Reginald Cook - Veil

The glue on his phony mustache itched horribly. He shrugged it off.

The oversized push-broom hair under his lip required strong adhesive, but did a considerable job of changing his face. Makeup and disguise, a talent he mastered working for the extinct KGB, fed his love of new looks and identities.

Andre scanned the sky. It’ll be dark soon. He focused hard, and put his photographic memory to work.

Floodlights, mounted atop ten-foot poles, were equipped with diamond-prism motion detectors. Recently developed, the detectors emitted dense waves of infrared light in a net-like maze across a designated area. The slightest movement within the five to fifteen hundred square foot web, and the lights would spit out blinding white beams, like the sun on an August afternoon.

Two feet above double French doors, a white wood-grained metal box blended in perfectly with the rest of the exterior. Two small, barely perceptible antennas protruded from the top. A wireless transmitter for a silent alarm system. He smiled, and made note he’d need a high-grade Motorola handheld scrambler, and would need to cut the hard-line backup system.

Fifty yards from the house, a ten-foot stone wall surrounded the estate. Andre moved deeper into the yard, pretending to work an area alongside the white-brick stairway near the main garden. Two large Rottweilers sprawled out behind a metal fence, lay motionless. He lightly tapped his shovel on the stairs. The dogs sprang to attention.

Their black eyes locked in and followed his every move. Magnificent creatures. Obviously well kept and trained. He thought of poisoning them as they roamed about, however, in his experience, well-trained guard dogs didn’t take food from strangers. No problem. I’ll shoot them from the wall with a silencer fitted rifle.

He heard Judge Patrick laughing and playing with Jessica through an open window on the second floor. How would the seven-year-old sound crying at her mother’s funeral? No. He would definitely save her the trouble and end her life too. After all, what was life without a mother?

“Excuse me sir, no one is allowed to move outside our view,” the agent said, catching him off guard. “Please come to the front and let us know when you plan to work in another area.”

“Sorry mate” he said. “Had no idea. Just trying to do me job.” Counting the number and types of windows on the side and back of the house, he tried to determine which window led to what room. Idiots.

Fooling them is so easy. In the old Soviet Union, I’d be halfway to Siberia by now.

Andre needed more information. No matter. I’ll return with the crew tomorrow. Later during the week, I’ll break inside for a trial run and learn what I need.

An hour later, they were finished. Andre helped load the truck, thoughts of his brother, Vladimir, torturing his mind.

They pulled away from the estate and headed back to Salvador Landscaping’s company compound. The truck’s rhythmic movement lulled Andre into a twilight sleep. He dreamed of home. He saw his brother Vladimir walking past St. Basil’s Cathedral in the Kremlin, tall and proud in his military uniform. He called out, but Vladimir didn’t answer. He waved goodbye to Andre as American soldiers led him to a bullet-riddled wall. One of the soldiers, a General, blindfolded Vladimir, while the others lined up in front of him. The General stepped aside, raised one hand in the air, and slowly counted backwards from three.

Andre screamed for them to stop, to take his life instead. He was too late.

The General’s hand dropped and the rifle’s retort violently ripped through the air. Andre screamed again and ran to his brother, helpless.

Vladimir’s body slumped to the ground, leaving a bright crimson trail streaking down the wall. The General smiled, a taunting, teasing display.

The mirth sealed his next victim’s fate. The General wore the face of-

Judge Fiona Patrick.

After eight o’clock, the regular mix of tourists, political hacks and city veterans, went home for the night, and left traffic light. The city’s ceiling, dark but clear, lost its frosty bite, but remained crisp and cold.

Robert treated the streets like a personal NASCAR speedway, barely missed a taxi or two, with Thorne right on his tail.

George Clinton pounded out funky beats from his stereo. Robert’s pulse quickened, and his nose snorted air like an angry bull. He bit down on his lip, imagining Patrick Miller’s jovial reflection in the windshield.

A tight grip on the steering wheel, and his bloodless knuckles turned white.

I should’ve checked out that weasel who followed me to the mission.

Did he have anything to do with Miller’s death? He slapped a palm against his forehead.

The Mustang and Range Rover slowed at Constitution Avenue, where speeding cars attracted the attention of Secret Service and Army personnel, strategically hidden near each monument and major government building. Minutes later, they crept into the city’s parallel dimension, where murky, dilapidated streets spawned an eerie sub-culture.

Bodies crowded the sidewalks in heaps, like scattered islands of misery, magnifying the overwhelming squalor. Bright orange flames leapt up from bonfires. The homeless and hopeless crowded around large metal drums in vacant lots for warmth.

Robert turned off his CD player, concentrating on Miller. What did he know? Why would someone kill him? Then he remembered something Charlie said back at the office. “They know I’m here and they’ll come for you.” Thorne was right. Robert didn’t care.

Normally he didn’t indulge in hatred, considering it a waste of time and emotion. Nevertheless, he despised and hated those responsible for President Kennedy’s assassination. Robert considered politics a contact sport, where daughters disappeared, interns were seduced, and war a necessity if you wanted peace. Sometimes people died.

However, even for a realist like him, President Kennedy’s murder extended beyond the realm of political necessity. He wasn’t about to walk away from Charlie’s revelation, not with hard evidence and one of the shooters. The sensation behind his eyes warned- Patrick Miller won’t be the last to die.

Robert drove through his second roadblock of the day, passing several fire-trucks and an ambulance. Flashing lights bounced off the brick and asphalt, creating a surreal, psychedelic atmosphere. They parked across the street from the mission.

Robert spotted Popeye, sullen, slumped down in his wheelchair, taking slugs from a bottle in a brown paper sack, watching the police work a large crowd assembled in front of the shelter. He avoided Popeye’s gaze, but felt the weight of the old vet’s glare.

Inside, uniformed police and plain-clothes detectives nearly outnumbered the homeless, with every room and office being used for questioning. A mix of stress, confusion, and frustration obvious, detectives tried to get information from reticent staff members and shelter residents not inclined to talk with police.

In the cafeteria, several distraught volunteers pointed at him, including the Bahamian woman who directed him to Miller’s office earlier. The detectives took note, reluctantly sending them to the fourth floor, escorted by a young female officer, a rookie Robert guessed, for questioning.

They reached Miller’s tiny office and were greeted by another sizeable police contingent, edgier and more frustrated than their cohorts downstairs. Robert asked for the lead detective, and was met with silence and looks of aggravation.

“Mr. Veil?” a muffled voice called from somewhere inside.

In the back of the office near Miller’s desk, a man mountain, with a fiery red crew cut, rose up from the floor and towered over the room. He grunted and pulled off the largest pair of rubber gloves Robert ever saw, a proctology nightmare.