“Sit down Marilyn,” Edward snarled.
Marilyn returned to her seat, eyes stayed on Simon’s, who glared back, teeth grinding, nostrils flared.
“All of you better listen close,” said Edward. “I want the evidence found and brought to me, I don’t care how you get it done. Or like I said before Ms. London joined us, your family trees will come to an end.”
“Now, you listen to me,” said Vernon. “I don’t know about these high price flunkies. You can treat them any way you like, but I’ve earned more respect than you’ve shown me today.” Vernon pushed up and marched to the far end of the table. “You helped assassinate a President for Christ’s sake. Do you have any idea what that means, you pompous asshole?”
Edward sat poker faced. Detached. Unmoved.
“Let me give you a little warning,” Vernon continued. “I’ll catch and kill Robert Veil and Charlie, but don’t think I’m moved by your threats.
If I go down, you and the whole Rothschild clan will burn in hell with me. I promise.”
Marilyn and Simon raised eyebrows. Edward sat quietly.
“Young junior, failed Presidential candidate, will be the least of your problems,” Vernon continued. “I’ll make sure the name Rothschild isn’t worth toilet paper. So don’t ever threaten me again and don’t dream of fucking with me.”
Vernon threw open the conference room door and stormed out.
After a short, awkward moment, Simon rose. “It’s been an enlightening afternoon Mr. Rothschild.” His eyes narrowed. “Pleased to make your acquaintance again Ms. London.” Edward stayed silent, chilly. Simon pulled a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. “Well, I’ll be going now, but rest assured, I’ll do my best to help put an end to this matter urgently.” He softly closed the door behind him. Marilyn’s mood brightened. Edward pulled a cigar from his inside jacket pocket.
He pushed Vernon as planned. Necessary, he thought. He needed the evidence, and wanted Veil, Thorne, and Charlie dead, before things got out of hand. He looked over at his trump card. Marilyn London.
Marilyn never failed him. That’s why he called her first from his limo the day Vernon informed him Charlie talked to Veil. Marilyn loved to hunt and kill. Her greed almost surpassed his. The perfect killing machine.
“I want you to take care of Robert Veil and the others as soon as possible,” said Edward, lighting the cigar. “You’ve made contact, right?”
“Certainly,” said Marilyn. “He’s working on the murders of those federal judges. You know, the Bear.”
“So I’ve heard,” said Edward. “Perfect. Then you won’t have trouble getting close to him.”
Marilyn smiled. “No, I won’t.”
“What about his partner, Thorne?” Edward asked.
Marilyn’s brow furrowed. “I’ll kill Veil and Charlie, no problem.
But I want that bitch to suffer.”
Edward laughed. Thorne managed to get under Marilyn’s skin. A feat not easily accomplished.
“There is one small matter to tend to first,” said Marilyn. “Money.”
“We have a deal already,” Edward sneered. “Five million for the lot.”
“I didn’t know all the details. Just how involved were you in Kennedy’s death?”
“Kennedy’s not the issue here. Five million’s the deal; take it or leave it.”
“Ten million dollars in my offshore account in the Isle of Man. Half now, half in a Swiss account, to be transferred later as I instruct.” She smiled. “Or you can go fuck yourself.”
Maniacal bitch. Edward puffed the expensive tobacco. She’s right to squeeze. I would. “Done,” he told her.
Marilyn locked the door, unbuttoned her blouse, walked over and dropped to her knees. She undid his pants and swallowed his manhood.
He moaned. Yes. She is the antichrist.
10
Four weeks passed. Charlie, asleep on Robert’s deep cushioned sofa, snored heavily. Robert sipped a cup of coffee, watching the old man from the kitchen, on a slow burn.
Charlie gave him a scare, passing out a month earlier. He thought the old man died right there on his carpet, but finally managed to resuscitate him with mouth to mouth. Reluctantly, Robert called in a favor from Dr.
Ronald Jones, an old friend from the Marines whose life he’d once saved. Dr. Jones diagnosed Charlie’s condition as advanced stage tuberculosis, and put him on aggressive antibiotic therapy. The doctor couldn’t be sure without x-rays, but guessed Charlie probably had very little lung tissue left, and gave him at most six months to live.
Charlie drifted in and out of consciousness, slowly getting stronger and coughing less. Robert didn’t bring up Rothschild or the assassination, giving the old man a chance to recover before pressing him. Now Charlie felt better and Robert wanted details.
Thorne arrived with the video equipment, all business, and without so much as a hello, quickly set up the camera and recorders. Robert woke Charlie, who sat up straight and rubbed his eyes. Robert pulled up a chair. Thorne checked the equipment, and signaled.
“State your name for the record,” said Robert. “Then tell us how you got involved with Rothschild, and what took place that day.” Thorne positioned herself behind the camera next to a small color monitor and tape recorder.
Charlie stated his name, spelled it, then lowered his head. “It’s difficult,” he said, in a broken voice.
Robert’s heart pounded. Thorne’s hand quivered as she adjusted the controls.
“Two governments have always existed side by side. One visible, the other invisible,” said Charlie. “When President Kennedy, arrogant, and so sure of himself, said he wanted to splinter the CIA into a thousand pieces and scatter it to the winds, the invisible emerged and ended his life.”
Charlie took a long, slow drink of water from a glass Robert placed in front of him and cleared his throat.
“In other countries,” he continued, “the object of assassination is to shift power from one regime to another. Just look at history. But the object of President Kennedy’s assassination was to keep the country’s power in the same hands. To maintain the status quo.” Charlie shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “They fell like dominos after that,” he said. “Robert Kennedy, Martin Luther King, Governor George Wallace, John Lennon, even that fiasco at Chappaquiddick. It was all orchestrated to maintain control over the electoral system, to control the power of the Presidency.”
Robert stroked his chin. “To whose benefit?” Charlie looked blankly at the camera, then looked away. He finished the last of the water. Perspiration beaded on his face. The circles around his eyes darkened, his breathing turned shallow and heavy. Robert tossed him a towel. Thorne poured a fresh glass of water.
“There were four of us riding in a used Ford station wagon that day,” Charlie continued. “Two lookouts, a spotter, and myself. We rode through Dallas in silence. The weather report we received from Langley said it would stay warm and cloudless all day, with the temperature about sixty-eight degrees. I crosschecked the report to make sure it was accurate. If it’d rained, we would’ve called it off. Too many things go wrong in bad weather.”
Charlie wiped his face again and closed his eyes tight, as though trying to fight off a nightmare. His lids lifted, eyes beet red, hands trembling.
“We knew traffic would be heavy. To avoid it, we mapped out a route around the crowded streets to a short dirt road in the railroad yard behind the knoll. At eleven-fifty a.m., we heard over the Secret Service radio frequency that the President had left Love Field airport. We drove around the yard one last time, then pulled back out onto the street, parked for fifteen minutes, following the motorcade’s progression by radio. At twelve-fifteen we went back into the railroad yard to set up.” Charlie asked for a break so he could use the bathroom. Thorne checked the camera. Robert refilled the glass of water. Ten minutes later, Charlie emerged looking more relaxed. He sat down without a word. Thorne restarted the equipment.