Veil. Part 8

Robert tried CPR. Nothing. No pulse. He picked up the phone, hesitated, then dialed. "Don't die on me old man."

9.

"America has evolved over its brief tenure as a republic, into a great nation. A nation where no person who desires a better life need be left out, and those willing to work hard and sacrifice are rewarded. As we move forward into the twenty-first century, this great country of ours can expect new challenges, uncharted mountains to climb, and fresh opportunities to explore. Whether medical advances and cures for the incurable, or original, exciting technology, Americans stand ready to bring these visions to life. Our strength, energy, and vigor remain unmatched anywhere in the world. And government should stand at the ready, to lend support and leadership to these causes."

"Like a lighthouse, we who are elected to serve, should safely guide all who wish to navigate these waters of promise, in the land of the free.

As Governor of New York, my administration has maintained an outstanding record of excellence and accomplishment, benefiting of all its citizens and communities. We promised a lower unemployment rate, and delivered. We promised safer streets and less crime, and delivered.

We said we would take steps to protect the city and its residents from terrorism, and we have. Now the time has come to expand the level of excellence we have established in New York to the entire nation. We're here at the steps of the Lincoln Memorial because this great President fought and died for a country based on the Const.i.tution, a country based on inclusion. It was a n.o.ble effort then; it's a n.o.ble effort today. This effort I plan to take up anew, hand in hand with you. I hereby announce my candidacy for the office of President of the United States, because in America, n.o.body gets left behind."

The Friday afternoon crowd erupted. Charleston Rothschild finished his speech forcefully pounding the podium. Edward joined in, clapping and smiling, a proud father who'd just watched his son score a winning touchdown. He salivated at the prospect of his son occupying the White House. For Edward, the final coup on his long list of conquests-for his family-the crown jewel of legitimacy.

Most important, with Charleston in the Oval Office, he'd complete a power play, and seal the Rothschild legacy forever. Nothing accomplished by his family to date came close.

Three weeks pa.s.sed since he made his proposition to the men at the Cosmos Club. Eventually, all called with offers of wholehearted, albeit insincere, support.

Photographers and news crews crammed together for better angles.

On cue, the crowd chanted. "We want Charleston! We want Charleston!" Pleased, Edward watched the product of his loins masterfully field questions from the media, easy questions, just as Charles Kingston promised.

Fifteen minutes later, they climbed into the limo and rode back to Edward's twenty-story building, were they met more applause from the Rothschild company staff, as per Edward's orders, along with more media and paparazzi. The press shouted questions over the noisy crowd and snapped pictures. Edward's wife, Meredith, and Charleston's wife, Diana, joined them on stage, completing the picture-perfect photo op.

After a few more inquiries from the press, father and son waved their goodbyes, kissed their wives, and caught a private elevator to the penthouse. They met briefly with a small group of business leaders and politicians who unequivocally vowed to support the Rothschild family.

Later, he and Charleston adjourned to Edward's well-appointed lair, and relaxed.

"A fine job son, you're on your way. You've made us all proud." A waiter entered and poured them drinks. "Just remember, this is only the beginning. Soon they'll be circling like sharks."

"Thanks dad, but I'm Governor of New York. I've been through this before." Charleston took his usual, Jack Daniels on the rocks, from the silver tray. "Besides, I plan to send out a few sharks of my own." Edward lifted the remaining drink from the tray, a dirty martini, extra-dry. The waiter disappeared.

"Son, this will be quite different. Trust me. You won't know what hit you if you underestimate the difficulties of running for this office.

p.i.s.s the wrong people off and they'll make you pay dearly. A Governor's race is child's play by comparison. Lose it, and no one remembers."

Charleston drained his gla.s.s. Good. I have your attention. Edward sat his drink on the coffee table and leaned close. "On the other hand, if you f.u.c.k up the White House, then maybe even I'll forget who you are." Charleston squirmed. "I get the picture father," he said. "I'm prepared to fight hard and win."

"Good," said Edward. "Then I've made my point." Edward complimented Charleston on the speech he gave earlier, then looked past his son at a portrait of his father and grandfather, their faces stern and impatient.

"Have you given any thought to our conversation about Ian Goldstein?"

"For campaign manager? I've already decided on Ralph Wright.

You know he's been with me from the start of my career. I trust him.

How would it look if I abandoned him now?" Edward rose to his feet, b.u.mping the coffee table, knocking over his drink. "It would look like you really wanted to win! And by the way, you trust him? No, trust me. Trust me when I tell you that if you don't start listening, you'll fail miserably. You trust him. No, you spoiled ungrateful a.s.s! I'm still your father. You trust me." Charleston's face twisted. Edward walked over to the large Rothschild portrait and looked up at his namesakes. Their presence gave him a sense of peace during stressful moments. Likely I'll come here often during this campaign. .

Charleston walked up behind him. Edward faced him. "Son, look, I'm just saying..."

"You've said enough," snapped Charleston. Fire blazed in his eyes.

Good, thought Edward, very good.

"Dammit dad. You're not running for President, I am. And it would do you well to remember that. I need your help, but make no mistake about it. I'll live without the White House, and live well. How will you sleep?"

"Meaning?" asked Edward.

"Meaning I know you want me in the White House for reasons other than the Rothschild legacy and honor. So if you intend to interfere throughout my campaign, I'll drop out."

Edward considered calling the bluff, but decided to let his son walk away. Too soon to pressure him too much. It didn't matter. He'd already offered Ralph Wright a substantial sum to withdraw.

"Calm yourself son." He gently, lovingly, put a hand on Charleston's shoulder. "It's not that important. Let's pull together on this one. Your grandfather would kick both our blue blood a.s.ses if we didn't." Charleston smiled, relaxing like a boy standing up to his father for the first time.

"Move ahead with your plans," said Edward. "I'm here if you need me."

They embraced. Charleston thanked him for understanding and ran off to a press conference at the Ritz, energized.

Edward wondered what his son's face would look like when he and the others met the new President in the Oval Office the night of the inauguration, and fed him a dose of reality. One moment you were the most powerful man in the world, minutes later, the most powerful flunky.

He sat down and watched the sun ease down behind a panoramic view of Washington, tenderly putting the city to bed for the night. He hit the intercom b.u.t.ton. His a.s.sistant, Jenny, answered immediately. "Get Ralph Wright on the phone and tell him to meet me at the club at nine tonight," he ordered, smooth and stern. Ralph Wright will play along.

He better. Edward puffed away on a Cuban. If not, there's no telling how long his stay on earth will last.

"Mr. Rothschild, Mr. Wright has confirmed," Jenny said, five minutes later. "Your next meeting is ready in the main conference room." He thanked her dryly and put out the cigar. Edward walked down the long dimly lit hall that led to his private conference room, perusing the photos and portraits of various members of the Rothschild clan. Men willing to go the extra mile come h.e.l.l or high water.

He paused at a black and white photo of his parents sitting on the patio of their Long Island estate. At the time of the photograph, they were typical Ivy League blue bloods, living a life of privilege during a time of war.

In August, nineteen forty-five, his grandfather and father, steel barons, earned millions from defense contracts and corporate takeovers.

World War II ended with two atomic bombs, and Reconstruction and the Marshall Plan brought more money, more power, more influence.

His mother, Katherine, a dedicated social b.u.t.terfly, seldom showed him any real attention. She believed raising boys was a man's job, leaving Edward to fend for himself, with a hard driving, compet.i.tive father who offered little encouragement, praise, or kind words.

Once, in a desperate attempt to gain his father's acceptance, Edward worked feverishly on a school science project. Like most twelve-year-old boys with a busy father, he thought if he could make an impression with his work, it would bring them closer together.

During one of his mother's many parties, Edward overheard a Texas oilman complain about the number of wells he'd shut down because of heavy wax build-up caked around the well's openings, from pumped out crude, leaving millions of dollars in the ground. It gave Edward an idea.

He developed a concept using portable steam generators to heat chemicals to high temperatures. When shot down into the well, the mix would melt the paraffin, allowing additional oil to be pumped out. His grandfather was ecstatic, and helped him get the idea patented.

The project a hit, the Texas oilman offered the Rothschild family millions to license the concept. Edward's father negotiated a handsome fee and placed the money in Edward's trust fund. Edward beamed, but his Dad was stoic, detached, and business-like. When the final papers were signed and the office empty, Edward silently stood in front of his father's ma.s.sive oak desk. As though sensing his son's gaze, his father looked up, stone-faced. "What next?" he asked, plain and firm.

Edward stood in stunned disbelief.

"Oh, you want a pat on the back do you?" his father continued.

"Maybe a hug and a lollipop?"

Edward quivered uncontrollably. Tears streamed down his cheeks.

His father walked from behind the desk. Relief washed over Edward.

His father finally realized his need for attention and comfort from the man he admired most. He stopped shaking. His father slapped him to the floor. His vision cleared. Edward II stared down at him, unmoved.

"As long as you live and carry the name Rothschild, don't you ever weaken or break," his father warned. "If you want pats on the back and hugs, wear a dress and change your name. You can only count on yourself Edward, remember that. The day you forget you'll be finished." His father dropped a handkerchief on his chest, sat back down, and continued to work as if nothing happened, not raising his head as Edward slinked out of the room.

Edward ran from the Fifth Avenue office to Grand Central Station, his tears a trickle, then a flood. He caught the train home and ran to his room, where his grandfather waited.

His grandfather, almost seventy years old, carried himself like a much younger man. Ever the optimist, he'd often rattle on about the future, how one day a Rothschild would sit in the White House. Edward knew his grandfather hoped he'd fulfill that dream, but dismissed it as the ranting of an old fool.

"Sit my boy," he ordered, patting the end of Edward's bed. "Tell an old man your troubles."

Edward guessed his grandfather already knew what happened, but felt the need to unload, and poured out his heart. His emotions overflowed in a mixture of confusion and anger. When he'd finished the diatribe, his grandfather sat quietly, studying him as though he were one of the rare coins in his collection. He stroked Edward's short black hair.

"Your father's right son. You have to learn to stand on your own two feet or n.o.body will ever give a d.a.m.n about you." Edward looked up at the old man feeling betrayed.

"Now mind those tears boy, or I'll slap you myself."

"But grandfather, it's not fair."

"It's not meant to be fair," he barked. Edward looked at the floor. The old man placed his long, bony finger under his grandson's chin and slowly, gently, raised his head until their eyes met.

"Of all the things I've taught you, never ever forget this." Edward focused hard not wanting to miss a word.

"You don't get what you deserve in life, you get what you take. And if you're not willing to go after what you want at all costs, then here." He reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out an old civil war pistol, fully loaded, and c.o.c.ked back the hammer, pointing it at Edward's head.

"If you think life's unfair, then end it. Right here, right now. I'll help you. I've had a good run, we can go together." Edward edged back and fell off the bed. "I don't want to die grandfather," he said, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket.

His grandfather lowered the weapon. "Then take what you want out of life. Never let anybody get in your way. Not even your f.u.c.king father." Edward entered the conference room. Vernon Campbell sat, legs crossed, impatiently thumping the arms of the chair with his fingers. His other guest, Simon Lynch, a ferret of a man, remained seated, nonchalantly acknowledging Edward's presence.

"Gentlemen, so glad you could make it," said Edward, looking in Simon's direction.

"Forgive me for not standing, Mr. Rothschild. I've been a little under the weather," Simon droned, in an irritating nasal tone.

Edward took his seat at the head of the table next to Vernon. "I'll get right to the point," he said. "My son has announced his candidacy for the Presidency."

Simon raised forward in his seat. "And might I say, he is a fine lad. I think he'll make a splendid leader of the free world."

"Thank you Simon. Your compliment, however insincere, is noted." Simon smiled slyly.

"Now that the race for the White House is official, I want our little problem taken care of immediately."

"Because Simon here got happy and killed Patrick Miller at the homeless shelter," said Vernon. "It's going to be a bit more difficult."

"It was necessary," chimed Simon, casually examining his well-groomed fingernails. "He got a little suspicious after I questioned him. I didn't have a choice."

"You let Veil get a look at you, you stupid f.u.c.k," Vernon yelled.

Edward motioned for him to calm down, but Vernon hopped to his feet. "I told you not to bring him in Edward. He's going to blow everything, and we can't afford mistakes."

"Simon, you were careless and messy," Edward scolded. "If Veil had caught you, it would've added immeasurably to my already monstrous problems."

Vernon looked perplexed. "Is that it?"

"Sit down Vernon," Edward ordered.

Vernon sat, bug-eyed with surprise.

"It won't happen again," said Simon, pouring himself a gla.s.s of water. "I do, however, agree with my esteemed colleague. Mr. Veil's not an easy mark. And that woman he has for a partner. Christ, she's a real piece."

"You mean the black woman, Thorne?" asked Vernon.

"Yes," said Simon. "And I think we should use the term African-American."

"Gentlemen please, enough," snapped Edward.

Vernon shook his head in disgust. Simon continued to examine his nails, calm, unmoved. "Maybe a different approach is in order," said Simon. "A propaganda strategy perhaps?"

"Yes Edward," agreed Vernon. "A smear campaign. The media will jump through hoops for us; besides, this isn't the first time someone's gotten close to the truth about Kennedy's a.s.sa.s.sination." Edward slammed his fist down on the desk and glared at both men.

"They have evidence you fools. I want the evidence found and I want them killed. All of them."

"Listen to reason," Vernon pleaded.

Edward stood up. Simon slumped back, his eyes shifting between the two, obviously enjoying the skirmish.

Edward leaned forward, sweat beading on his forehead. "Vernon, I've known you for over four decades. You know me well. You know when I say I'll destroy your family if you don't make this problem go away. I mean it."

Unnerved, Vernon turned beet-red. Edward turned to Simon. "And you, you pathetic little parasite. I know there's not much in this world you care about."

Simon grinned.

"Except that little boyfriend of yours in Los Angeles." Simon squirmed uncomfortably, horror replacing his smile.

"That's right you f.a.ggot. I know all about him, but don't worry. I won't kill him. I'll just uproot his pretty little b.i.t.c.h a.s.s and transfer it somewhere where they'll appreciate his, shall I say, finer qualities." Edward waited for their reaction. Simon sucked his teeth, making a snake-like hissing sound. Vernon sat, head down, like a scolded child.

"Good," said Edward. "I see we have an understanding. When this is over, we can all go back to being friends." Vernon's jaw tightened, then relaxed. "Okay Edward," he grunted.

"We'll play it your way. For now."

"Good. Now I'd like to introduce someone I've added to the team." Edward opened the door and asked his surprise guest to come inside.

"I believe you already know the lady," said Edward.