Veil. Part 22

Her face lit up. "Yes. I recognized the dialect right away. Definitely Iraq."

"I think our friend Rothschild has raised the stakes."

"But the Iraqis don't hire themselves out for mercenary missions."

"It must tie in with the deal he's got going. But it really doesn't matter, does it?"

Thorne hesitated. "No, it doesn't. But what the f.u.c.k are we going to do?"

"First, let's get the evidence."

"That's what we've been trying to do," she said, her voice rising.

A guard looked in their direction. Robert winked, and the agent kept moving. He leaned in close to Thorne. "I found a crypt with Julie Rice's name on it. I think we hit pay dirt."

30.

Only a splatter of people remained inside the house, and most of them security personnel making the last rounds. Robert spotted his mother sitting at the end of the couch in the living room dozing off, her head propped up in one hand, her lap covered with the hand knitted green and white afghan she kept in her trunk. She looked older to him sitting there, and he wondered how much longer he'd have her around. He knelt in front of her. She smiled without opening her eyes.

"How are you son? You made it back." Her eyes opened and she kissed his forehead. "Where's Thorne?"

"I'm all right," he said. "Thorne's outside. We came back to see how you and Fiona are holding up."

"I'm okay, and she'll be fine. Don't worry, she's strong." Robert dropped his head. "I should've told her sooner, but I..." Barbara gently placed her fingers under his chin and lifted his head.

"Don't second guess yourself Robert. This was not an easy decision.

You did what you thought best."

He found comfort in her words, but wanted to hear them from Fiona.

"Where is she?" "In the den resting. They grilled her pretty hard, reviewing the questions she can expect at the hearing. It's going to be tough but she'll make it. I know Fiona, she's a fighter."

"I know. I just wish there was more I could do." Barbara grabbed his hand. Her eyes watered. "I'm proud of you son and I know your father would be too." Her voice cracked and she cleared her throat. Robert handed her tissue from a box on the coffee table.

"I met President Kennedy while he was still a senator, and worked on a number of projects at the White House because of him." Robert's eyes widened. His mother never mentioned she'd worked with Kennedy, then again, she never told anybody everything.

"He was a good man," she continued. "Not perfect, but a good one.

When they killed him, they stole our innocence, just as sure as if they'd raped us. Nothing has ever been the same." Tears rolled down her cheeks. "You get the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds," she told him.

"Every last one of them."

Robert kissed her forehead. "I will mother. Now you calm yourself, and try to rest."

"Don't worry about me, I'll be just fine." Barbara looked at the door to the den. "Be patient with her, son."

Robert kissed her palm. "I will," he said. "Now, why don't you track down Thorne? I think she can use a calming influence right now."

"I'll do that," said Barbara, dabbing away the wetness from her face.

Robert watched her disappear outside, braced himself, and headed for the den. He knocked softly and entered. "h.e.l.lo Fiona." Fiona, sitting in an easy chair next to the couch, didn't say a word or move. He closed the door. "We need to talk."

"Sure. What is it now? You know who really killed President Lincoln and want to share that too?"

Robert smiled. She didn't. He sat down on the edge of the couch.

"It was Booth," he said. "And as far as I know, he worked alone." Fiona stared at him, her back ramrod straight, eyes stern and piercing.

Silent. Unmoved.

"Fiona, I need to explain."

"It's really not necessary, Mr. Veil. I've made my decision. I'm going to keep quiet about what's happening." Robert, relieved, took a cleansing breath. "I'm glad you have faith in me."

"This has nothing to do with you. I talked to Barbara and she put it all in perspective. If I go to the authorities with a conspiracy story about President Kennedy's a.s.sa.s.sination, I'll be the laughing stock of the legal community. Especially after Edward Rothschild gets finished with me.

So I might as well roll the dice."

"You'll come out of this fine, Fiona. I'll break my neck to make sure you do."

"This isn't about me either! This is about a President's murder. It's about justice being served, and Rothschild not getting away with it. No matter what happens to me."

"I know, I feel the same way, but I'm saying that I know I put you in a precarious situation, and if I could do it all over again I'd..."

"You should've told me, Robert! You should have let me make the decision to stay in this or get out! Now I've got a ma.s.s murderer after me, Edward Rothschild out to destroy me and everything I've worked for, and I didn't even have the chance to choose whether I wanted in on this or not!"

Robert antic.i.p.ated her reaction, but it hurt all the same. "It wasn't an easy decision. I tried to avoid taking this case but you and my mother pushed it. Besides, I began to care for you." Fiona sprang to her feet and slapped his face. "Don't you dare talk about caring for me, not after this. How could you care and not tell me?" Stunned, more by her words than the slap, Robert stood up to face her.

"I'm sorry Fiona, I really am. I did what I thought was right. I wanted to protect you and Jessica from this monster, and still go after Rothschild."

"I really don't care about your intentions," she said, pounding her fist in her hand. "I just want to get out of this alive with Jessica safe."

"I understand. I want the same thing. And I think we're close to making that happen."

"How so?"

"We think we know where the evidence is hidden." Fiona crossed her arms. "Where is it?"

Robert whispered the details, leaving out the confrontation with Edward's men and the death squad.

She stepped back. "Are you sure?"

"Not one hundred percent."

Fiona furrowed her brow. "You'll need a court order," she finally said. "I can help you with that. I have a very good friend on the bench who owes me a favor. Not as big as this one, but he'll stretch for me and won't ask questions."

Her offer encouraged him. "Thank you Fiona," he said, reaching for her hand. She pushed him away.

"Fiona, what do you want from me? How can I make this right?"

"What I want is for you to catch these people, and you can never make this right. It won't be like before. In fact, when this is over, I don't want to see you anymore."

He stepped toward her. "Fiona, I..."

"Robert, please go," she said, backing away. "Contact Judge Gary Bonner in the morning at the Federal Courthouse. He'll have your court order ready so you can exhume the casket. I hope the evidence is in there. You'll need a detective or Federal agent present. Do you have someone you can trust?"

"Yes, she's FBI. Her name's Marilyn London, and I'm sure she'll play ball."

"Good," said Fiona. "I'll let Judge Bonner know. It's not normal procedure, but he'll release the order to you. Agent London will have to present it to the cemetery's managers, and be there when you open the casket."

"I understand," said Robert. "And I..."

Fiona raised her hand. He searched her face for some sign she cared for him, but found none. Fiona picked up her purse and left the room.

31.

Friday morning clouds gave way to rain, and the nation's capitol braced for Judge Fiona Patrick's confirmation hearing. The citizens of Washington, conditioned to swallow daily doses of political high drama, prepared to dine on the choicest of political meat.

Political appointees on the skewer were nothing new to veterans of Washington warfare, but what made this day, this happening different, was the killer, the Bear. He'd slipped through one of the most intense, widespread dragnets in American history, and like a modern day Jack the Ripper had managed to immerse much of the city in terror, turning them into children, children afraid of a diabolical, ma.s.s murdering bogyman.

The area around the Russell Senate Office Building, Const.i.tution Avenue, First Street, Delaware Avenue, and C Street N.E., locked down as tight as a military base, made members of the Senate and their administrators feel constricted. There were roadblocks and an obvious increase in police patrols. More than a quarter of the staffers and pa.s.sersby, including a small group of imitation reporters were undercover police, Secret Service, and FBI. To the rest of the world it looked like everyday political theater instead of a desperate attempt to keep a Supreme Court nominee alive.

Inside the Russell Office Building, a distinguished mix filed through the Roman-style rotunda, past a milky white marble statue of former Senator Richard B. Russell, Jr. Several lucky lottery winners, excited to claim their coveted seats, pointed and gawked like wide-eyed neophytes, at every small detail of the impressive structure.

The Russell Caucus Room, grand, well ordered and richly detailed, boasted a history of important hearings, including those devoted to the Sinking of the t.i.tanic, Organized Crime, the Vietnam War, Watergate, the Iran Contra Affair, and the Supreme Court Nomination of Clarence Thomas.

The architectural influence and mastery of Ecole des Beaux-Arts of Paris was stunningly evident in the seventy-four by fifty-four foot room; treated with paired Corinthian pilasters standing on a continuous pedestal, supporting a richly detail entablature, including, dentils, modillions, and egg-and-dark moldings. The breathtaking ceiling was decorated with a variety of gilded cla.s.sical motifs-rosettes, guilloche, and Greek key. Six windows stood like exquisite picture frames on the courtyard wall, and four, three tiered chandeliers, original to the room, seemed to float above the fray like crystal clouds, featuring globes etched with national emblems, including, the U.S. Seal, American Indian, and Liberty Cap.

The broadcast crew and sound technicians put the finishing touches on camera equipment and microphones for a broadcast forecasted to be seen by more than sixty million viewers, a hundred fifty million worldwide. Some would watch to see if Fiona would be confirmed, but most, out of a morbid curiosity, wanted to see if she would live.

The members of the hearing committee took their seats. Fiona and her team filed in behind the tables set up below the tribunal. The room fell silent. A grip dropped a microphone and the speakers exploded against the quiet, causing some to clutch their chests and others to clench their bladders. At the pound of a gavel, silence returned. Fiona folded her hands on the dark oak table and smiled. The committee didn't smile back.

32.

Latex, make-up, and collagen lip injections molded Andre's face, giving it a full, pudgy swell. His hair, double-dyed jet black and mowed down into a military buzz cut, gave him a dedicated, take-no-s.h.i.t aura.

False teeth, fit tightly over his own, pushed out into a slight overbite.

His eyes flashed ocean blue.

A fifty thousand dollar microchip, surgically implanted by a German black market surgeon, irritated his vocal chords, but gave his voice a perfect baritone pitch.

His ident.i.ty, flimsy and tenuous, cost him three million dollars.

Much of it spent on street and government contacts who could never surface again, it would buy him a week, maybe two.

Sitting in a small reception area outside the office of Captain Mark Reasons, a new crew of security officers for the Supreme Court Building sat waiting for their a.s.signments.

The five men and one woman talked sports and politics, but primarily discussed the confirmation hearings going on in another building less than a hundred yards away. Andre took it all in.

"If you ask me, the guy's just a super nut case," said Bill Hardy, a lean wiry guard with pointy ears and bald head. "How stupid can you be to try and kill a Supreme Court nominee?"

"He can't be that stupid," said Judith Staten, a big boned blonde who reminded Andre of women back home. "If you ask me, he's pretty clever. He managed to get by a full secret service detail and Robert Veil."

Andre's ears burned.

"Robert Veil?" Andre asked.

"Yeah," Judith continued. "My brother humped with him in Iraq during Desert Storm. Use to be a Company man. Real black bag stuff.

Now he works on his own."

"If he's that good, why is he on his own?" asked Andre, a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

"Don't know," said Judith. "My brother lost track of him after the war."

"Well he can't be that good," Bill smirked. "That maniac got close enough at the hotel to kill her."

Andre smiled.

"Thomas Flagg," called the receptionist.

Andre stood.

"Captain Reasons will see you now."

He walked, shoulders back, chin up, across the plain, well-trodden carpet and, upon entering, took a mental snapshot of Captain Reasons'

office. Large but plain, the only noticeable items were a picture of his wife and two daughters and a photograph of the Captain shaking hands with Ronald Reagan.