“And what do these loose ends entail?” Edward ran his long pianist fingers across his chin. “As you can imagine, it’s very sensitive or I would’ve taken care of the issue long ago.”
“One wonders,” answered Suraya. “Maybe age has cost you your nerve.”
Edward smiled. “I can assure you and your friends my resolve is the least of your worries.”
“Nevertheless, time is not on our side, is it?” asked Suraya. “We’ve been moving along pretty much as planned, but in sensitive situations it doesn’t take much to catapult things in the wrong direction. So I hope you understand our need to intervene.”
“I understand better than you the importance of resolving this matter.
As you probably already know, there’s a Supreme Court confirmation hearing going on for Judge Fiona Patrick.”
“Yes, I’ve met her at receptions on several occasions. So?”
“The hearing figures into my plans. I need you to pull back your men until after the hearing. If the situation isn’t concluded by then, do what you will.”
Suraya rose and walked over to the painting of Edward’s father and grandfather. “They were involved too, no?” he sneered.
Edward’s nostrils flared. “Suraya, I’m afraid if you and your partners insist on going forward with your plans, I’ll have to withdraw my support, and, as painful as it would be, call off our deal. If there’s so much as a hint of your involvement, especially since nine-eleven, it won’t matter what you’re offering.”
Suraya, breathing hard, eyes red, leaned forward on the desk. “Our people will proceed immediately,” he said, measuring his tone through gritted teeth. “They will handle things expeditiously, including the White House, if it comes to that. They have instructions to carry on as they wish, so they can strike at any moment. Even we will not know when or where. So whatever you have to do Mr. Rothschild, you’d better hurry.”
Wet concrete filled Edward’s chest. Suraya walked to the door. “It’s a mistake Suraya.”
“No, Mr. Rothschild, it’s war,” said Suraya, a jihad storm in his eyes.
“And don’t think for one second our offer places your value above our cause. Our purpose is a holy one and Allah directs our steps. Get in our way and we’ll be happy to add the name Rothschild to the list.” Suraya stomped out of the office. Edward slammed his fist down breaking his phone into several pieces. The threat didn’t bother him, not having the evidence did. He paced the room. The cemetery. Why were you there, Mr. Veil?
He removed a back-up secure cell phone from a wall safe and dialed.
“Hello Vernon. It’s too late to let nature take its course. We’ll have to do without the evidence. Inform Simon and Marilyn, continue to track Veil, and all of you meet me here the morning of Judge Patrick’s confirmation hearing. He didn’t wait for a comment.
Edward sat back down and stared out at the city, the painting of his father and grandfather reflecting in the window. Don’t fail us! Protect the name! Protect the legacy! Kill them all!
29
A bare bones skeleton crew of reporters hovered outside Fiona’s front gate. A platoon of agents patrolled the area, their presence not nearly as ominous.
Robert sulked along the garden, hands in pockets. The bright splashes of floral color, red roses, yellow daffodils, lavender and creamy paper-whites, did little to improve his mood. He told Fiona everything.
Charlie, Edward, the evidence. Everything. The news brought her to a near breakdown, and she didn’t say a word to him afterwards.
His mother sent him outside, so she could talk to Fiona in private.
Thorne, sensing his desire to be alone, disappeared upstairs with Jessica.
At the end of the garden, Robert sat down on a white stone bench and leaned back against the wall. Guards and agents, some with shotguns, some with dogs, marched back and forth across the expansive, perfectly cut lawn in pairs, and for the first time he admitted to himself he not only cared about what happened to Fiona, he cared for her. She managed to dredge up feelings he kept submerged for a very long time, and he’d see her through the ordeal, or give up his life trying.
Robert left the bench and started back towards the house. We need help. Another pair of eyes. Someone ballsy enough to handle things without folding. He stopped in the middle of the garden, and dialed his cell. He cursed under his breath. Voice mail. “Hello Marilyn, this is Robert. I need your help. Please call me on my cell phone as soon as you get this message. It’s urgent. You have the number.” He hung up and turned. Thorne stood behind him. “What’s up?”
“I just left a message for Marilyn London. I think we should bring her in to help us out.”
“Have you lost your mind? We don’t know that bitch from Adam.” Robert noticed several guards looking in their direction, and moved to a more secluded spot. “We need help on this,” he said in a whisper.
“We’re running out of time. If we don’t catch a break soon, we’re fucked.”
“Look Robert, I know the confirmation hearings are about to start, and Fiona’s in the hot seat, but this is not the time for new faces. We don’t know enough about Marilyn London, and I don’t trust her.”
“We don’t have a choice. We can use another pair of eyes and ears.”
“Why in the hell would she show us that kind of generosity anyway?
What makes you think she won’t run to her bosses and turn us in?” Robert really couldn’t be sure. “It’s just a hunch,” he told her.
“Your hunches got us here, remember?”
“If you have a better idea, let’s hear it.”
“I think we should go around and kill every single one of them,” she answered. “Edward Rothschild, that little weasel asshole who works for him, and anyone else who shows up.”
“It might come to that, and when it does you know I’m good for it.
However, for now let’s finish searching those crypts. Parklawn should be clear now; it’s been three days. You check the others on your list. I’ll go back and finish Parklawn, then continue with my half of the brochures. “And if Rothschild’s men show up this time…”
“I’m way ahead of you partner. They show, they die.”
“Be careful,” he told her.
Thorne smiled, went to her Rover, and drove off. Robert tried Marilyn again, and again, got voice mail. He jumped in the Mustang and left.
He reached Parklawn, parked in the same spot he and Thorne used before, cut through the thick trees and brush, and stopped at the fence just beyond the mausoleum. He waited for the last flicker of light to disappear over the horizon. An hour later, he stood at the entrance, ripping down police yellow tape. A sign tacked to the door read “Police Crime Scene: Do Not Enter” and detailed penalties for those who chose to ignore the warning.
He heard the faint, distant sound of tires flying down the highway, less than a mile away. He stood at the door and listened. A tail followed him when he left Fiona’s, but he lost them downtown before jumping on the freeway. Nothing. All clear.
He slipped under the tape and tried the door. Locked, but easily defeated, he cracked it open enough for him to slip through, then relocked it behind him.
Inside, the mausoleum showed no sign of the struggle or murder. No lifeless, crumpled body on the floor, head blown apart. No blood splattered on the crypts and floor. All eyewitnesses eternally asleep.
Robert worked both walls with systematic precision, searching, studying, praying. He thought about Charlie and the things he’d said, hashing and rehashing the assassin’s words over in his mind, hoping for a morsel of recognition.
He spotted several “Charlie’s” laid to rest behind the marble, “Charlie Williams” “Charles Kensington” and “Charlie Noble” but none registered the slightest spark of discovery.
Outside, the wind kicked up like an enthusiastic worker back from lunch, eager to tackle a satisfying assignment, whistling through unseen crevices in the mausoleum, blowing an eerie, howling symphony, like a ghostly siren’s song.