Veil

21

Andre assisted a wealthy elderly woman and her husband to their seats, all the time studying, calculating, not wanting his plans to grind to a sudden, disastrous halt.

“Thank you young man,” said the old woman.

Her gratitude registered faintly in Andre’s ears. He smiled and nodded, his eyes tracking, watching.

He watched Robert finish with the old man, then walk over to an agent stationed on the stage to the right of the judge. Robert whispered in the agent’s ear. Andre felt perspiration building under his fat suit and swallowed. Despite his cunning and nerve, once the President arrived, all bets would be off.

Andre saw his connection, Agent Sams, standing near the kitchen entrance surveying the room like a well-trained German Shepherd. The agent panned the room several times, never once showing any sign he recognized the Russian. Good. Either my disguise is perfect, or he’s ignoring me.

“Eduardo,” a voice whispered.

Melissa Adams, the banquet manager, stood behind him, all smiles.

“I need you to take a fresh water pitcher to the dais right away.

Before the President arrives.”

“Yes. Right away Ms. Adams. It’ll be my pleasure.” Andre walked past Agent Sams, who gave him the once over. Andre nodded subserviently, showing his slightly yellowed teeth. Nothing.

“Here you go Eduardo. Take this up front right away.” He took the tray and returned to the ballroom. He panned the room, but couldn’t locate Robert or Thorne. Andre straightened up, discreetly slipped a folded note out of his vest pocket, and palmed it under the tray.

He reached the right side of the stage where a poker-faced agent nodded and let him on stage. Judge Patrick sat to the right of the podium, caught up in conversation. He gently placed the tray next to the judge, allowing the note to protrude enough to be noticed by a sharp eye.

He scanned the room again, spotted nothing out of the ordinary, and still didn’t see Veil or his partner. He caught one last look at the judge and headed for the kitchen, adrenaline raging, heart pounding. Two steely eyes locked in on his, almost bringing him to a stop. The old man he saw Veil talking to earlier, smiled, nodded, then turned around as if he didn’t see a thing. Andre quickened his steps, but didn’t run.

Ten feet from the kitchen, he saw Thorne take her seat, and Robert make his way to the dais

Andre pushed the kitchen door open, knocking an angry, cursing server backwards. Just short of a trot, he headed for the loading dock area. Agent Sams stood in back of the kitchen, hand pressed to his earpiece, face intense. The agent looked up. Andre!