Veil

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.

“We’d been planning the hit for months and had every angle covered.

I’d checked out several spots, including the railroad overpass across the Stemmons Freeway, but from there I’d be too visible.”

“The stockade fence on the knoll was perfect. It faced Elm Street dead on, and you couldn’t drive past without facing the fence. The President would pass directly in front of me, only a few yards away.

Afterwards, we’d be able to get away easily without being noticed. If anyone did run up on us, we’d simply flash our Secret Service credentials and ask them to leave the area.” Charlie wrung his hands and rocked back and forth. “I moved into position at exactly twelve-twenty. While I unwrapped the rifle, the spotter surveyed the area with binoculars and continued to follow the radio reports, moment by moment. The other two men watched our back, pin-pointing a railroad worker in a tower behind us, a little over seven hundred feet away. We thought the tower would be empty because of the motorcade. It didn’t matter though. Mr. Bowers told the Warren Commission he saw men moving around the fence, but couldn’t be sure because his view wasn’t clear. Of course, he died a year later, alone, in a single car accident. They probably didn’t want to chance his memory clearing up.”

Charlie gulped more water, spilling it down his chin. “At twelve twenty-five I checked the rifle one last time, propped it up on the fence and waited.”

“How did you feel knowing you were about to assassinate your own President?” asked Robert.

“Ice cold,” Charlie responded. “At the time it wasn’t murder as far as I was concerned. I was trained to kill for political reasons. The assignment paid well, so it was business. I didn’t care much for President Kennedy anyway, his politics or his family. That made it easier, or so I thought at the time.”

Robert saw Thorne struggling to keep silent, glad she didn’t have her shotgun. He quelled his own anger. Anger with Charlie, more with Edward Rothschild. “Go ahead,” he told him. “Continue.” Charlie closed his eyes. “The spotter tapped my right shoulder, which meant the President’s car was passing the book depository. I pointed the rifle up Elm and noticed the excitement of the crowd increase. To my left, I saw a man holding a film camera, but it was too late to do anything about it.”

“The motorcade came into view and everything slowed down. That’s how it is. You see things clearly because you’re prepared. It’s a first for everyone but you, so it moves quickly for everyone else. Your peripheral vision expands and you take in everything around you, then your tunnel vision kicks in, and you only see spots on your target.”

“I was told the top would be off of the President’s car, turning his limo into a convertible.” Charlie swallowed hard.

“I fired at the President twice. My first shot hit him in the neck and the spotter called it out. A quizzical look came across the President’s face and he clenched his hands up near his throat, elbows pushed out to the sides. An automatic nervous reaction.” Charlie demonstrated.

“The reports I’ve read say that shot came from the back,” said Robert.

“Behind the President.”

“I know what they said, Mr. Veil. I’m telling you I hit him in the throat. The reports also say the doctors widened the throat wound during surgery. No one could tell it was an entry wound.”

“A sharpshooter could’ve hit him anywhere,” said Thorne. “Why the throat? Why not just go for the head shot right away?” Charlie winced. “Instructions. Edward Rothschild wanted him to suffer. He wanted the President to know he was about to die.” Charlie lowered his head and took a deep noisy breath.

“About this time I became aware of gunshots other than mine. I didn’t know there would be another shooter. It didn’t surprise me, not on a mission like this. Rothschild and the others wanted to be sure Kennedy didn’t make it out alive.”

“There were two men posted near the curb where the motorcade passed. One opened an umbrella. The other waved as Kennedy rode by, my signal for the final shot. Governor Connally turned around, as though trying to look at the President, now slumped toward the First Lady. She looked at Connally, then at her husband, now almost in her lap. I’d received specific instructions not to harm her. They said the country would get over the assassination of the President, but not the killing of its Queen.”

“I trained my site, squeezed the trigger, and watched the President’s head explode in a shower of blood and brain. He was gone. No one ever survives a direct head shot.”

Charlie dabbed at his eyes. “I quickly slipped my rifle back into the bag. A low murmur from the crowd turned into full-blown panic and confusion, like it always does. First the crowd is too stunned to react. A few moments later, it sinks in and the commotion starts. The perfect cover for escape. Everyone will say they saw the same thing, but they’ll all see it differently. A hundred people, a hundred different versions.”

“And that’s when they played the double-cross,” said Robert.

“Yes,” answered Charlie. “I started for the car and spotted one of the men taking pictures of me. Obviously not part of the plan. We chose the area to avoid being seen or photographed. Yes, it was a set-up, a double-cross.”

“One of the men rushed me with a large jagged knife, and slashed at my throat. He missed. I grabbed his arm, rammed the knife below his rib cage, and forced the blade up into his heart. By the time he hit the ground one of the others snatched me from behind, while another rushed forward.”

“I wiggled free, broke one guy’s neck, and kicked the man rushing me to the ground. He scrambled to his feet and ran out of the yard. I picked up the camera and bag and tossed them in the car. I could hear people running and screaming.”

“A policeman, gun drawn, ran into the yard in my direction, ordering me to raise my hands. I shouted for him to calm down, identified myself as Secret Service, then showed him my credentials. He looked a little inexperienced, you know, a rookie. I pointed to the guys on the ground and told him to go get a few officers and come back to secure the scene.

When he left, I jumped inside the station wagon, pulled out of the yard, and disappeared in the commotion. The police stopped me several times.

I just flashed my identification and kept moving.”

“Where did you go after that?” asked Robert.

“Up to that point things happened so fast I didn’t have time to think about what I’d done. I concentrated on staying alive. I took a chance and tried to contact my CIA handler, Vernon Campbell.” Robert’s eyebrows rose. “You mean the Director of the CIA?”

“Yes, he recruited me in the first place.”

“When I couldn’t get in touch with Vernon, I called Jack Ruby, our failsafe in case something went wrong. I couldn’t find him either. Then came Oswald. I’d met him twice at Ruby’s club, but we never talked. He just sat at the table with his drink, and occasionally whispered to Ruby.” Charlie took another deep breath. “After his arrest, Oswald said I’m just a patsy. That’s how it’s done. We learned it from the Germans.

First assassinate, then immediately accuse someone. It draws attention away from the facts, and when the accused is killed or silently stored away, the door is closed. All that’s left are rumors, accusations, and conspiracy theories. Even if someone discovers the truth, no one will believe it. The truth and the lie look the same.”

“The next few weeks flashed by. I contacted my wife and directed her to take our daughter to my safehouse in Kentucky. Samantha was eight years old, but her mother and I married a few months before Dallas.

No one knew they existed.”

Charlie broke down and wept like a child. Robert took a few steps, but Charlie waved him away.

“Rothschild paid me a million dollars up front. I established identities for the three of us, and a plan to disappear.” Charlie’s voice cracked. “I never saw them again.”

“I managed to slip back into Washington. I hid among the crowds flocking to President Kennedy’s funeral. I rode the train part of the way and hitchhiked the rest. The whole thing began to unnerve me, and for the first time I had regrets. I’d killed here in the states, but someone usually deserved it, like a gangster, a terrorist, or a radical. This time, traveling through town after town, I saw devastation in the eyes of almost everyone. I wasn’t so sure Kennedy deserved to die.” Charlie’s eyes pleaded with Robert and Thorne for forgiveness. He didn’t get it. Robert swelled with disgust and anger. He believed Charlie deserved to die for what he did, no matter how sorry or beat down he felt.

“I tried to make contact with several of my associates in the Agency.

Nobody responded. When the White House and Senate organized the Warren Commission, I knew I didn’t have much time. They’d work me in as a suspect, and the manhunt would begin. I knew they had the film Abraham Zapruder shot. It clearly showed my final shot hitting the President in the head, dead on. Not to mention the eyewitness accounts.

So I took a big chance.”

Charlie stopped to stretch his legs and asked for another break.

Thorne declined before Robert could speak, ordering the old man to sit his ass down and finish. He looked at Robert who shrugged his shoulders. Charlie reluctantly sat back down.

“I dressed up in Navy officer digs, acquired the proper papers, and marched into the Bethesda Naval Hospital where President Kennedy’s autopsy took place. It wasn’t the first time I’d been in the hospital covertly, so I knew its security procedures and schedules. I slipped into an area called “cold storage,” where the hospital kept sensitive information. I knew any files concerning the President would be there. I killed the guard at the door, dragged him inside, took everything I could find, and left. Autopsy photos, detailed recordings from the coroner on the bullet wounds, projected trajectory angles, and every medical note.

In a large brown enveloped stamped FBI, I found the bullet fragments. In a large tin cylinder sitting in a freezer, I found President Kennedy’s brain, mangled and sliced open. I took it all, combined it with the rifle, notes, and everything else, then hid it all where no one would look.”

“I sent a message to Rothschild. Vernon Campbell and several others met me in the basement of Old Ebbits Grill. Things didn’t go well.

They roughed me up, and tried to make me tell where I’d hid the evidence. When I wouldn’t, Rothschild showed up. I still didn’t talk. If I did, I’d be dead. I told Edward I’d made arrangements for the evidence to go to the Washington Post if they killed me. They backed off and let me go.”

“They trailed me night and day. The next thing I know, one year turned into almost forty. I could’ve played hardball and blackmailed Rothschild, but the whole thing took its toll. I just wanted to be left alone. The next thing I knew, Robert Kennedy, King, and so many others, died. All the markings of a coup, and I’d started it all.” Charlie coughed hard into the towel spotting it with blood and phlegm. Robert replaced it with another.

“Who else knew about this, I mean, how far up did it go?” Robert asked.

“I was just a trigger man. These things usually go all the way to the top,” Charlie replied.

“You mean President Johnson?” Thorne asked.

“And Hoover,” Charlie added. “I’m convinced they both knew and didn’t raise a finger to stop it.”

“Now you sound like Oliver Stone,” Robert joked.

“Don’t laugh,” said Charlie, still serious. “He surprised even me.” Robert leaned forward. “How could you do it? He was the President of the United States for God’s sake. Where was your honor?”

“Things were different back then. I was different.”

“Really. You think so?” said Thorne.

“I don’t expect sympathy for what I’ve done,” said Charlie, his voice raspy, almost unintelligible. “I’ve lived a lifetime with the consequences.”

“Why bring it out now?” asked Robert. “Years have passed. Why didn’t you speak out a long time ago?”

“I thought about it every year. I mulled it over, but could never settle on the right moment. Now there’s DNA and other technology. And you’re the right man.”

Robert took a long drink of cold water, and sat the tall glass down on the coffee table. “How did you find out about me? You’ve been out of the loop for a long time. Homeless, living on the streets.”

“I still have a friend or two in the right places overseas,” Charlie answered. “They said you hate the Rothschild types as much as I’ve learned to. You’re not much different than I forty years ago. I made the wrong choices, you didn’t.”

“You make it seem like you picked out the wrong shirt,” said Thorne.

“It’s not that simple. We can go after Rothschild, but you pulled the trigger. What the hell do you expect us to do with you?”

“She’s right,” said Robert. “You’re as guilty, if not more, than Rothschild. You pulled the trigger. You deserve something worse than death.”

“I’ve lived a life worse than death,” Charlie shot back. “I’d rather be dead. If I didn’t have the evidence, I would’ve died a long time ago. If not by Rothschild, then by my own hand.”

“Where’s the evidence now?” Robert asked.

“Hidden,” Charlie told them. “In a mausoleum crypt at a cemetery here in the area. It’s been there since this whole thing started. I’d check on it now and then, no small task with Rothschild’s men watching. It’s the only thing that’s kept me going.”

“We’ll need the evidence if we’re going to make a case. Why did you take it back?

“Because you and your partner didn’t seem quite sure you were up to the task,” Charlie said. “I thought I’d made a mistake.”

“And now?” asked Thorne.

“Now it’s too late to stop. They know what we’re up to so our time is short. But before I give you the evidence, I need to know you’ll ride this out to the end.”

“We’re in all the way Charlie,” said Robert. “Only remember. You go down with the rest. You assassinated a President, and I don’t care how much remorse you feel or how long you’ve suffered on the streets.

We can’t just let you walk away.”

Charlie stared at Robert, his face wrinkled with grief. “I understand,” he said. "I have come to believe that the whole world is an enigma, a harmless enigma that is made terrible by our own mad attempt to interpret it as though it had an underlying truth.”

“What’s that?” asked Robert.

“Just a quote I like,” said Charlie.

Robert motioned for Thorne to stop taping and follow him into the kitchen. He asked her to take the tapes and secure them in their office safe. He’d go with Charlie to get the evidence. They’d meet back at his apartment and take it from there.

The sound of breaking glass sent them flying into the living room.

Charlie lay sprawled out on the couch, blood pouring from his chest and stomach.

Thorne crouched low and slid over to the window, a nickel-plated forty-five in her grip. Shredded curtains and broken glass from the window covered the floor. Thorne spied a dark figure running along the rooftop of the building across the street. “No use,” she said. “He’ll be gone by the time we get downstairs.”

Robert propped Charlie’s feet up and placed a pillow behind his head.

He snatched open the old man’s shirt. “Charlie, Charlie. Where’s the evidence?”

Charlie tried to speak. Wisps of air came from his lips. Robert couldn’t make out a word. “Charlie, we need the evidence! Don’t die on us!”

Charlie smiled. Blood gushed from his mouth. He looked relieved.

He tried to speak again, but only gurgled. Blood streamed down his cheeks. His chest stopped heaving. Robert checked for a pulse. He’s dead.

Thorne leaned down. “What now?” she asked, calm, controlled. “We don’t know where the evidence is, and without it, we’re sunk.” Robert closed Charlie’s eyes. “First, let’s get rid of the body,” he said. “No police.”

“And then?”

Charlie’s confession pounded like a mallet in Robert’s head. The evidence. How are we going to find the evidence? Two miles away, a shiny black Suburban calmly eased down Pennsylvania Avenue. On the backseat, a high-powered rifle, complete with a heat seeking infrared scope and directional microphone, lay hidden out of view. The vehicle drifted down the empty street. The driver slid a Merideth Brooks CD into the player, and sang along with the song “Bitch”.

Marilyn London lit a cigarette and smiled.