Reginald Cook - Veil

A black, white-coated waiter appeared from a hidden wall panel, the lines in his face a testament to years spent weathering storms and hearing many secrets. Smooth and effortless, he glided to Edward’s side, leaning over slightly so the wine he caressed in his white-gloved hands could be inspected. Edward gave the bottle a cursory glance. It was from the 1855 classification of Bordeaux, a Chateau Mouton-Rothschild.

The waiter poured a small amount into a crystal wine goblet on the table in front of Edward, who picked it up by its stem, swirled it around in the dim light, then placed the glass up to his proud, regal nose. Eyes closed, lungs fully expanded, he took a full, deep whiff, leaned his head back slightly and poured the entire contents past his lips, making sure the grape touched his tongue first before filling the rest of his mouth. He swirled the juice around for twenty seconds, swallowed, then nodded his approval. His glass was filled halfway, then the waiter moved to the others.

Edward snuffed out his gift from Castro and surveyed the room, reading each man as a parent would a child, condescending, knowing.

Only he could call a meeting like this, and only in matters of extreme importance. Up until now, his reason remained a mystery.

“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.”