Reginald Cook - Veil

“Mr. Veil, I presume,” said Edward, not extending his hand.

“Mr. Rothschild,” answered Robert. He smiled. Hello asshole. How about a bullet in the skull?

Edward folded his hands behind his back. “I’d say this was a real pleasure, but…”

“But we both know that would be a lie.”

“Mr. Veil, is there something I can do for you? I’m quite the busy man you know.”

Robert inched closer. “There’s nothing you can do for me. But there’s quite a bit I intend to do for you.” Edward raised an eyebrow. “I’m all ears.”

“I have several rare artifacts you might be interested in, including an exceptionally maintained rifle, in mint condition, a set of striking, one of a kind, black and white photographs of a former President, bullet fragments, books and papers of extreme historical value, and brain matter. A President’s brain matter. You see, the previous owner’s not with us anymore, but he did take time to document his opinions concerning the pieces, on videotape. The whole thing makes for quite a story, and should prove very valuable, especially to a man like yourself.” Edward bristled, but remained calm. “And exactly what does any of this have to do with me?”

“By itself, nothing,” said Robert, leaning in close to Edward’s ear.

“But as I said, the owner of these artifacts died, but said quite a bit on the record. Assassination, cover-ups and you.” Robert stepped back and gently brushed lint off Edward’s shoulder. His smile widened.

Edward’s eyes stayed on Robert. He leaned forward slightly, never breaking his piercing stare. “Mr. Veil, don’t play over your head.

There’s no upside in it, and someone may pull you from the game.”

“Maybe. But before that happens, I’m going to see one of the players suffer. Him, and his entire family. If I get really lucky, I might get to laugh at a funeral or two.”

“Now Mr. Veil, let’s be reasonable men,” Edward said, with a wicked smile. “Certainly there must be a great deal a man like me can do for a man like you.”

Robert hesitated as a passerby stopped behind him looking for her seat, located her table, and continued walking. “There is something you can do for me,” answered Robert. “In fact, it’s something only you can do.”

Edward’s ears perked up. “And that would be?”

“Go back to your office. Write a nice long letter explaining President Kennedy’s assassination and your role in it. Smoke your favorite cigar, have a glass of wine, your rarest, if you prefer. Pull a gun from your collection. If you don’t own one I’ll be happy to lend you mine. Then open your mouth wide and blow.”

Edward stole a glance at Thorne, then looked up at Judge Patrick.

“You amuse me Mr. Veil. I’ll see if I can find some way to amuse you.”

“That shit doesn’t scare me.”

“I’m not trying to scare you. I mean what I say.” He looked at Fiona again. “You seem quite taken with our Supreme Court nominee. I understand you’re watching over her. Isn’t it ironic how bedfellows can grow out of such trying situations? I understand she has a daughter.”

“I told you. I don’t scare that easy. However, since you’ve made something of it, how’s your son? Does he know about your plans in the Middle East? I understand the President does.” Hatred burst onto Edward’s face. His eyes hardened. “You’ll have to excuse me, Mr. Veil. I must get to my table. I believe the President is due to arrive any second.”

Edward walked toward his table, then stopped. “Oh, and Mr. Veil.

Give my love to your mother. It’s been awhile.” Robert headed back to his station. Okay. Edward Rothschild has to die.

Andre assisted a wealthy elderly woman and her husband to their seats, all the time studying, calculating, not wanting his plans to grind to a sudden, disastrous halt.

“Thank you young man,” said the old woman.

Her gratitude registered faintly in Andre’s ears. He smiled and nodded, his eyes tracking, watching.

He watched Robert finish with the old man, then walk over to an agent stationed on the stage to the right of the judge. Robert whispered in the agent’s ear. Andre felt perspiration building under his fat suit and swallowed. Despite his cunning and nerve, once the President arrived, all bets would be off.

Andre saw his connection, Agent Sams, standing near the kitchen entrance surveying the room like a well-trained German Shepherd. The agent panned the room several times, never once showing any sign he recognized the Russian. Good. Either my disguise is perfect, or he’s ignoring me.

“Eduardo,” a voice whispered.

Melissa Adams, the banquet manager, stood behind him, all smiles.

“I need you to take a fresh water pitcher to the dais right away.

Before the President arrives.”

“Yes. Right away Ms. Adams. It’ll be my pleasure.” Andre walked past Agent Sams, who gave him the once over. Andre nodded subserviently, showing his slightly yellowed teeth. Nothing.

“Here you go Eduardo. Take this up front right away.” He took the tray and returned to the ballroom. He panned the room, but couldn’t locate Robert or Thorne. Andre straightened up, discreetly slipped a folded note out of his vest pocket, and palmed it under the tray.

He reached the right side of the stage where a poker-faced agent nodded and let him on stage. Judge Patrick sat to the right of the podium, caught up in conversation. He gently placed the tray next to the judge, allowing the note to protrude enough to be noticed by a sharp eye.

He scanned the room again, spotted nothing out of the ordinary, and still didn’t see Veil or his partner. He caught one last look at the judge and headed for the kitchen, adrenaline raging, heart pounding. Two steely eyes locked in on his, almost bringing him to a stop. The old man he saw Veil talking to earlier, smiled, nodded, then turned around as if he didn’t see a thing. Andre quickened his steps, but didn’t run.

Ten feet from the kitchen, he saw Thorne take her seat, and Robert make his way to the dais

Andre pushed the kitchen door open, knocking an angry, cursing server backwards. Just short of a trot, he headed for the loading dock area. Agent Sams stood in back of the kitchen, hand pressed to his earpiece, face intense. The agent looked up. Andre!

Furious, Robert briefed Thorne about his conversation with Edward.

Secret Service agents poured into the lobby through the front door.

“CHAMPION must be close by,” he whispered, using the President’s code name. “We better get back to the party.” Robert went to the stage to tell Fiona they wouldn’t be staying long after the reception, and any photo ops needed to be short. Whispering in her ear, he noticed a folded piece of paper barely visible under the silver serving tray on the table. He slid the note out and read it.

Fiona gasped. DEATH BECOMES YOU. GIVE MY LOVE TO JESSICA. THE BEAR.

Robert motioned to the agents and showed them the note. They frantically yelled into microphones hidden in their lapel pins and sleeves.

“Abort! Abort!” one agent called into his sleeve, ordering the President back to the White House.

Thorne ran onto the stage.

“Fiona, did you see anything?” asked Robert.

“No, Nothing! A waiter put the tray down only a few minutes ago.”

“What waiter?”

“He was just standing over…”

Fiona, shocked and bewildered, pointed towards the camouflaged kitchen door.

Robert told Thorne to take Fiona home. Surrounded by agents, they left the stage.

Robert ran through the kitchen, several agents on his heels. The banquet staff, some handcuffed, others spread eagle on the floor, mumbled and screamed in terror.