“I’m afraid I don’t find young Charleston quite ready for the Presidency,” said Ian Goldberg, his sausage fingers gripped tightly around the Waterford. “Maybe after another term or two as governor, we can revisit this.”
Each of the other three men sat quietly, contemplation etched on their faces. Edward knew Ian would be the first to speak. The portly Chairman of the two hundred billion dollar First Global Trust had his own plans for the White House. Rumors speculated he intended to jockey his nephew, a Senator from Arizona, into office.
Edward never cared much for Ian, or anybody outside of his immediate family. However, in addition to being the world’s most eminent financial wizard, Ian Goldberg could keep a secret. He did business with some of the world’s most notorious characters; individuals who wouldn’t trust God, but would yield to Ian Goldberg information that could bring down nations. Edward needed him on the team.
“I agree,” added Charles Kinston, waving off the waiter, passing on the wine. “Your son is a fine boy and a very capable politician, but there are others in line ahead of him. I think we should choose someone from the stable we’ve already prepared. What makes you think he deserves it now anyway? He hasn’t paid his dues.”
Charles, for once could you pull your nose out of Ian’s behind, Edward thought. The waiter disappeared back through the panel.
Charles Kingston. The name synonymous with media, he ran a worldwide empire, including, newspapers, magazines, television, radio, and internet companies that dominated opinions in almost every area of the globe. He held considerable influence over public opinion, yet he often fell in line with Ian like a schoolboy. Edward often wondered what secret Ian held over the media mogul.
“I might remind all of you that having someone of our own choosing sitting as President, someone who will assist us without question, is vital to our continued prosperity,” Edward told them. “Having a President we can maneuver and direct is in our best interest, and how much closer can you get than having a son in the White House?” he added, a cold look of brutal seriousness on his face.
“How special for you,” shot Victor Roselli. “A son in the White House, how nice. But he’s your son, not ours.” Victor Roselli, smooth and dapper. Boss of what Edward termed the new Mafia. Without firing a shot, Victor orchestrated one of the biggest takeovers in American history. Organized crime.
Movies like The Godfather, and flamboyant, overzealous bosses like Gotti, gave the mob far too much exposure. They were famous. Great if you’re Al Pacino, but horrendous for those who actually killed for a living. Victor saw to it that many of the old bosses were indicted, sent to jail, or killed. He preferred stocks, bonds, credit cards, IPO’s, and mergers over drugs, prostitution and extortion, and except for The Sopranos, he even managed to limit newspaper and television coverage.
Edward found it amusing that because so many of the old dons were dead or in jail, some fools actually believed the Mafia no longer existed.
“Yes Victor, he is my son, and the sentimental part of me is a proud father. But first and foremost, I’m a businessman. I never forget my friends-or my enemies. Question is, on which side will you fall?” Victor’s face told Edward he’d made his point. The others also seemed to grasp the message. However, men like these didn’t achieve success by being bullied. Edward felt the tension rise.
“You wouldn’t be the first man I’ve had to count as an enemy Edward. I don’t like being threatened, you know that. Remember, I’m not your brother Nicholas,” said Victor.
Edward struggled to maintain his composure. Victor struck an especially sensitive nerve. Edward and his youngest brother, Nicholas, went to battle over their father’s empire a decade earlier. Nicholas, every bit Edward’s equal, gained the upper hand. A week before the board was to vote on the matter, his brother turned up dead. Complications from an unknown heart ailment. Speculation surrounded the death. Edward was investigated and cleared. Yes, he murdered his brother, but there was never a shred of proof, only rumor and innuendo.
“I suggest you not forget that fact,” said Edward, calm, controlled.
“If family blood won’t stay my wrath, what chance is there for you?” He made sure his malicious eyes fell across the room.
“Now, now, let’s not get personal,” said Vernon Campbell, Director of the CIA. “This is a business decision, plain and simple. I agree with Edward. Having someone in the White House close to us is vital. I’m willing to throw my support behind the Governor. It’s the best advantage we’ve got. No one else will be as easy to influence, or control. Let’s not forget Watergate.”
Vernon’s observation broke the tension slightly. Who could forget?
Nixon failed to listen when his advisors told him to let the Watergate burglars fry and go to jail. Edward thought Nixon’s penchant for loyalty, in light of such obvious loss, simple-minded and obtuse. When Nixon confessed that he’d recorded conversations in the Oval Office, Edward and the others forced him to turn over tapes made when they visited.
They cut their losses and forced the President to resign. The fiasco cost them billions.
“No one wants another Nixon,” said Edward. “So it’s important we seize the opportunity at hand.”
Edward finished the statement looking in Victor’s direction. Later, he would make him pay for his disrespect. Today, he needed his support, however grudgingly given.
“We should take it under advisement and talk again in a few weeks,” Charles said, carefully. “It’ll give us a chance to consider all of our options. We shouldn’t rush.”
“Today is Monday,” said Edward, icy and stern. “I’ll expect your decision by close of business Friday. If your answer is no, don’t bother to call. I’ll be in touch with you at a later date. We’ve come a long way together gentleman. Let’s finish on the same team.” He stood. “I trust you can find your way out.”
Except for Vernon, each man rose silently and gathered his things.
Only Victor dared look Edward in the eye. After the last limo pulled out of the circular driveway, Edward sat back in his chair and lit up another cigar.
“They’ll come around. They always do,” Vernon said, lighting up a cigar of his own. “The bastards are greedy and stubborn as hell, but they’re not stupid.”
Vernon removed his gold horn-rimmed glasses and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He set his cigar in the polished, stainless steel ashtray next to his chair, leaned forward, elbows on his knees, a grave look in his eyes. “Anyway, right now they’re not your biggest problem,” he said, almost in a whisper.
Earlier, Vernon told Edward he wanted to discuss an urgent matter when the others left. He didn’t give it another thought. “So, what’s so important you’re not rushing right over to that Brazilian mistress you keep hidden on the westside,” Edward quipped slyly.
Vernon pursed his lips. “Your old friend Charlie Ivory has been acting strange. So it looks like getting your son elected President is the least of your worries.”
Edward felt a twinge, but remained steady. “I thought he was nearly dead. He’s been on the streets for four decades, and my sources tell me he has tuberculosis. What possible threat could he be? What could he gain at this point?”
“He still has the evidence,” said Vernon. “If you recall, it’s the only reason he’s still alive.”
“He’s had it forever, and never so much as blinked our way. What makes us so special now?”
“It’s not what he’s done Edward, it’s who he’s met with. A former Company man. Robert Veil’s his name, and this guy worries me.”
“And who is Robert Veil?”
Vernon picked up his cigar, puffed, and leaned back against the chair.
“He was a field commander, first with the Marines, then in black ops with the CIA.” Vernon shook his head with a look of admiration. “I bet the boys would sure like to have him on the team again now that we’re back in the black bag covert business. Now he’s a hired gun, connected, and very good at what he does.”
Edward smirked. “ I’m glad you’re impressed. What’s the problem?
Kill him.”
Vernon leaned forward again, eyes somber. “If Charlie’s told him our little secret and we miss this guy, it’ll confirm whatever he’s been told. Veil will know it was us.”
Edward stood. He suppressed his emotions, but the news shook him.
“If this Robert Veil is the man you think he is, then he may already know it’s us.” He stroked his chin. “Put somebody good on it, and I mean deadly. I don’t want my family fucked out of five generations of progress by a homeless nobody and a second rate bounty hunter.”
“Oh, I’m afraid he’s more than second rate. Much more.” Vernon opened a dark green attache case and
