Reginald Cook - Veil

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 removed a large brown envelope.

He handed it to Edward.

“I put together a file detailing this guy. The Justice Department has him on contract at this very moment. He’s helping track down that serial killer, the one who’s been killing judges. Vernon finished his wine, put out his cigar, and stood. “President Kennedy’s ghost just won’t die, will it?”

Edward looked at the envelope, forced a smile, then gathered his Fedora and black cashmere from the coat rack. “No, seems he won’t,” he said. “Keep me informed.”

“We can’t kill him right away,” added Vernon. “We need the evidence first. If Charlie’s talking maybe he’ll bring it out in the open or lead us to it.”

“Where’s Charlie now?” Edward asked, his calm facade intact.

Vernon lowered his gaze. “We lost him. Veil and his partner left their office and we searched the entire building. He disappeared.” Edward felt alarm, but held it together. “Vernon, wrap this up quickly. I want my son to announce his Presidential bid as soon as possible. I don’t want this hanging in the air.” Edward abruptly left the room and bounded down the winding marble stairs. His chauffeur, Lawrence, a stocky, well-built Englishman, barely made it around to open the door.

Inside, Edward poured himself a glass of B amp;B. “Take the long route home,” he ordered.

“Yes, Mr. Rothschild. Will we be making any other stops?”

“No. Just take your time.”

Edward raised the partition and downed the sixty-year-old liqueur in one gulp. His heart pounded as though he were a burglar about to be discovered. Charlie lurked like a phantom from his past. A haunting figure-a nightmare. Vernon and his men watched Charlie for years.

Edward even hired his own teams from time to time, to make sure Charlie stayed buried on the streets. Over the years, he let his guard down, convinced the assassin’s self-imposed life sentence wore away any possibility of resolve.

The black Lincoln glided onto Pennsylvania Avenue an hour before sunrise. They passed the White House and Edward rolled down his window. Numbing, freezing air rushed in. He stared at the white marble. He needed Charleston to assume the Presidency. His plans depended on it. His nostrils flared. The Presidential residence disappeared. Edward raised the window and leaned back. His grip tightened around the crystal glass, crushing it. Blood seeped from his rigid fist and he dropped the pieces on the floor. He grabbed a white towel from the bar, wrapped it around his hand, then relaxed against the seat and closed his eyes.

His father and grandfather, members of Wall Street’s elite, commanded holdings in the railroads, banking and finance, and military equipment. Edward joined the company after finishing graduate school at Cambridge.

John F. Kennedy assumed the Presidency. Not exactly a banner day for the Rothschilds. Most of their political contributions and influence went to Richard Nixon, his father’s favorite. The loss hurt, but they recovered just in time to ride the military bandwagon to Vietnam, where they stood to make billions from government contracts. Relationships long nurtured by his grandfather when the CIA was called the Office of Strategic Services, the OSS, kept them square in the old boy network.

Then the President decided to pull out of the war before it really got started. The old boys protested, and Kennedy promised to break the CIA into pieces. The threat spawned whispers, and ultimately ended his life.

It wasn’t difficult. Edward’s grandfather recruited him to manage a large portion of the details, to be a project manager of sorts. A word here, a suggestion there, and the pieces slid into place. The Kennedy clan counted many friends, but more enemies. Robert Kennedy, the President’s brother and U.S. Attorney General, angered mob boss Sam Giancana. Add to the mix a group of pissed off Cuban rebels, still stinging from a failed Bay of Pigs invasion, and it didn’t take much to get the ball rolling.

Twenty assassins were considered; two were hired. Lee Harvey Oswald got the nod as patsy, with a team of Cuban guerrillas led by a CIA field officer, actually doing the shooting from the sixth floor of the book depository.

Vernon, a young pup on the intelligence fast track, introduced Edward to Charlie Ivory, a wet boy, who killed at the behest of the CIA.

At the time, Charlie worked as a freelancer, a hired gun. His reputation as one of the world’s best impressed the Rothschilds. A no miss killer with no allegiances, no family, no friends. Edward considered it one million dollars well spent.

With the time and place chosen, a plan agreed upon, they combed through the final details and set everything in motion.

Then, against Edward’s advice, the old boys, his father and grandfather included, decided not to take any chances, and gave orders for Charlie to take the fall with Oswald. They missed. Charlie got away, disappearing with crucial pieces of evidence.

The assassin surfaced, empty-handed, and despite their best efforts, they were unable to find the pictures, documents, bullet fragments, and other items Charlie had in his possession. Information that could link them all to the assassination.

Edward smelled a payoff. It didn’t come. Charlie said he wanted to be left alone. That as long as they kept their distance, the evidence wouldn’t surface. Insincere assurances were given. Edward ordered an around the clock tail on him-to no avail. They watched and waited.