Veil

18

Reporters, onlookers, and the naturally nosy, all vying for pictures, autographs and stories, packed the lobby, waiting areas, and lounges of the Ritz Carlton Hotel. The capitol city’s powerful and elite, polished up in after-five attire, waltzed about shaking hands and talking to the press.

Robert and Thorne blended in nicely, an attractive couple, striking and exquisite. He in a midnight black Hugo Boss tuxedo, a Christmas gift from his mother, and a sleek black and gold Versace draped Thorne’s statuesque frame like a runway model. They glided through the impressive crowd on opposite sides of the lobby, subtly looking for anything suspicious or out of place.

Robert hated large crowds. Unpredictable, any crazed, motivated fool could slip through unnoticed, despite the tightest security. Often, the problem saw you before you identified them. Robert remembered a peace rally in Israel they both were assigned to, where Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin, surrounded by some of the world’s preeminent security agents, was gunned down by Yigal Amir, a young right-wing extremist yielding a 9mm Beretta. Thorne, alone on assignment in Mexico, watched presidential nominee, Luis Colosio meet the same fate in Tijuana at a political rally in 94, by a motivated maniac who managed to work his way up-close in a crowd.

Robert spotted Secret Service agents scattered liberally throughout the Ritz, visibly scanning the crowd. Well-attired undercover agents, coupled up in man/woman teams, mingled inconspicuously with the reception attendees. Robert remembered the drill. Agents were given false identities for cover, complete with phony family information, jobs that didn’t exist, and political allegiances they didn’t necessarily hold.

Anyone exposing negative chatter about the President or U.S. government received special attention. Sometimes the agents were directed to start negative chatter without provocation, fishing for a potential threat. If a real hazard surfaced, they were quickly, quietly, whisked out to a waiting car and driven far away. If they were lucky, they’d only be detained for a week or two, and even after their release, they remained on a list the agency tracked around the clock.

Thorne caught his attention with her eyes, and flashed a so far, so good nod and smile. He acknowledged her with a slight tilt of his head and kept moving, working the room like a pro, not lingering in one place too long, not offending anyone with his exit, gracious, while examining faces, cataloging names.

Robert escaped the chatter of a well-to-do couple from Wisconsin: he, stout, red-faced, with a bulbous head, and she, over-adorned with jewelry and make-up, and eventually reached the ballroom doors. Two Secret Service killer mutant penguins, standing sentry, ran digital magnetic recorders over him, and the encoded identification card issued by the Justice Department.

Inside the spacious, elegant main ballroom, the creme de la creme of Washington talked, planned, bragged, and schemed. Robert gazed at the ceiling, and marveled at the miniature recreation of Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel, the only one like it in the States. With the ease of a dolphin, he floated about the room, picking up bits and pieces of sensitive chatter.

“I’ve been told that AquaPlatinum will split this week,” someone said.

“We’ve got Senator Bradley in the bag. He’ll push the Gun Control Bill right through,” said another. “To hell with the NRA.” Still another bent the ear of a sympathetic comrade in riches with the equivalent of, “you just can’t find good help these days.” At the dais, Fiona chatted with a colleague. Robert moved to a spot just beyond her line of sight. Striking and chic in her long charcoal evening gown, she flaunted a beautiful but understated quality, sophisticated, but down to earth. He tried not to stare, but she’s got me.

They almost kissed in her den, but he thought better of it. Now he watched her charm dazzle the room, and hoped the opportunity came again.

Guests filed into the ballroom and Robert gave them the once over.

Fiona’s eyes caught his. He smiled. She answered with a wink, then turned her attention to the next supporter jockeying for her attention.

“Things seem to be under control,” said Thorne, gliding up to his side. She scanned Robert’s face, traced a beeline to Fiona, and smiled.

“I knew it,” she said. “You looked a little too calm and collected back at the house, after you finished consoling her.”

“Don’t worry. Nothing happened. I’ve got it all under control.”

“Tell that to the little man in your pants.” Robert smiled. “Little?”

Thorne laughed and went to her table on the far side of the ballroom.

The schedule, seared into Robert’s memory, said President Claymore would arrive thirty minutes after everyone sat down. However, he knew the Secret Service actually never allowed the President to show up at a published time, and never announced which entrance he’d use. Not even the President knew the decision until the very last minute.

In the corner of his eye, Robert caught a glimpse, a flash, of a familiar face. Someone watching, staring. Robert turned. The old man smiled.

Edward Rothschild.