Veil

4

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, please!” Edward chimed. “Let’s save the sparring for another time.”

He paused, allowing each of the four men sitting before him a moment to gather themselves. Each was given the opportunity to debate what he considered meaningless issues for almost an hour. Occasionally, he commented on their opinions out of feigned politeness. Now, he wanted their undivided attention.

“I’ve asked you here at this late hour because I have a very special request. As you know, my son Charleston has been Governor of New York for the past three years. What you may not know is that the White House is his next stop. I intend to pave the way for his ascension to the Presidency, and I hope we’ll have your full, unwavering support.” Edward Rothschild III leaned back into a courtly, burgundy leather chair that held great men from Churchill to Eisenhower. He puffed his Cuban. A rich cloud from Havana’s finest temporarily masked his stern countenance, fierce green eyes and silvery gray hair. The others sat comfortably on sofas and chairs strategically positioned around a highly polished antique coffee table, a precious heirloom from the eighteenth century donated to the Cosmos Club by Edward’s long deceased grandmother.

The club’s main pavilion was closed, with most of the staff gone for the night. A skeleton crew stayed on during the late hours to tend to the small number of members and guests who stayed in the club’s residence overnight. Tonight Edward handpicked the servants. Over the years, he’d learned whom he could trust.

The occasions for these men to meet were rare. When they did, things changed. Stock markets rose or crashed, governments struggled or achieved peace, wars started and ended, leaders lived or died. Their very existence as a group fueled the obsession of conspiracy theorists from New York to Moscow, and Edward was their leader-as much as a group of men like these could have one.

A black, white-coated waiter appeared from a hidden wall panel, the lines in his face a testament to years spent weathering storms and hearing many secrets. Smooth and effortless, he glided to Edward’s side, leaning over slightly so the wine he caressed in his white-gloved hands could be inspected. Edward gave the bottle a cursory glance. It was from the 1855 classification of Bordeaux, a Chateau Mouton-Rothschild.

The waiter poured a small amount into a crystal wine goblet on the table in front of Edward, who picked it up by its stem, swirled it around in the dim light, then placed the glass up to his proud, regal nose. Eyes closed, lungs fully expanded, he took a full, deep whiff, leaned his head back slightly and poured the entire contents past his lips, making sure the grape touched his tongue first before filling the rest of his mouth. He swirled the juice around for twenty seconds, swallowed, then nodded his approval. His glass was filled halfway, then the waiter moved to the others.

Edward snuffed out his gift from Castro and surveyed the room, reading each man as a parent would a child, condescending, knowing.

Only he could call a meeting like this, and only in matters of extreme importance. Up until now, his reason remained a mystery.

“I’m afraid I don’t find young Charleston quite ready for the Presidency,” said Ian Goldberg, his sausage fingers gripped tightly around the Waterford. “Maybe after another term or two as governor, we can revisit this.”

Each of the other three men sat quietly, contemplation etched on their faces. Edward knew Ian would be the first to speak. The portly Chairman of the two hundred billion dollar First Global Trust had his own plans for the White House. Rumors speculated he intended to jockey his nephew, a Senator from Arizona, into office.

Edward never cared much for Ian, or anybody outside of his immediate family. However, in addition to being the world’s most eminent financial wizard, Ian Goldberg could keep a secret. He did business with some of the world’s most notorious characters; individuals who wouldn’t trust God, but would yield to Ian Goldberg information that could bring down nations. Edward needed him on the team.

“I agree,” added Charles Kinston, waving off the waiter, passing on the wine. “Your son is a fine boy and a very capable politician, but there are others in line ahead of him. I think we should choose someone from the stable we’ve already prepared. What makes you think he deserves it now anyway? He hasn’t paid his dues.”

Charles, for once could you pull your nose out of Ian’s behind, Edward thought. The waiter disappeared back through the panel.

Charles Kingston. The name synonymous with media, he ran a worldwide empire, including, newspapers, magazines, television, radio, and internet companies that dominated opinions in almost every area of the globe. He held considerable influence over public opinion, yet he often fell in line with Ian like a schoolboy. Edward often wondered what secret Ian held over the media mogul.

“I might remind all of you that having someone of our own choosing sitting as President, someone who will assist us without question, is vital to our continued prosperity,” Edward told them. “Having a President we can maneuver and direct is in our best interest, and how much closer can you get than having a son in the White House?” he added, a cold look of brutal seriousness on his face.

“How special for you,” shot Victor Roselli. “A son in the White House, how nice. But he’s your son, not ours.” Victor Roselli, smooth and dapper. Boss of what Edward termed the new Mafia. Without firing a shot, Victor orchestrated one of the biggest takeovers in American history. Organized crime.

Movies like The Godfather, and flamboyant, overzealous bosses like Gotti, gave the mob far too much exposure. They were famous. Great if you’re Al Pacino, but horrendous for those who actually killed for a living. Victor saw to it that many of the old bosses were indicted, sent to jail, or killed. He preferred stocks, bonds, credit cards, IPO’s, and mergers over drugs, prostitution and extortion, and except for The Sopranos, he even managed to limit newspaper and television coverage.

Edward found it amusing that because so many of the old dons were dead or in jail, some fools actually believed the Mafia no longer existed.

“Yes Victor, he is my son, and the sentimental part of me is a proud father. But first and foremost, I’m a businessman. I never forget my friends-or my enemies. Question is, on which side will you fall?” Victor’s face told Edward he’d made his point. The others also seemed to grasp the message. However, men like these didn’t achieve success by being bullied. Edward felt the tension rise.

“You wouldn’t be the first man I’ve had to count as an enemy Edward. I don’t like being threatened, you know that. Remember, I’m not your brother Nicholas,” said Victor.

Edward struggled to maintain his composure. Victor struck an especially sensitive nerve. Edward and his youngest brother, Nicholas, went to battle over their father’s empire a decade earlier. Nicholas, every bit Edward’s equal, gained the upper hand. A week before the board was to vote on the matter, his brother turned up dead. Complications from an unknown heart ailment. Speculation surrounded the death. Edward was investigated and cleared. Yes, he murdered his brother, but there was never a shred of proof, only rumor and innuendo.

“I suggest you not forget that fact,” said Edward, calm, controlled.

“If family blood won’t stay my wrath, what chance is there for you?” He made sure his malicious eyes fell across the room.

“Now, now, let’s not get personal,” said Vernon Campbell, Director of the CIA. “This is a business decision, plain and simple. I agree with Edward. Having someone in the White House close to us is vital. I’m willing to throw my support behind the Governor. It’s the best advantage we’ve got. No one else will be as easy to influence, or control. Let’s not forget Watergate.”

Vernon’s observation broke the tension slightly. Who could forget?

Nixon failed to listen when his advisors told him to let the Watergate burglars fry and go to jail. Edward thought Nixon’s penchant for loyalty, in light of such obvious loss, simple-minded and obtuse. When Nixon confessed that he’d recorded conversations in the Oval Office, Edward and the others forced him to turn over tapes made when they visited.

They cut their losses and forced the President to resign. The fiasco cost them billions.

“No one wants another Nixon,” said Edward. “So it’s important we seize the opportunity at hand.”

Edward finished the statement looking in Victor’s direction. Later, he would make him pay for his disrespect. Today, he needed his support, however grudgingly given.

“We should take it under advisement and talk again in a few weeks,” Charles said, carefully. “It’ll give us a chance to consider all of our options. We shouldn’t rush.”

“Today is Monday,” said Edward, icy and stern. “I’ll expect your decision by close of business Friday. If your answer is no, don’t bother to call. I’ll be in touch with you at a later date. We’ve come a long way together gentleman. Let’s finish on the same team.” He stood. “I trust you can find your way out.”

Except for Vernon, each man rose silently and gathered his things.

Only Victor dared look Edward in the eye. After the last limo pulled out of the circular driveway, Edward sat back in his chair and lit up another cigar.

“They’ll come around. They always do,” Vernon said, lighting up a cigar of his own. “The bastards are greedy and stubborn as hell, but they’re not stupid.”

Vernon removed his gold horn-rimmed glasses and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He set his cigar in the polished, stainless steel ashtray next to his chair, leaned forward, elbows on his knees, a grave look in his eyes. “Anyway, right now they’re not your biggest problem,” he said, almost in a whisper.

Earlier, Vernon told Edward he wanted to discuss an urgent matter when the others left. He didn’t give it another thought. “So, what’s so important you’re not rushing right over to that Brazilian mistress you keep hidden on the westside,” Edward quipped slyly.

Vernon pursed his lips. “Your old friend Charlie Ivory has been acting strange. So it looks like getting your son elected President is the least of your worries.”

Edward felt a twinge, but remained steady. “I thought he was nearly dead. He’s been on the streets for four decades, and my sources tell me he has tuberculosis. What possible threat could he be? What could he gain at this point?”

“He still has the evidence,” said Vernon. “If you recall, it’s the only reason he’s still alive.”

“He’s had it forever, and never so much as blinked our way. What makes us so special now?”

“It’s not what he’s done Edward, it’s who he’s met with. A former Company man. Robert Veil’s his name, and this guy worries me.”

“And who is Robert Veil?”

Vernon picked up his cigar, puffed, and leaned back against the chair.

“He was a field commander, first with the Marines, then in black ops with the CIA.” Vernon shook his head with a look of admiration. “I bet the boys would sure like to have him on the team again now that we’re back in the black bag covert business. Now he’s a hired gun, connected, and very good at what he does.”

Edward smirked. “ I’m glad you’re impressed. What’s the problem?

Kill him.”

Vernon leaned forward again, eyes somber. “If Charlie’s told him our little secret and we miss this guy, it’ll confirm whatever he’s been told. Veil will know it was us.”

Edward stood. He suppressed his emotions, but the news shook him.

“If this Robert Veil is the man you think he is, then he may already know it’s us.” He stroked his chin. “Put somebody good on it, and I mean deadly. I don’t want my family fucked out of five generations of progress by a homeless nobody and a second rate bounty hunter.”

“Oh, I’m afraid he’s more than second rate. Much more.” Vernon opened a dark green attache case and removed a large brown envelope.

He handed it to Edward.

“I put together a file detailing this guy. The Justice Department has him on contract at this very moment. He’s helping track down that serial killer, the one who’s been killing judges. Vernon finished his wine, put out his cigar, and stood. “President Kennedy’s ghost just won’t die, will it?”

Edward looked at the envelope, forced a smile, then gathered his Fedora and black cashmere from the coat rack. “No, seems he won’t,” he said. “Keep me informed.”

“We can’t kill him right away,” added Vernon. “We need the evidence first. If Charlie’s talking maybe he’ll bring it out in the open or lead us to it.”

“Where’s Charlie now?” Edward asked, his calm facade intact.

Vernon lowered his gaze. “We lost him. Veil and his partner left their office and we searched the entire building. He disappeared.” Edward felt alarm, but held it together. “Vernon, wrap this up quickly. I want my son to announce his Presidential bid as soon as possible. I don’t want this hanging in the air.” Edward abruptly left the room and bounded down the winding marble stairs. His chauffeur, Lawrence, a stocky, well-built Englishman, barely made it around to open the door.

Inside, Edward poured himself a glass of B amp;B. “Take the long route home,” he ordered.

“Yes, Mr. Rothschild. Will we be making any other stops?”

“No. Just take your time.”

Edward raised the partition and downed the sixty-year-old liqueur in one gulp. His heart pounded as though he were a burglar about to be discovered. Charlie lurked like a phantom from his past. A haunting figure-a nightmare. Vernon and his men watched Charlie for years.

Edward even hired his own teams from time to time, to make sure Charlie stayed buried on the streets. Over the years, he let his guard down, convinced the assassin’s self-imposed life sentence wore away any possibility of resolve.

The black Lincoln glided onto Pennsylvania Avenue an hour before sunrise. They passed the White House and Edward rolled down his window. Numbing, freezing air rushed in. He stared at the white marble. He needed Charleston to assume the Presidency. His plans depended on it. His nostrils flared. The Presidential residence disappeared. Edward raised the window and leaned back. His grip tightened around the crystal glass, crushing it. Blood seeped from his rigid fist and he dropped the pieces on the floor. He grabbed a white towel from the bar, wrapped it around his hand, then relaxed against the seat and closed his eyes.

His father and grandfather, members of Wall Street’s elite, commanded holdings in the railroads, banking and finance, and military equipment. Edward joined the company after finishing graduate school at Cambridge.

John F. Kennedy assumed the Presidency. Not exactly a banner day for the Rothschilds. Most of their political contributions and influence went to Richard Nixon, his father’s favorite. The loss hurt, but they recovered just in time to ride the military bandwagon to Vietnam, where they stood to make billions from government contracts. Relationships long nurtured by his grandfather when the CIA was called the Office of Strategic Services, the OSS, kept them square in the old boy network.

Then the President decided to pull out of the war before it really got started. The old boys protested, and Kennedy promised to break the CIA into pieces. The threat spawned whispers, and ultimately ended his life.

It wasn’t difficult. Edward’s grandfather recruited him to manage a large portion of the details, to be a project manager of sorts. A word here, a suggestion there, and the pieces slid into place. The Kennedy clan counted many friends, but more enemies. Robert Kennedy, the President’s brother and U.S. Attorney General, angered mob boss Sam Giancana. Add to the mix a group of pissed off Cuban rebels, still stinging from a failed Bay of Pigs invasion, and it didn’t take much to get the ball rolling.

Twenty assassins were considered; two were hired. Lee Harvey Oswald got the nod as patsy, with a team of Cuban guerrillas led by a CIA field officer, actually doing the shooting from the sixth floor of the book depository.

Vernon, a young pup on the intelligence fast track, introduced Edward to Charlie Ivory, a wet boy, who killed at the behest of the CIA.

At the time, Charlie worked as a freelancer, a hired gun. His reputation as one of the world’s best impressed the Rothschilds. A no miss killer with no allegiances, no family, no friends. Edward considered it one million dollars well spent.

With the time and place chosen, a plan agreed upon, they combed through the final details and set everything in motion.

Then, against Edward’s advice, the old boys, his father and grandfather included, decided not to take any chances, and gave orders for Charlie to take the fall with Oswald. They missed. Charlie got away, disappearing with crucial pieces of evidence.

The assassin surfaced, empty-handed, and despite their best efforts, they were unable to find the pictures, documents, bullet fragments, and other items Charlie had in his possession. Information that could link them all to the assassination.

Edward smelled a payoff. It didn’t come. Charlie said he wanted to be left alone. That as long as they kept their distance, the evidence wouldn’t surface. Insincere assurances were given. Edward ordered an around the clock tail on him-to no avail. They watched and waited.

Charlie didn’t so much as cough their way. Until now.

Twenty miles from his estate, Edward opened his eyes. He stretched and picked up the large brown envelope Vernon gave him. Reading it increased his anxiety. I can’t leave this to Vernon to handle alone. If things go wrong, everything will come tumbling down.

He slid the wooden panel on the car door aside and pulled out a hidden satellite phone. An accessory Vernon suggested. He dialed, examining his blue blood soaked hand. I’m not about to let a dead President sully what I’ve worked so hard to build.

The phone clicked several times, routing the call through Paris, Johannesburg, or some other part of the world, then rang. Someone on the other end picked up.

“Hello, this is Edward,” he said. “I have a problem.”