He stopped and listened. Voices? No, the wind. Standing statue still, he grazed the grips of his automatics and turned up his internal receiver, tuning in, listening. Several minutes passed. Nothing. Only the wind.
Robert resumed the search. Crunch! He spun around. Twigs, breaking under someone’s feet. He honed in on…a voice, a phrase, a single phrase, one he’d siphoned out of blowing sand in the desert outside Kuwait. A whisper, Over here in Arabic. He listened longer, but heard nothing. My mind must be playing tricks. Robert tip toed to the door, gun now in hand, a slender flashlight in his mouth. He pressed an ear to the door. All quiet.
He glanced back at the last few rows. A drum pounded in his ears, his heart thumped, his mouth went dry. He cast the light on one of the crypts and stepped closer. “Shit.” He stared at the name on the tomb, and pressed his hand on the cold marble in disbelief. Julie Rice! We did it! We’re going to tell the world!
Lights from an approaching vehicle splattered through the stained glass windows. He peeked outside. Security.
Robert trotted to the rear of the building and hid behind a large wooden podium on a small stage in a tiny sanctuary.
“I still can’t believe Tim is dead,” a female voice said, with solace.
“Who the hell would blow away an old man, and for what?”
“I know,” said a sober male voice. “Poor bastard. We had his retirement party planned and everything.” Their footsteps clomped in his direction. Robert tensed. One of them stepped up on stage. He crouched a little lower and caught a whiff of perfume. Bijon. One of Thorne’s favorites. The female guard stood directly in front of the podium, her flashlight illuminating the area behind him.
“This place is empty except for our usual guests. Let’s get out’a here,” she said.
“Yeah, I’m starving,” said her partner. “How about Johnny O’s? I could use a nice pastrami.”
The woman chuckled. “Fred, you could eat a horse after Thanksgiving dinner.”
They laughed and left the building, locking the door behind them.
Robert waited until he heard them pull away, then emerged and started for the door. A whisper in the wind stopped him in his tracks.
Arabic chatter, coming in his direction.
He ran for the rear exit. The front door crashed open. Four men, Middle Eastern as far as he could tell, all armed with automatic weapons, searched the hall with darting eyes.
Robert slid outside, but like a whistleblower, the wind slammed the door shut, and he heard footsteps stampede toward him. He bolted over the fence into the woods. Machinegun fire ripped behind him. He darted out to the street, ass on fire, to his car. More gunfire peppered the air sending birds skyrocketing out of the trees, and him diving to the ground. He flipped over and returned fire with both Berettas. The four men hit the dirt, two taking hits in the leg and shoulder.
Robert scrambled to the Mustang and fired up the engine. The back windshield exploded. He crouched low, and smashed the accelerator to the floor.
He checked the rear view mirror. Nobody. Back in the city, he swerved off the freeway into downtown Washington and pulled over.
Passersby gawked at the blown out windshield and bullet holes, but he didn’t care. He sat, fists tight, knuckles white, eyes badger angry. He poured through his memory, struggling to place the exact dialect of his attackers. He closed his eyes and played the words over in his mind, concentrating on their inflection. He lifted his eyelids . Iraq.
Somewhere near the Euphrates River, most likely the city Ar Ramadi.
He called Thorne. No answer. He tried again. Nothing. The Mustang’s engine growled. Ten minutes later, he pulled past the policeman posted at Fiona’s gate, and spotted Thorne’s Rover. He parked behind her and headed for the door.
“Mr. Veil,” a voice called from behind.
Robert stopped halfway up the stairs. An agent in jeans and an FBI windbreaker stood below.
“Your partner asked us to send you over when you arrived. She’s in the garden.”
Without a word, Robert bounded down the stairs and found Thorne pacing back and forth. Her short-barreled shotgun hung from her shoulder. Her eyes narrowed. Her teeth clenched. “A hit,” she said, gripping the handle. “A mother funkin hit!.”
“I know,” he answered, his own anger boiling. “They tried to kill me too.”
“The assholes followed me inside the first mausoleum I went to, but I got the drop on ‘em. Shot one in the face with Bessie here,” she said, stroking the barrel.
Robert looked over his shoulder and made sure they were alone.
“Were they Iraqi?”
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 fuck 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 bastards,” 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. “Hello 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.”