Once again, without any signal from the master that Veil could detect, the three Americans turned and walked away. The old man remained behind for almost a minute, eyes still cast down, then he, too, turned and walked away.
All day he had burned in the sun, and Veil knew he had lost a great deal of body moisture. Now, with the sun going down, the chill and damp of the Northern California evening was beginning to clog his lungs and seep up from the ground into his body. He shivered, and this only served to increase the spasmodic cramping of his muscles that he had been suffering since mid-afternoon. He kneaded the cramped muscles, then tried to exercise as best he could in the small cage in order to avoid hypothermia.
He heard a footfall behind him, turned, and found Colonel Parker standing over the cage, looking down at him. The setting sun shone golden on the man's hard, craggy face and made his eyes glitter. The Army officer stood with his hands behind his back, feet slightly apart. Over his shoulders was draped a heavy, cable-knit sweater, the sight of which made Veil groan inwardly.
"How're you doing, Kendry?" Parker asked in a flat voice.
"This tiger cage is a bit crude, Colonel," Veil replied hoarsely. His throat was now raw with thirst. "I'm really disappointed. From you I'd have expected nothing less than state-of-the-art."
"This is state-of-the-art, Kendry," Parker answered in the same flat voice. It was as if, safe on his home territory, he did not need to exhibit the blustering he had displayed in Pilgrim's office. Then again, Veil thought, Parker was no longer frustrated; indeed, he was beginning to look very much like a winner. "It cuts through all the bullshit. I don't know what kind of drug-resistance training you've had, and I don't care to take the time to find out. Electricity and pliers have always made me a bit squeamish. I'm an American, not a goddam torturer."
"Boy, am I glad to hear that."
"We've discovered that a bit of rolling around in your own piss and shit, combined with a great deal of thirst, usually does the trick—and with less chance of permanent damage. We're just leaving you alone and letting nature take its course. You know the routine."
"I sure do. So let's stop wasting time. Bring me a pitcher of water and tell me what you want to know."
Parker grunted. "That's good, Kendry. You have to respect a man who can make jokes while his throat and guts are turning to sand."
"What the hell makes you think I'm joking?"
Parker said nothing. Sunset gleamed in his steel-gray hair like veins of gold in rock.
"You've already wasted a day," Veil continued, his voice cracking. He coughed dryly, and pain that was not quite as severe as his desire for water flashed from his throat to his chest. "You could've come to me this morning and I'd have told you everything you wanted to know."
"Really? Then why didn't you simply come to me instead of trying to bust in here?"
"Because I had the sneaking suspicion that you'd still wring me out before you accepted anything I had to say. Also, there was no way you'd give me the guided tour of this place I need to answer my own questions. Now that you've got my ass, I have no choice but to cooperate."
"That, Kendry, is the truth."
"I came back to the Institute for the same reason I tried to sneak in here: I need to find out why your man wanted to kill me."
"Who are you working for? The Russians? Cuba? East Germany?"
"I'm not an intelligence agent, Parker, and I'm not working for anyone but myself. All I'm trying to do is find a way to protect my own ass."
"I'll see you tomorrow, Kendry," Parker said as he turned away.
"Parker!" Veil got up on his knees and gripped the bars of the cage with both hands. "Let me explain! Why walk away?"
"Because I haven't got time to listen to bullshit," Parker replied over his shoulder, waving his right arm in a casual gesture of dismissal. "You're just not thirsty enough. Sweet dreams, jerk."
Veil sank back down to the dank ground and watched Parker walk away toward the large building at the base of the horseshoe. His thirst and cold demanded that he call after the man, but his mind and heart told him that it would be useless to do so. Parker was not going to believe anything he had to say until Parker was certain that Veil was sufficiently—and thoroughly—broken. He was going to have to suffer.
Veil did a few isometric exercises against the bars, and the cramping in his muscles eased somewhat. He propped himself up in a corner, wrapped his arms around his legs, closed his eyes, and began a series of deep-breathing exercises in an attempt to relax and conserve energy. Whatever further ordeal lay ahead of him, he knew that he was going to need all of his reserves of strength and will to meet it. In the meantime, he was dead meat if his unknown enemy was in the compound.
He needed rest, and he needed to protect his mind as best he could. For a few hours, at least, he knew how to escape to a place that was safe and warm.
Chapter 18
______________________________
Veil dreams.
Dreams within the dream.
He sits bolt upright in his broken bed, sweat-pasty sheets sticking to his bare flesh like a shroud. He instinctively grabs for his rifle, but it isn't there. After a few moments the realization comes that he is not fighting in Vietnam or Laos, but living in a summer-smothered, roach-infested studio apartment not much bigger than a closet on New York's Lower East Side. He has been in the city now for three months, working as a temporary laborer to earn money, walking the streets to fight pain. He knows he is drinking far too much. He would like to brawl, but does not for fear that he will accidentally kill somebody. He has crippled three would-be muggers, possibly killed a fourth, and he knows that he is losing his mind.
For almost a month he has been experiencing a recurring dream—night after night, all night. The dream is not quite a nightmare, but it leaves him anxious and fearful in a way that combat never did.
In the dream he finds himself on a steel-gray path that stretches off to a horizon that is a brilliant blue and which he feels with his heart as well as sees with his eyes. Although the surface on which he stands is flat and level, he constantly fears that he will lose his balance if he takes a step in any direction. The surface has no "feel," but seems a natural extension of his own flesh.
The path is bounded on each side by walls of thick, swirling gray mist that seems to be alive; the walls hiss, although he is not sure if the sound is real or only in his mind. Figures of subtle, almost translucent color move through the mist and occasionally seem to stop and peer out at him. Some of the figures have teeth. However, he can only glimpse these moving things out of the corner of his eye, for he does not dare to look at either wall directly. He hates this fear and has never known anything like it; still, he cannot summon the courage to overcome it. Although he is deeply ashamed of his cowardice, there is no way he can bring himself to turn body or head and look at, or into, the walls.
He has come to believe that to do so, even in a dream, is to die. He will be sucked through the gray barrier, and there will be no way out.
Veil peels the sopping sheets from his skin, sits up on the edge of the bed, and buries his face in his hands. Sweat of both summer and fear slides through his fingers and drips on the floor. He is determined to find the courage to step or turn on this dream-path, even if it means his death.
But Veil does not want to die, nor does he want to go mad. Having survived in the jungles of Southeast Asia, he does not want to be killed by his own mind—nor transformed into a coward. If he cannot rid himself of the dream, Veil thinks, then he must find the courage to conquer it.
He rises, turns on the light, and goes to the indelibly stained washstand in a corner. He studies himself in the cracked mirror and is disgusted by what he sees. His eyes are chronically bloodshot from too much alcohol and not enough sleep, and there are dark rings under them. He feels his gut pressing against the dirty porcelain of the washbasin; the flesh of his face is sallow and puffy. He is getting soft.
He dresses in yesterday's cloth
es that smell of sweat and goes out to walk the streets. There is no breeze, and the night air sitting on the sidewalks is as stifling as the air in his apartment. He finds himself walking toward the West Village, purposely choosing the darkest streets and slowing as he approaches and passes alleys. He would like to be attacked so that he can fight to relieve his tension. However, stories of a strange, savage man with long yellow hair and incredible fighting skills have spread throughout the neighborhood, and Veil is not bothered.
He reaches the lights and mellow ambience of the West Village and wanders aimlessly through its streets crowded with jazz bars, coffeehouses, crafts shops, art galleries, and clinging couples. He passes an art supply shop and continues walking for almost four blocks while the seed of an idea takes root in his mind and grows to block out the sights, sounds, and smells around him.
His problem is finding the courage to turn and look directly at one of the gray walls in his dream, even if it means his death. Perhaps if he approaches the problem from a different perspective, in a different dimension; perhaps if he tries to draw or paint his dream on paper . . .
Veil returns to the shop and purchases art supplies— charcoal, drawing pencils, watercolors, brushes, oil crayons, paper—and starts home. He finds his pace quickening as his excitement builds. He has a feeling of anticipation, of being on the verge of an important discovery. For the first time since returning to the United States he is free of stress and anxiety and is actually looking forward to something. Awake, he finds that he is not afraid to deal directly with things he can only bear to glimpse peripherally in dreams.
When he arrives back at his apartment, he sits down on the splintered floor and immediately begins to work. He has no skills, no idea of the proper way to use the materials he has purchased. Frustration builds as he struggles to capture on paper the essence of what he has witnessed in sleep; he experiences anger at his clumsiness, but also feels a kind of ecstasy that takes him out of himself, beyond his distress. He works through the night and by dawn has used up all his paper.
He sleeps during the day, missing work. For the first time in many weeks he does not dream. He is awakened by a late-afternoon thunderstorm that cools the air and flushes the streets of both city and mind. A cool breeze wafts through Veil's tiny apartment as he rises and dresses. He thinks about going out to buy something to eat, but discovers that he is not hungry.
Slowly, he leafs through the drawings and paintings he has made the night before. He finds them dismayingly crude, not even an approximation of the path, walls, and horizon he has witnessed.
And so he begins again.
He does not have money to buy more paper, and so he uses the backs of the sheets he has already drawn and painted on. Completely absorbed in his task, it is not until many hours later, when he has exhausted his supplies, that Veil realizes he is actually relaxed, even happy. He is still dismayed by the inadequacy of his representations, but he is equally awed by the psychic comfort he has acquired merely through the process of struggling with his visions. This is a different kind of combat, he thinks, combat in which winning the war is not as important as waging it; it is a bloodless battle that keeps the enemies in the self at bay, and now he dares to hope that he has found a way to fight for his sanity, and perhaps even his life.
If Madison wants him dead, then Madison is going to have to kill him.
Veil showers, shaves, and dresses. He has decided that he will look for work in the village. He may even ask the owner of the art supply shop for a job, or see if, in exchange for materials and lessons on how to use them, there might not be some service he can perform.
Chapter 19
______________________________
The nerve cells in his body reacted to the icy water that splashed over him, shocking him awake, like the flame of a blowtorch. Veil's head snapped back and slammed against the bars of his cage, and he barely managed to choke off a scream as his back arched and the muscles of his burned, feverish body objected to this insult by twitching and knotting in torturous spasms. The moment he could control any movement at all, he was licking like an animal at the droplets of water on his shoulders, arms, and the backs of his hands.
"You ready to talk to me, Kendry?"
Veil raised his head and squinted up into the sun. Parker was leaning on the top of the cage, looming over him. Veil opened his mouth to speak, but only gagging sounds would issue from his dry throat and past his swollen tongue. A long-handled ladle suddenly came out of the sun and appeared in his field of vision. Veil grabbed for it, spilling half its contents onto the ground. He gripped the bowl with both hands and drank what was left; the ladle was pulled away as he sucked air. To his surprise, another ladle was offered. He drank until the bowl was empty, sighed, and rested his head against the bars. "Thank you," he managed to say.
"Don't thank me," Parker replied curtly. "You know it's still just part of the routine. I gave you just enough water to get your head straight and your vocal cords working. There's no need for you to suffer like this, and frankly, I don't much enjoy watching it. You may be in the cage, but you're the one with the key in your hand. You can open it anytime you want to. Do I have to remind you that any man can be broken?"
"You won't listen to me."
"I wouldn't listen to you before because you were getting ready to throw some bullshit in my direction. I may listen to you now. We'll see what your opening notes sound like. Tell me the truth and I'll give you all the water you want. You'll get food and medical attention. You'll get your clothes back, and you'll get out of that cage so you don't have to cook all day and freeze all night. If you don't tell me the truth, you're going to die right there on the ground. I swear it, Kendry. Dying of thirst isn't chicken soup, but you'll be doing it to yourself. From the looks of you, I'd say you have another night and day left in you. But you won't let it go to the end. No man could. You'll talk finally, so why not do it now and save both of us all this bother?"
Veil breathed deeply, dropped his chin on his chest, and tried to focus his thoughts through a mental haze of fever. "I tried to tell you the truth yesterday. You just walked away."
"Oh, shit, Kendry, are you going to—?"
"Listen to me, Parker!" Veil croaked. He swallowed hard and managed to work up some moisture in his mouth. He licked the roof of his mouth. The small amount of saliva disappeared like water into sand, but he was able to talk without each word ripping his throat. "I wish to God I could make up some story about working for the KGB, because that's all you seem to want to hear. But I can't; I just don't know that much about today's KGB. If I tried making up something, you'd know for sure I was lying, and I'd be in even worse shape than I am now, if that's possible. I haven't done any intelligence work since the early seventies."
Veil held his breath, half expecting to hear Parker walking away. But Parker stayed where he was.
"Tell me about your experiences with intelligence," the Army officer said quietly.
"I worked for the CIA."
"Wrong," Parker said disdainfully. "We've checked you out."
"My records have been doctored."
"I know that. The fact of the matter is that you were a turncoat. You went over. There's still some mystery as to how you got off so easily, and who was protecting you. I'm sure you'll clear up that little mystery for me during the course of this conversation. Like now."
"What you think I was or did isn't the point, Park—" Veil swallowed again, but he had no saliva left. His throat felt as if it were swelling shut, and he dropped his voice to a hoarse whisper. "What's important is that I did work for the Agency. They disapproved of something I did. I was put on a heavy shit list under sentence of being executed at some time in the indefinite future. End of story—except that's the reason I had to come back to the Institute after I'd killed your man."
"Then you admit that you killed him?"
"For Christ's sake, Parker. You know I did."
"Don't be a smart-ass, Kendry. If I remember correctly, y
ou claimed at the time that it was a freak accident. I just wanted to set the record straight. You're the one who's going to die if I don't get the right answers, not me. So just answer my questions. Why come back after it looked like you were home free?"
"I need water," Veil said in a barely audible whisper. "Can't . . . talk."
Parker thought about it, then filled the ladle from a bucket at his feet and passed it down through the bars. Veil had to suppress tremors in his throat as he drank.
"More," Veil whispered. "Please."
"Earn it. What were you after?"
"Information; reasons. At first I thought the man might be a CIA agent sent to carry out my sentence. Then I realized it didn't make sense for the Agency to pick tight quarters like the Institute to kill me when they had all the time in the world and all of New York City to work in. It meant he was a double—"
"Bullshit."
"—sent by his controller to kill me. Somebody who knew my background made me and assumed—mistakenly—that I was here on assignment to flush out their organization. You've got guys with black hats in here, Parker. You've been infiltrated."
"I'm really sorry I gave you that water, jerk," Parker said with genuine disgust. "You're not as thirsty as I thought you were. It's a mistake I won't repeat. You really are a glutton for punishment."
"What I'm telling you is the truth," Veil said quickly, as Parker started to walk away. "It has to be. I came back to look for proof. Why is my story so goddam difficult for you to even consider?"
Parker suddenly wheeled and kicked savagely at the bars beside Veil's head. "Because we have proof that you're a Russian agent, jerk!" he shouted with unexpected and explosive rage. "They recruited you after you were booted out of the Army. You think I'm crazy? You think I'd make any man suffer what you're suffering without absolute proof that he was a dangerous enemy with secrets that threaten the security of my country? Your buddies are the barbarians, Kendry, not us. What you're going through is the kind of shit the KGB puts some of our people through, so we're just returning the favor. It's too bad you probably won't be alive to go back and tell them how much it hurts."
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