Veil

2

Thorne pulled onto Massachusetts Avenue, passing Embassy Row.

Impressive and mansion-like, most of the foreign embassies stood along the boulevard like royalty, French and Italian marble accented, back and under lit with floodlights, some stationed behind high metal gates.

Massachusetts Avenue flowed into Dupont Circle, which passed the Dupont Plaza Hotel, curving 160 degrees to the five-story building that housed their office. Thorne drove into the underground garage and they caught the elevator to the fifth floor. Evelyn gathered her coat and purse when she saw them.

“Okay, here are your messages,” she said, handing each of them a pile of scribbled pink slips. “I’m tired, I’m going home, and don’t expect me until late tomorrow.”

“Is our guest still with us?” asked Robert.

“You better believe it. Hasn’t moved a muscle. He’s sitting there in front of your desk. I gave him a cup of coffee, which is fresh by the way. I have a feeling you guys are going to need it.”

“Thanks Evie,” Thorne said, giving her a hug. “You go home and get some rest.”

“In fact, take tomorrow off,” added Robert. “We can handle things for a day.”

Evelyn smiled, and headed for the door. “You don’t have to tell me twice. Just make sure things stay the way I’ve left them.” She glared at Robert sarcastically. “And don’t touch anything on my desk.”

“I know, I know,” he said. “I haven’t forgotten what happened last time.”

Evelyn and Thorne laughed as she closed the door behind her. Robert poured two cups of coffee and handed one to Thorne.

“Let’s go see who our homeless friend has killed,” he said.

“I bet it’s nothing,” said Thorne. “These guys make stories up all the time. He’s probably just glad to be out of the cold.” Down a short hall to Robert’s office, their feet pounded the hardwood floor like hooves, past black and white photos of men who died fighting by their side in some of the worst places the world offered.

One photograph showed a group of ecstatic Columbian soldiers kneeling over the bullet-riddled body of drug czar Pablo Escobar, a mission they found particularly satisfying, even though they knew it made not so much as a dent in the fairy tale war on drugs.

Charlie whirled around when they entered, stood, and greeted them, nervously wiping his hands on crusty, filth stained work pants. Robert shook the old man’s hand, said hello, and gave him the once over. A putrid odor he couldn’t quite identify assaulted his nose. If he wasn’t use to smelling much worst, he might have vomited.

Thorne smiled and nodded at Charlie, then positioned herself behind him on a worn black leather couch. She always sat in a position of advantage when they questioned someone unknown. Robert did the talking while she watched and listened.

Robert sat down behind his large oak desk and leaned back in the chair. Charlie stood nervously for a moment then eased down into his seat. A dingy blue blanket wrapped around something long, like a curtain rod, leaned up against the desk in front of Charlie. A large black duffle bag rested on the floor at the side of his chair.

“You didn’t have to wait so late for us Charlie,” said Robert. “We could’ve seen you tomorrow.”

Charlie’s head dropped and water filled his eyes. “I know Mr. Veil, but this matter has waited long enough.”

Robert and Thorne gave each other curious, playful looks.

“Exactly what is this urgent matter?” asked Robert.

Charlie fidgeted and squirmed in his chair. Sweat beaded on his crusty wrinkled forehead. He looked up. “Murder is the matter Mr.

Veil.”

They listened to Charlie unravel a tale, unbelievable and outrageous.

The old man’s a raving lunatic, thought Robert. Thorne did all she could not to laugh.

“I’m afraid what you’re saying is impossible,” Robert told him. “Is there somewhere we can take you? Someone we can call?” Like the nuthouse.

Robert had agreed to see Charlie as an after-thought. A few days earlier, he parked in the alley behind their building and paid Charlie a dollar to watch his car, his mind elsewhere when he accepted the old man’s request for a meeting. Now, the ramblings he sat listening to made him sorry he said yes.

Charlie fumbled open the black duffle bag sitting next to his chair, and placed its contents on the desk. Photographs, phone records, hand drawn street maps, memos, a plastic bag with spent shell casings, another with several mutilated bullet fragments and what looked like six or seven journals rubber-banded together-all fought for space on Robert’s already cluttered blotter.

Charlie continued to drone, unwrapping the long curtain rod-like package, dropping the tattered blanket on the floor. A rifle, complete with scope rested in his hands. At the sight of it, Thorne stood and walked closer to Charlie, her shotgun ready.

He sat the rifle on the desk with the rest of the items and continued to confess the impossible. Robert listened in stunned silence, occasionally glancing up at Thorne who looked just as perplexed. An hour later, he felt truth in what the old man told them, although the magnitude of what he heard demanded he not accept it.

“Why should we believe you?” Robert asked, staring deep into Charlie’s tired blue eyes. Thorne, her dark, lean muscular frame obvious, stood next to their visitor, arms crossed, carefully taking stock of Charlie, sizing him up.

Dingy and worn, the old man’s filthy, tattered overcoat covered a navy blue Georgetown University sweatshirt, equally covered in grime and dirt.

Charlie continued to squirm and fidget. “This evidence speaks for itself, doesn’t it?” he told them. “Or do you think I could make up pictures like these?” His bony, crusty finger pointed to several black and white glossies strewn across the cluttered, overused desk.

Robert picked up the photographs and inspected them closely.

The pictures, taken from various angles, showed a man crouched behind a wooden fence, firing a high-powered rifle similar to the one sitting on his desk. The gunman, much younger than the man who sat before them, wore a plaid jacket and baseball cap, and was unmistakably Charlie Ivory. Robert, dazed by what he’d heard, realized the possibility that the homeless man in front of him-assassinated an American president.

Skeptical, he sat there examining major pieces of evidence Charlie claimed he stole when his handlers failed to tie him to the crime.

The rifle, bullets, and papers looked compelling and could be checked out, but Charlie, homeless on the streets of Washington D.C. for close to forty years, produced something quite startling-chilling photographs of him executing President John F. Kennedy, from behind the grassy knoll that November day.

“These are the days of high-tech,” said Robert, tossing one of the photos back on the desk. “A child could make pictures like these with a digital camera and a computer.”

“Do I look like a child?” the old man said, sitting up straight, wiping his eyes. “Listen, if you have doubts you can send them out to someone who’d know better.”

Robert leaned forward and stared hard at Charlie. “We have every intention of doing just that. But let’s say the pictures and the rest of this stuff are real. Why in the hell would you bring this madness to us? And why shouldn’t we cart you off someplace where they’d care?” Charlie grinned slightly, his eyes looking as though they held the keys to many secrets. “Because you hate them as much as I do,” he said, pointing to a copy of Fortune magazine sitting on the corner of the desk.

Several captains of industry were on the cover, including Bill Gates, Oprah Winfrey and Edward Rothschild, one of the world’s richest and most powerful men.

“They got away with it, they did,” he continued. “And from what I hear of you, I figured you to be the one somebody to put things right.

Anyway, I didn’t think anyone else would care.”

“You mean you got away with it!” Thorne snapped. She moved next to Robert. “If you ain’t a lyin sack, then you’re the one who got away with murder, and I ought’a plug you where you sit!” She rested her hand on the shotgun that still dangled from her shoulder. Robert motioned for her to calm down.

“What do you mean-from what you hear about me?” shot Robert.

Hear what, from who? What is it you think you know about us?” Charlie’s mouth turned down at the corners and his eyes emptied. He stared vacantly out the window. “They’ll come for you now,” he said.

“They know I’m here and they’ll come for you.”

“Who are they?” Robert asked, still not believing what he’d been told. It felt surreal. He didn’t know how to feel, or how much to believe. But on the off chance that Charlie participated in Kennedy’s assassination, the fabled Black Dog Man at the grassy knoll, he wanted to make sure.

“You know, it was all about money,” Charlie groaned, his voice now low and deliberate. “They killed him for more money, more power, more of what they already had.”

“How much money did you get to pull the trigger?” Robert fired, his patience wearing thin. “And who the hell paid the bill?” Robert’s question seemed to strike a nerve. Charlie’s weathered face turned ashen. He dry washed his hands nervously, as though trying to knead them clean.

“Yes, I was paid, and paid well,” said Charlie, his voice cracking.

“By Satan himself.” His eyes beet red, they welled up again. “I’m not proud of it,” he continued. “I was a different man back then. Confused and self-deceived.”

“Does the Devil have a name?” Thorne bellowed. She leaned forward on the desk with both hands, her face contorted, nostrils flared.

“We don’t have time to play Jeopardy with you. Either tell us who hired you, or take this shit and get out.”

They’d been playing good cop, bad cop since childhood. Thorne loved playing it bad. She said it gave her the chance to explore her masculine side, but this time he could tell she wasn’t playing.

“What my partner’s trying to say is that we’re inclined to believe you.

The evidence is compelling, but without a name and face to this animal, we might as well be talking about the Loch Ness Monster or Bigfoot.” Robert hesitated. “You could be just another nut looking for a little attention,” he said. “And you still haven’t said why you came to us.” Charlie sat up straight in his chair. “I’m no nut Mr. Veil, not crazy at all. I just need to know you’re serious, and that you’ll take this to the end if I tell you everything. I’ve lived with this a long time, but I don’t want to die with it.”

Thorne’s face twisted with disgust. Her eyes rolled up toward the ceiling.

“I came to you because I know you,” said Charlie. “I was you.” Robert leaned back in his chair and breathed a sigh of disgust and disbelief. “I have no idea what the hell you mean by that, but I’m beginning to agree with my partner. I think you should take these things and get out.”

Charlie, somber, composed himself. He reached inside the duffle bag and pulled out an oversized mason jar, filled with a cloudy gray liquid.

Floating inside were small pieces of brain matter and flesh.

“If the pictures, gun, and bullets don’t convince you, then maybe this will,” said Charlie.

“What is it?” asked Robert.

“President Kennedy’s brain,” answered Charlie, sitting the jar on the desk. Thorne leaned in to get a closer look.

Robert remembered something he’d read. President Kennedy’s brain disappeared after the autopsy and was never recovered.

The brain tissue in the jar looked tattered and fragile, dancing in the cloudy fluid like sea monkeys. Thorne took the jar and held it up to the light.

“It degenerated over the years,” said Charlie. “Decomposed quite a bit, but with DNA you can prove this is Kennedy’s brain. Then no one will doubt you, and what I’m telling you will be believed.” Stunned, the hairs bristled on the back of Robert’s neck. How did you get this stuff? He examined the bullet fragments, shell casings, and rifle more closely. The weapon, a Mannilcher-Carcano, bolt action, clip fed rifle, was Italian made. The casings matched. The bullet fragments were so mutilated he couldn’t tell by sight if they matched, but a competent lab would be able to with no problem. The rifle’s scope, Japanese made, looked cheap, but adequate.

Robert sat the evidence down and stood. “Charlie, I need to see my partner in private. Sit tight. When we come back we’ll need those names.” He exited with Thorne on his heels.

Charlie sat silent, head low, hands trembling. Fresh tears rolled down his leathery, wrinkled cheeks. Thorne put it on the line for Robert more times than he could remember.

A favor he gladly returned, even when it almost cost him his life.

Suspects often made the blunder of letting their guard down with her.

An easy mistake. Her lean body and exotic looks masked her talent for lethal force. By the time they realized it, they were either in jail, or dead.

She survived more than her share of covert operations by being smart and picking her battles carefully.

“We have to look into this. I have a feeling this guy is telling the truth. He’s the brass ring.”

“I don’t care if he is,” Thorne snapped. “He’s full of it and by the way, fuck a brass ring.” She leaned forward on the dark mahogany conference table that nearly matched her complexion. “If this guy’s telling half the truth, we won’t win this one partner. It’ll get mighty hot mighty fast around here. Let’s let this one pass.” Arms folded across his chest, Robert took a deep breath, his eyes glued to hers. “Twenty years out in the field, all over the world, and we’ve never just let one pass,” he said, his voice steady and controlled.

“If half of what this old man says is true. How can we do nothing?

These people should pay for…”

“You’re not that naive,” said Thorne, biting her lip. She dropped her shotgun on the table hard enough to scratch the wood, and flopped down in a chair. “How will this change anything anyway?” she continued.

“Except for the fact that our lives won’t be worth spit. We have no idea who we’ll be after, or who’ll be after us.”

“Since when do we care who the target is?” he fired. “We’ve chased down drug lords, terrorists. Hell, we even tried to kill Saddam Hussein for heaven’s sake. I don’t want to change things Thorne, but how many chances do you get to set something like this straight.” Thorne glared. “I’m just not sure about this one Robert. If that old fart is telling the truth, once we start, we won’t be able to start over.”

“ Look, if you’re out, then you’re out. I can ride this one without you,” he said, bluffing.

Thorne suppressed a smile and shook her head in light-hearted disgust.

“White boys. Think you can do anything don’t you? John Wayne, Tom Cruise. Every time I turn around, it’s w hite man to the rescue.”

“I’m not kidding. If you won’t come in on this one, I’ll go it alone.” They sat in silence. Thorne looked at him as if he were a fool.

He walked to the door.

“What about the Bear?”

He paused.

“Or have you forgotten that quickly?”

Robert shut his eyes and cursed under his breath. Caught up in Charlie’s confession, he’d forgotten about Andre Perchenkov. The Bear.

A Russian Mafia crime lord, turned serial killer, executed three DEA agents and viciously murdered five federal judges. Grudgingly, Justice Department officials hired Robert and Thorne to find him, dead or alive, for a one million dollar bounty.

Normally the federal law enforcement community didn’t work with outsiders, but the FBI and Secret Service were at a stand still, and the White House, desperate to keep U.S. citizens calm, wanted him caught right away.

“You’re right,” he said, turning to face her. “I forgot about the Bear.”

“Then we’ll drop this matter,” she said, showing a little relief. “Let’s tell the old man to shove off.”

Robert stroked his chin, walked over to the chair directly across from her and sat down.

Tabling the Kennedy matter for even a minute annoyed him, but Thorne hit a nerve. The Bear would strike again soon, and they needed a break in the case. Fast.

However, the chance to break the Kennedy case, he couldn’t pass up.

The gun, bullet fragments, and brain matter would have to be analyzed, and he’d find a safe place to hide Charlie until he confirmed his story.

No. Both. Charlie and the Bear.

“Thorne, this is why we left the service. Or have you forgotten?

We’ll get the Bear. We’ll get him. But don’t ask me to turn my back and let this one walk away.”

Thorne’s face twisted in frustration. Robert combed his fingers back through his hair. “Do you remember the day Kennedy was killed?”

“Vaguely,” said Thorne. “We were a little young back then.”

“Well I remember. Eighty-three people were murdered in the United States on November 22, 1963. One of them, President John Fitzgerald Kennedy. Another, Thomas Randolph Veil.” Thorne’s face softened. “Your father. I’d forgotten.”

“Neither President Kennedy nor my father were perfect men,” he continued. “But neither deserved to die the way they did, and in both cases, no one was ever held responsible. Now, my father was just a construction worker, and one death had nothing to do with the other.” He stopped, eyes narrow, breathing heavy. He wanted to continue, but couldn’t. The rancid flavor of acid rose up in the back of his throat.

“Let’s get these guys and burn their asses. Burn’em straight to the ground.”

“Robert, I understand how you feel,” Thorne said, in a gentle voice.

“Some creep took my mother from me long ago, but this isn’t about us.

This is something else, something bigger.” Robert glared through her, his mind traveling back to his parent’s kitchen, the day they heard about President Kennedy’s death. He didn’t fully understand at the time, but he’d never seen his father break down and cry. Later, Thomas Veil went out to the grocery store. Robert had no idea it would be the last time he’d see his father alive. He heard detectives explain to his mother how his dad tried to stop a robbery.

They never found the men who killed him. The country wept for Kennedy. Robert cried for a man he’d have to grow up without.

Thorne picked up her shotgun and stood, resting the weapon on her shoulder. “I haven’t forgotten why we quit working for Uncle Sam.

Deep down I want these bastards too. But you better be right partner. If not…” She smiled. “You know I’ve got your back. Just promise me if this does turn out to be legit, we won’t give an inch. It’s all or nothing.” Robert’s anger leveled. “Agreed,” he said, returning her smile.

“Now let’s go tell our new friend.”

“You mean your new friend,” said Thorne. “He’s goin’ down in flames with the rest of em. I don’t care how long he’s been livin’ on the streets.”

They walked out of the conference room and down the hall. Robert noticed drops of blood on the hallway floor.

In unison, they quietly stepped to opposite sides of the door and readied their weapons. Robert released the safety on his Berretta.

Thorne racked her shotgun.

He carefully tried the doorknob to his office. Open. He signaled Thorne with three fingers.

On three, they burst inside, guns pointing in every direction.

Charlie’s chair lay turned over on its side next to a small pool of blood.

They relaxed their weapons, bewildered.

Charlie and the evidence were gone.