped him in his tracks.
Arabic chatter, coming in his direction.
He ran for the rear exit. The front door crashed open. Four men, Middle Eastern as far as he could tell, all armed with automatic weapons, searched the hall with darting eyes.
Robert slid outside, but like a whistleblower, the wind slammed the door shut, and he heard footsteps stampede toward him. He bolted over the fence into the woods. Machinegun fire ripped behind him. He darted out to the street, ass on fire, to his car. More gunfire peppered the air sending birds skyrocketing out of the trees, and him diving to the ground. He flipped over and returned fire with both Berettas. The four men hit the dirt, two taking hits in the leg and shoulder.
Robert scrambled to the Mustang and fired up the engine. The back windshield exploded. He crouched low, and smashed the accelerator to the floor.
He checked the rear view mirror. Nobody. Back in the city, he swerved off the freeway into downtown Washington and pulled over.
Passersby gawked at the blown out windshield and bullet holes, but he didn’t care. He sat, fists tight, knuckles white, eyes badger angry. He poured through his memory, struggling to place the exact dialect of his attackers. He closed his eyes and played the words over in his mind, concentrating on their inflection. He lifted his eyelids . Iraq.
Somewhere near the Euphrates River, most likely the city Ar Ramadi.
He called Thorne. No answer. He tried again. Nothing. The Mustang’s engine growled. Ten minutes later, he pulled past the policeman posted at Fiona’s gate, and spotted Thorne’s Rover. He parked behind her and headed for the door.
“Mr. Veil,” a voice called from behind.
Robert stopped halfway up the stairs. An agent in jeans and an FBI windbreaker stood below.
“Your partner asked us to send you over when you arrived. She’s in the garden.”
Without a word, Robert bounded down the stairs and found Thorne pacing back and forth. Her short- barreled shotgun hung from her shoulder. Her eyes narrowed. Her teeth clenched. “A hit,” she said, gripping the handle. “A mother funkin hit!.”
“I know,” he answered, his own anger boiling. “They tried to kill me too.”
“The assholes followed me inside the first mausoleum I went to, but I got the drop on ‘em. Shot one in the face with Bessie here,” she said, stroking the barrel.
Robert looked over his shoulder and made sure they were alone.
“Were they Iraqi?”
Her face lit up. “Yes. I recognized the dialect right away. Definitely Iraq.”
“I think our friend Rothschild has raised the stakes.”
“But the Iraqis don’t hire themselves out for mercenary missions.”
“It must tie in with the deal he’s got going. But it really doesn’t matter, does it?”
Thorne hesitated. “No, it doesn’t. But what the fuck are we going to do?”
“First, let’s get the evidence.”
