Veil. Part 28

Robert looked over at Thorne. "This a.s.shole's not the negotiating type."

"My thoughts exactly. How do you want to play it?" Robert heard a loud crash. Fiona screamed. He looked inside. The Bear kicked in the inner-office door and rushed inside.

Robert erupted and tore inside with Thorne right on his heels, both pointing their weapons. Robert saw Fiona duck down behind her desk.

"She's in the line of fire, Thorne!"

They hesitated. The Bear fired. They rolled inside her office on opposite sides of the room.

"Stay down, Fiona," Robert screamed.

He rushed Andre, staying low. The Russian fired, missed, and Robert body slammed him to the ground. Both lost their weapons as they hit the floor.

Robert gave Andre a head b.u.t.t in the mouth. Thorne screamed for him to move. He did. She pulled the trigger. Empty.

Andre caught Robert in the jaw, knocking him backwards. Thorne dove on top, but he flipped her over and sent her cras.h.i.+ng into a table.

He jumped up screaming in Russian, crazed, frothing at the mouth, a long silver knife in his hand. Fiona ran to the back of the office and stood against the wall.

Robert and Thorne scrambled to their feet and circled.

Andre continued to rant in his native tongue. Robert didn't understand what he said, but understood he wanted to kill Fiona. He wanted to see her dead.

Robert charged. Andre sliced his arm. Thorne came up from behind, bear-hugged him, and reverse slammed the Russian to the floor.

The Bear scrambled to his feet, still gripping the knife. Thorne tried to take him. He stabbed and slashed, holding her at bay.

Andre looked at Fiona, mouth frothing, eyes red. He screamed and rushed toward her. Fiona raised her hand, which held Robert's gun, and fired, hitting him in the shoulder.

Andre stopped and admired the wound, smiled, and rushed again.

Robert dove for him and missed. Shots exploded, then stopped.

Robert rushed to his feet and looked down. Andre Perchenkov, the Bear, lay on his back, blood oozing from his chest. Thorne knelt down and checked his pulse. "He's dead."

Robert looked at Fiona. "It's over honey, it's..." Fiona stood against the wall shaking. The Russian's knife in her chest. "Robert." She collapsed.

Robert rushed over. The SWAT team rushed inside.

"Get an ambulance! She's hurt! Get an ambulance!" He examined the wound. Half the blade made it inside her chest, and blood oozed, soaking her blouse. Fiona tried to raise herself up.

"Don't move," said Robert, bracing himself behind her. "They're on their way." He looked down at her through watery eyes. She smiled.

"I missed you," she said, tears rolling down her cheeks.

"I missed you too," he said.

"Where's that ambulance?" Thorne screamed.

"Jessica," Fiona whispered. "Where's Jessica?"

"Don't try to speak. Rest. Jessica's just fine. You're going to be fine."

"Is he dead?" Fiona asked.

"Yes, he's gone."

Fiona closed her eyes and her breathing fell shallow. Robert gave her mouth to mouth. She didn't respond. Paramedics rushed inside and went to work. One called hospital emergency to report her condition, while the other pressed gauze on the wound. Robert heard them say they couldn't detect a pulse. He could barely swallow.

They carefully loaded her body on a gurney, tubes in her nose and arm. He followed them outside, Thorne at his side. The ambulance sped off. Robert's stomach cramped.

"I should have been here," he whispered, lowering his head. "I never should have left her side."

"You did the right thing," Thorne told him. "How could you know the b.a.s.t.a.r.d would be inside the building?"

"I should've put her first."

"You put the country first. We did the right thing." FBI agents made their way over. They'd be questioned all night, but Robert didn't care. The woman he loved died and at the moment, the world didn't matter.

40.

A cold wind pounded hard against the windows, shaking them violently.

Thorne and Barbara sat at the table playing chess, both concentrating hard, Robert's mother holding the upper hand.

Fiona's servants milled around, heads low, faces miserable. Robert, couched in front of the television, shut his eyes, but couldn't sleep.

"What time is he going to speak?" asked his mother.

"In about ten minutes," answered Robert, changing the channel to CNN.

President Claymore would address the nation that night in an attempt to make sense of the past week's turmoil.

A search of Andre's locker uncovered a note ranting and raving about the death of his brother and the usual "hatred of the U.S." diatribe. The note said Fiona's death was his final message, a warning that America was not all-powerful, and that he was the beginning of many to follow after him.

Thanks to a profile on America's Most Wanted, the police found and searched the Russian's apartment, where they found information linking Andre to Agent Sams, and the body of his neighbor, Gloria Parsons, an apparent moth too close to the flame.

Robert poured himself a drink, Jack Daniels on the rocks. He thought about the evidence, which he knew they'd never find. He and Thorne went back to Parklawn and searched, but couldn't find a clue.

NBC broke Edward's story. Found shot to death at his ranch home, reports called him the victim of a home invasion robbery gone awry.

His son, Charleston, dropped out of the presidential race and offered a million dollars to anyone with knowledge of his father's death. Robert watched as the world mourned a man they deemed a great leader, even calling him a global pioneer.

Robert knew one person who could put things all together. Vernon Campbell. Unfortunately, or conveniently, the CIA Director died in a hunting accident stalking deer in Pennsylvania. An agent who accompanied him on the hunt tripped over a tree stump and blew the Director's head clean off.

"It's starting," said Robert. Thorne and his mother left their game and sat beside him.

Two doors at the White House opened, and President Claymore walked down a long red carpet, stopping at the podium.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. These last few weeks have been trying for our nation. We have suffered indignities and hatefulness.

Diseased efforts designed to eat away at our very soul. A madman sought to take away our pride and sense of well-being by taking the lives of those servants sworn to keep the law and the Const.i.tution sacred.

Madmen even sought to take my life, but it is not my life they wished to take. It is not my body they wished to destroy. They wish to take away your way of life, the freedoms of good Americans and good people all over the world. Evil tried, good conquered."

"Now it's time to move forward from this place, this place of hurt and pain. It's time to heal and move on into the future, a future bright and promising. We have been wounded, not killed. Stepped on, not crushed.

Beat down, not beaten. So let's move forward with the determination to make changes. Positive changes our world cries for, uplifting changes we have the power to make. I have only a short time left in office, but during this time we will energize our country, and take back that which belongs to us all. The right to live free, safe, and secure, in the home of the free, land of the brave. Thank you, and G.o.d Bless America." The room exploded into a frenzy of applause, questions, and camera flashes.

"Well, partner, we're back in business," said a smiling Thorne. "I'll start searching for a new office first thing tomorrow, maybe something in Georgetown. That is, if the government's check clears."

"I'm surprised they paid us," said Robert.

"Hey, we caught him didn't we?" Thorne jumped off the couch, and headed for the kitchen. Dr. Albert Anthony walked in the den.

"h.e.l.lo doctor," his mother said. "How's the patient?"

"She's doing just fine. She wants to see Mr. Veil." Robert ran up the long winding staircase, and inside Fiona's room. A short stout nurse smiled when he rushed inside.

"h.e.l.lo, Mr. Veil. She's awake. Come right in." The nurse closed the door behind her.

He stood next to the bed smiling, thankful Fiona made it through alive. She opened her eyes and smiled. "You really must get some rest, Mr. Veil. You look tired."

He kissed her on the forehead, and sat down in the chair next to the bed. The knife nicked her heart and she lost a lot of blood, but it did no permanent damage. The doctors said she'd be able to return to the bench in a month or so, when her strength returned.

"You look well," he told her. "Good thing, too. I think your staff's going crazy without you." He leaned in close. "And so am I." She returned his gaze and her smile widened. "You saved my life.

Thank you. I owe you everything."

"Don't talk," said Robert. "You need to rest. Jessica will be back later today, and I suspect you'll need all the strength you can get." Tears streamed down Fiona's cheeks. "If not for you she'd be... I'd be..."

"I know," he said, wiping her face with tissue. "Now rest." He stroked her hair. "I love you, Fiona."

"Oh, Robert, I love you too."

They kissed, long and pa.s.sionate. Robert held her hand until she fell asleep. He watched for a moment, then closed his eyes, and joined her in a rest welcome and peaceful.

Epilogue.

On a sticky, humid, Was.h.i.+ngton afternoon, a dark green taxicab pulled off Lincoln Road N.E. into the nicely kept Glenwood Cemetery and made its way through the calm sea of permanent guests bedded down in eternal sleep. The expansive park of the now long forgotten held an eerie calmness that was curiously inviting for a place most wanted to avoid.

The cab made a left and slowly climbed the semi-steep pavement, stopping at its pa.s.senger's request. The cab driver hopped out and pulled his fare's "spare set of wheels" from the trunk. With the precision of a gymnast, Popeye lifted himself out of the cab and lowered his legless torso down into his wheelchair. "I'll only be a minute," he told the driver, rolling past several impressive, custom-made vaults. He stopped at a gothic tomb with the name C.R. Peace engraved across the top.

Popeye lowered his head, too dizzy and tired to pray, moaning in memory of battles lost and friends long pa.s.sed away. Charlie kept several tombs around the city and asked Popeye to make sure the casket with the Kennedy a.s.sa.s.sination evidence got moved if something happened to him. He also instructed him to give Robert Veil this information, but Popeye had waited.

Now, with Edward Rothschild dead, the homeless amputee didn't see the point. Why put the country through more agony when it wouldn't help her heal? Popeye wiped his eyes, pulled a half full bottle of Southern Comfort from under his blanket and took a long full swig.

Ten minutes later, bottle empty and back under the blanket, Popeye made his way home. The doctors at Crossroads gave him six months at the most. Fine with him. He'd done his country one final service and, near death, that's all a patriot could ask.

PREVIEW.

The Hammer of G.o.d.

A Novel by Reginald Cook.

Copyright 2005.

Prologue.

Pope Pius IX, as was routine when in Rome and not traveling, knelt in front of his chamber window at sunrise for prayer. Seven years removed from the start of his Papacy in 1846, and the anxieties of the church had not waned an inch, in fact, as time edged forward, the mire under his feet deepened. Riot lead to riot, and the pope was p.r.o.nounced a traitor to his country. Palma, a papal prelate, was shot to death while standing near an open window. On the steps of the Cancelleria where he'd gone to open parliament, his prime minister, Rossi, was stabbed to death, and Pius had been pressured to promise a democratic ministry. Then, draped in a homemade disguise, with the a.s.sistance of the Bavarian amba.s.sador, Count Spaur, and the French amba.s.sador, Duc d'Harcourt, Pope Pius escaped from the Quirinal where his enemies had surrounded him. Pius returned to Italy April, 1850, after the French restored order to Rome, but cancerous opportunists, who struck down his authority, had terrorized the citizens and committed untold atrocities, all in the name of democracy.

However, nothing vexed the Pope's soul like the vision he'd been wrestling with for the past two weeks. Every morning since it started, he rose before dawn and entreated the Lord with the prayers of an earnest man, begging for the nightmare to pa.s.s. This morning, he closed his eyes and moved his lips with wisps, and the heaviness came faster than usual. Sweat flooded his face, burning his eyes, soaking the neckline of his white vestment. Asmodeus and his band swept into the Pope's chamber unnoticed and encircled the man on his knees deep in prayer, sneering and snorting their delight. Asmodeus towered over the Pontiff. The eleven others formed a semicircle around them both. Pope Pius continued to pray, squeezing his eyes tight, his murmurs unintelligible. Asmodeus knelt down and whispered in his ear. Tears bled from under Pius's eyelids, he clenched his teeth and sobbed. "Why, Lord, why?" Asmodeus and the others watched the pope pray harder, this time stretching his hands toward heaven, begging for relief, and they laughed. The windows of the chamber swung open and a brisk wind swept through. Michael, and eleven of G.o.d's strongest angels breezed into Pope Pius's chamber, pus.h.i.+ng back Asmodeus and his band of demons. Michael recognized each fallen angelic being and took note.

Asmodeus, Chief of Demons, Balan, Prince of h.e.l.l, Buer, Commander of fifty legions of devils, Hecate, Queen of Witches, Jezabeth, Demoness of Falsehoods, Naamah, Demoness of Seduction, Philota.n.u.s, Demon of pederasty and sodomy, Python, Prince of lying spirits, Ronwe, Demon commanding nineteen legions of devils, Semiazas, Chief of Fallen Angeles, Sonneillon, Demoness of Hate, and Vetis, a devil who specialized in the corruption and tempting of the holy. Pope Pius relaxed a bit, the crying abated, but the prayerful murmurs increased. "What business have you here?" asked Asmodeus, his voice deep, commanding. "Our task is as always," answered Michael. "One you know well." "We have permission to be here," bellowed Asmodeus, "Granted by our father." "For what purpose?"

A hideous, scaly smile spread across the face of Asmodeus. He reached inside his smoldering cloak and pulled out a thick sword. The others in his band followed suit. Michael looked around at those with him. Raphael, Gabriel, Uriel, Anael, Raquel, Raziel, the Archangels. Malakim and Dunamis, both a.s.sociated with heroes, known to instill courage, also known as "The s.h.i.+ning Ones." Camael, who wrestled with Jacob. Remiel and Tars.h.i.+s.h.i.+m, who guide the soul. Michael turned back toward Asmodeus, placed his hand inside his glowing robe, and pulled out an anvil attached to a long, worn, st.u.r.dy oak handle. The other angels did the same. Asmodeus took a deep breath and blew a smoldering orange flame from his nostrils. The fire wrapped itself around the swords of each of those who followed the demon. Pope Pius cried out, "No Lord! No! Do not abandon thy servant!" A light, brighter than the essence of the sun, flashed through the room. When it faded, Asmodeus and the demons lay prostrate on the floor. Michael and the Lord's host stood strong, their hammers glowing with the Holy Spirit. Asmodeus and the others scrambled to their feet, violently waving their swords, slas.h.i.+ng the air, spewing sulfuric fumes. They floated above the room, flames pouring from their nostrils. "Il Martello de Dio," whispered Asmodeus. Michael and the holy hosts rose to the ceiling, each hammer at the ready. Both groups charged forward, clas.h.i.+ng into an explosion of fiery thunder. Outside the pope's window, the sky turned black and lighting clawed the sky. A hard, dense rain pounded everything in sight, and the window shutters slammed against the building until they were torn from their hinges and sucked up into the sky. Pope Pius jumped to his feet and summoned his aide. He sat behind his desk, dictated a decree, and made a list of twelve priests to be called to him at once. When the aide left the room the pope fell back to his knees. "Bless oh Lord, Il Martello de Dio. The Hammer of G.o.d." Pius wept.

1.

Gazing down into soft blue eyes, Charles Tolbert marveled at the milky softness of his lover's skin. Women had rejected him over the years, casting him aside like a half eaten candy bar, but now, he was in love. Charles stroked dirty brown hair, soft and billowy, like cotton from a fresh bottle of aspirin. He closed his eyes, took a whiff of fresh washed skin, the scent of clean, a hint of soap, lightly engulfing his nostrils. When he opened his eyes the beauty before him enticed him to tears, but he gently bit his bottom lip, fending off the surge of feral emotion.

Without invitation, Charles pressed his lips against a mouth he could no longer resist, the moist touch of which sent his heart a flutter, his senses a blur. He pulled back sporting a smile that could shame the angels in heaven, but as quickly as it came, his joy dissipated like steam rising from the sea. "What's wrong?" Charles asked. "Have I done something wrong?" "I can't do this anymore," his lover answered. "I'm sorry, but this is wrong."

Fear washed over Charles. He fell to his knees. "Please, I can't bear the thought of losing you. I know we've been under a lot of pressure, both of us. But I promise, it'll get better." Picking up the white satin that lay across a beaten antique couch, Charles slipped it over velvety arms that caused him to l.u.s.t, over the head he'd kissed more than a few times, and the body he'd held with great admiration and envy. Charles took a few steps back, and admired his angel. "You always say we'll stop, but we don't," his angel said. "I know, I know," said Charles. "But let's not talk about it now.