Veil

32

Latex, make-up, and collagen lip injections molded Andre’s face, giving it a full, pudgy swell. His hair, double-dyed jet black and mowed down into a military buzz cut, gave him a dedicated, take-no-shit aura.

False teeth, fit tightly over his own, pushed out into a slight overbite.

His eyes flashed ocean blue.

A fifty thousand dollar microchip, surgically implanted by a German black market surgeon, irritated his vocal chords, but gave his voice a perfect baritone pitch.

His identity, flimsy and tenuous, cost him three million dollars.

Much of it spent on street and government contacts who could never surface again, it would buy him a week, maybe two.

Sitting in a small reception area outside the office of Captain Mark Reasons, a new crew of security officers for the Supreme Court Building sat waiting for their assignments.

The five men and one woman talked sports and politics, but primarily discussed the confirmation hearings going on in another building less than a hundred yards away. Andre took it all in.

“If you ask me, the guy’s just a super nut case,” said Bill Hardy, a lean wiry guard with pointy ears and bald head. “How stupid can you be to try and kill a Supreme Court nominee?”

“He can’t be that stupid,” said Judith Staten, a big boned blonde who reminded Andre of women back home. “If you ask me, he’s pretty clever. He managed to get by a full secret service detail and Robert Veil.”

Andre’s ears burned.

“Robert Veil?” Andre asked.

“Yeah,” Judith continued. “My brother humped with him in Iraq during Desert Storm. Use to be a Company man. Real black bag stuff.

Now he works on his own.”

“If he’s that good, why is he on his own?” asked Andre, a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

“Don’t know,” said Judith. “My brother lost track of him after the war.”

“Well he can’t be that good,” Bill smirked. “That maniac got close enough at the hotel to kill her.”

Andre smiled.

“Thomas Flagg,” called the receptionist.

Andre stood.

“Captain Reasons will see you now.”

He walked, shoulders back, chin up, across the plain, well-trodden carpet and, upon entering, took a mental snapshot of Captain Reasons’ office. Large but plain, the only noticeable items were a picture of his wife and two daughters and a photograph of the Captain shaking hands with Ronald Reagan.

They shook hands and Andre sat down in front of the square shouldered black man’s government issue gray metal desk. Captain Reason’s picked up a file folder Andre recognized marked Personnel: Classified Information.

“Thomas Flagg. Born and raised in Cleveland, Ohio.”

“Cleveland Browns country,” Andre added, for effect.

“I see you transferred in from the Federal Building in Los Angeles and spent some time in Oklahoma City.”

“Yes sir. Oklahoma City was my first assignment out of training. I moved to L.A. just before the bombing.” Andre let his voice quiver slightly.

“I understand, son,” said the Captain, sympathetic and sincere.

“Thank you sir. I’m glad they buried him,” Andre lied. He considered Timothy McVeigh a hero.

Captain Reasons continued to thumb through the file. “I was considering you for assignment on the main floor, near the Justice’s chambers.”

Andre forced down the urge to smile. “Thank you sir, that would be an honor.”

Captain Reasons stroked his chin. “But I noticed you have extensive experience in electronic surveillance, so I’m putting you in the watchroom at the monitor’s desk in the basement. We can’t let experience like yours go to waste.”

Andre forced a smile. “Thank you sir. I’ll do my best.”