Veil vk-1

by George C. Chesbro

  "Try me."

  "Whoever recognized me, or knew I was coming here, thought, like you, that I might still be working for the agency. They assumed that my job was to put them out of business, so they decided to move on me first."

  Pilgrim grunted with annoyance. "It means the Institute has some unwelcome guests."

  "Right. I can't be certain, but I don't think the guests are CIA. Golden Boy was a double agent, but he was still just running an errand for his controller. That man or woman is still here, and I have to find out who it is; it could make a difference in my future plans."

  "Shit," Pilgrim said. He sipped at his beer, grimaced. "It's not bad enough that the Pentagon is trying to screw me; now I've got foreigners lining up on my ass too. Did you recognize anyone at the reception?"

  "Only the obvious celebrities. But there were a lot of people there, and I wasn't looking for anyone. If there's someone here I'd recognize as an enemy, that person is constantly on guard and watching."

  Pilgrim stared at the ceiling for a few seconds, then abruptly reached down into the ice bucket and withdrew two more cans of beer. He pushed one across the desk to Veil, who left it unopened. "It would seem that our interests converge," Pilgrim said thoughtfully. "We both want to find out who controlled the assassin, and I need to find out what he wants here."

  "Isn't that obvious? He's spying on the military."

  "Not so obvious. The Army runs a totally separate operation, and their compound is sealed off. Henry and I are the only people who can go in there, and Parker is the only military official who's allowed to come here. You were to be my guest, not theirs. Did you tell anyone you were coming here?"

  "Only the owner of the gallery that shows my work. He's not a suspect, and he wouldn't tell anyone else."

  "Then you could have been made by someone who saw you at the reception."

  "Dr. Ibber did a heavy research job on me. That certainly could have set off warning tremors, and somebody could have figured that the research was just a cover to establish a reason for my being invited to the Institute."

  "That's possible. But it still doesn't tell me why any intelligence agency, American or foreign, would bother to spy on my operation. If anyone wants to know what we're doing here, all he has to do is subscribe to our journals and newsletter. We're always looking for new subscribers."

  "Parker obviously thinks that your work is important—and sensitive."

  "Sure. But it's not classified. I won't allow any of our research to be classified. What people do with the data is another matter, as long as they don't expect to use our facilities or research staff, but the data is published."

  "Maybe somebody wants to make certain of that."

  "It wouldn't take long to verify, and it wouldn't require a spy network."

  "Are you going to tell Parker that he's been infiltrated?"

  "No. Not yet, at any rate."

  Veil raised his eyebrows slightly. "Why not?"

  "Because I want answers to my own questions first, before Parker has a chance to screw things up and send our spies running for cover. Also, to be perfectly frank, I'd like to be in a position to use any information I get to counter future pressures from Parker and the Pentagon. If Parker gets loose on this thing, he'll cut me out." Pilgrim paused and puffed on his cigar. "That's it, Veil. Can we work on this problem together?"

  "That suits me fine. The problem is that I'm working blind, and the person I'm after knows me. Golden Boy's controller knows I'll be coming for him. He'll be taking extra precautions, and he has all the advantages."

  Pilgrim took his feet off his desk and stood up. "Then we'll have to do what we can to even the odds. You'll need some kind of disguise, and a secure base to work from."

  Veil pointed to the map on the wall. "The second gray area?" "Right."

  "What's there?"

  "You'll see." Pilgrim picked up the telephone on his desk and punched out a three-digit number. Veil heard a faint click on the other end, then a woman's voice blurred by fatigue.

  "Yes, Jonathan?"

  "Sorry about the missed sleep, Sharon. Our friend finally showed up. We're coming over."

  Chapter 7

  ______________________________

  The cable car moved smoothly across the chasm between the two mountain peaks. In the valley a thousand feet below them, dawn seeped like a blood tide across the tops of trees and glinted like rubies on the surface of a clear, swift-running river. To the east, the ominous wall and electrified fence sealing off the army compound ran like an ugly scar across the face of the verdant valley.

  "Parker's over there right now wondering where the hell you are and stewing in his own juices because you didn't show up in New York," Pilgrim said wryly.

  "Can you get me in there?"

  "Tough. Like I told you, Henry and I are the only outsiders who have free access. Even if I could manage to get you in, what would you do over there? You can't exactly stroll around a top-secret military complex."

  Veil smiled thinly. "I'm very sneaky."

  "I don't doubt it for a moment. But you really wouldn't want Parker to catch you inside his compound, Veil. The way things stand, you don't want him and his people to catch you alone anywhere—and certainly not at the center of his own damn spiderweb. I'm not sure I could help you."

  "The man sent to kill me came out of there," Veil replied evenly. "If I can't find who and what I'm looking for in your complex, then I have to try to take a look at Parker's operation and personnel."

  "I'll give some thought to the problem."

  Veil stepped to the front of the car and looked out. Clouds of mist were rising off the face of the second mountain, and he could see what appeared to be a cluster of wooden buildings set in a clearing. Higher up on the mountain was a white structure that looked like a hospital. Trails branched in all directions from the central compound, and many led to large wooden chalets scattered among the trees. The atmosphere seemed elegiac, pastoral.

  The cable car was fast approaching the lip of a steel-and-concrete landing platform cut into the side of the mountain. Extending out from the platform was an observation deck. A puff of wind momentarily swept away a cloud of mist, and Veil was astonished to see the unmistakable figure of a man who was generally acknowledged to be the greatest living painter and sculptor, an artist whose raw talent and breadth of vision were constantly being compared to Picasso's. Despite the early-morning chill, the man was standing at the railing of the observation deck clad only in shorts, T-shirt, and sneakers. His huge, coal-black eyes stared out over the valley in the direction of the rising sun. Veil stepped back to avoid being seen, and Pilgrim casually saluted with his hook as they passed over the spot where the man was standing.

  "That was Perry Tompkins," Veil said, making no effort to mask his surprise.

  "Yeah."

  "Tompkins supposedly disappeared over six months ago; it made headlines all over the world. People in a dozen different countries are still searching for him."

  "Obviously, Perry didn't disappear. He simply came here. Those he chose to confide in know where he is, and Perry's friends aren't in the habit of talking to the press."

  "What is this place, and what's Tompkins doing here?"

  Pilgrim reached around Veil and pushed a red button on the emergency control panel next to the sliding door. The car immediately stopped, gently swayed for a few seconds, then was still. "This is the Institute's hospice," the director said evenly. "Sharon—Dr. Solow—who was supposed to give you a battery of psychological tests before somebody got the notion to kill you, heads it. It's also where she conducts what she describes as near-death studies, a long-range project examining the changes in attitude, perception, and consciousness some people undergo as they are dying. Perry is dying, and he accepted our invitation to come here and share the experience of this last transition with Sharon. Most of the hospice guests, like Perry, are in the last stages of terminal illness, but there are also a few men and women we call Lazarus Peop
le who come here to be studied."

  "People come here to let you watch them die?"

  "Watch and study, yes. They're people who are approaching their own deaths with a certain measure of equanimity and a great deal of curiosity. Do you find that unsettling?"

  "It takes some getting used to."

  "Of course. That's one reason why we don't publicize the hospice facility. Another is the fact that, from time to time, we have some very famous people here, and we want to insure maximum security and privacy. The hospice is the most private place at the Institute. This cable car provides the only access to it, and the car is key-operated. Only residents and staff of the hospice are allowed to use it."

  "What are 'Lazarus People'?"

  "Do you know the difference between clinical and biological death?"

  "The way I understand it, clinical death is when heartbeat and respiration stop; the person can still be revived, if action is taken quickly enough. Biological death involves the deterioration of the brain and other organs, and it's for keeps."

  Pilgrim nodded. "That's it. A small percentage of men and women who've survived clinical death—on the operating table, from electric shock, drowning, or whatever—report an out-of-body experience and the glimpsing of a bright portal of light that we call the Lazarus Gate. Along with certain other characteristics, these experiences define Lazarus People. What's so fascinating is the fact that the phenomenon Lazarus People describe is remarkably consistent, whether the person comes from Kansas or the Kalahari. It seems to be universal, culture-free."

  "What about you? Did you see this Lazarus Gate when your plane crashed?"

  Pilgrim smiled thinly. "I suffered clinical death the good, old-fashioned way—I don't remember a thing. It's not an experience I look forward to repeating, although—interestingly enough—Lazarus People usually do."

  "Privacy is one thing, secrecy something else. I can't remember ever reading anything about near-death studies in connection with the Institute."

  "This isn't an area of research we put a lot of emphasis on, and we don't publish our findings."

  "Why not?"

  "The Institute is a hard-science operation. That's our image, and our meal ticket. Near-death studies have the sort of mystical, hocus-pocus aura about it that gets you featured in the kinds of newspapers they sell at supermarket checkout stands. We don't need that."

  Veil thought about it, nodded in agreement. "What are the other characteristics of these 'Lazarus People'?"

  "Some other time, Veil, if you don't mind," Pilgrim said, glancing at his watch. He pushed a green button on the control box, and the car started moving again. "Sharon's been up all night, and we're all tired."

  "How do the people you want to study find out about this place?"

  "We have a network of people around the world who serve the hospice, as well as the rest of the Institute; they keep us informed of people who might warrant, and welcome, an invitation. Also, certain people—artists like Perry Tompkins, for example—are told of the hospice's existence and its purpose. If the situation arises, and if they so desire, they have an open invitation to join us. In return, they agree to share their last experience with us, as best they can."

  "And all of this to study death?"

  "To study the passage from life to death. We know that Lazarus People experience a sudden shift in consciousness as a result of unexpected, and sometimes violent, death, but there's some evidence to indicate that certain people with terminal illness also go through unique shifts in consciousness as they approach death. Sharon is trying to chart and codify those shifts."

  "How does she do that?"

  "Mostly through a succession of in-depth interviews and specialized tests she has developed. I'm sure she'll be happy to explain the details, if you're interested."

  "Who'll know I'm over here?"

  "Just Sharon and myself."

  "Not Dr. Ibber?"

  Pilgrim shook his head.

  "You said you trusted Ibber."

  "Trust isn't the point. If I were to tell everyone I trusted, then most of the staff at the Institute would know. Henry has nothing to do with the hospice; he doesn't even have access. I figured it would be best to keep the fact of your presence here on a strict need-to-know basis."

  "Good. Am I supposed to be terminally ill, or a Lazarus Person?"

  "Neither. You'll find that the day-in, day-out close proximity to death makes people hypersensitive and aware. Each guest jealously guards his and everyone else's privacy, and it's almost impossible to fool or lie to these people for very long. It wouldn't take long for somebody to spot you as a ringer. You'll be staff, on some kind of special assignment; Sharon screens and hires her people personally, usually on recommendations from her colleagues. As soon as we rig some disguise for you to wear, you'll be free to come and go as you please. In the meantime, I'll try to figure out some way to get you into the military compound—if you're sure you want to go."

  "I'm sure. When will I meet Dr. Solow?"

  "Now," the director said as the car bumped gently into its berth in the side of the mountain. Pilgrim slid open the door and motioned for Veil to exit first.

  He stepped out onto the platform. The woman standing to his right was an inch or two over five feet, with long, silky blond hair that fell straight across her back. Her eyes were a pale, glacial blue and, in the light of dawn, appeared to be streaked with silver. Obviously cold, she was huddled in a worn green suede jacket that was too large for her. She wore sneakers and faded jeans that emphasized her slim legs and hips. Even with fatigue etched deeply into her face, Veil considered her the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She was, he thought, about his own age, and he found himself looking down at her left hand; she wore no wedding band.

  "Hello, Mr. Kendry," the woman said brightly, stepping forward and extending her hand. "I'm Sharon Solow."

  "Pleased to meet you, Dr. Solow," Veil replied softly, staring into the silver-streaked blue eyes and holding the soft, tapered hand a second longer than necessary.

  "Hello, Captain Hook," Sharon Solow said as Pilgrim stepped up to her and kissed her forehead. "How have you been?"

  "A bit distracted," the astronaut answered with a wry smile and a quick glance in Veil's direction. "How have you been?"

  "For the past few hours, extremely curious."

  The greeting was rather formal, Veil thought, but the exchange had a bittersweet quality that, for some reason, made him feel terribly sad. Embarrassed and shaken by the power of his physical and emotional reaction to Sharon Solow, Veil quickly looked away; in the space of a few seconds, the sight of this woman and the touch of her hand had made him feel depths of pain, longing, and loneliness he had not known he had. He now realized how many sights, sounds, smells, and feelings had rushed past him during the course of his life; they were things he had never given a second thought to until this moment.

  When Veil looked back, he was surprised to find Sharon Solow studying him.

  "Well?" the woman continued, raising her eyebrows slightly and tilting her head toward Pilgrim. "Is he, or isn't he?"

  "Once upon a time," Pilgrim answered. "He's a real heavyweight, but he promotes his own fights now."

  "I think I'm missing something," Veil said, looking at Pilgrim.

  "Jonathan told me he thought you worked for the CIA," Sharon Solow said, still studying Veil intently. "He also ventured the opinion that you were a good guy, and Jonathan is very good at telling the good guys from the bad."

  Veil shrugged. "I'm flattered."

  "Sharon," Pilgrim said, "I don't want anyone to see Veil until I can rig some kind of disguise; he needs to be able to wander around the main complex incognito. Do you have a place where he can hole up?"

  "Good grief," the woman said in a joking tone that was laced with nervousness and tension. "Am I entitled to an explanation?"

  "You certainly are, m'dear, and you will get it in living color and full stereo. But not now, if you don't mind. I'm beat
." Pilgrim paused, glanced sharply at Veil. "I think we're all beat, and explanations can wait a few hours. It will probably be late afternoon before I get back."

  "Jonathan, I must ask you something. Will Veil's presence here pose a danger to any of my people?"

  "No. Our problem is on the other mountain."

  "Then why does he have to wear a disguise here?"

  "I don't want to risk being described to some outsider over the telephone," Veil answered. "Also, it's simply wise to take every precaution."

  "Precaution against what?" the woman persisted.

  "Later, Sharon," the director said quietly. "I appreciate your concern for your people, but I'll have to ask you to trust me."

  Sharon Solow sighed, nodded. "Of course I trust you, Jonathan. For the time being, Veil can stay in the storeroom adjacent to my office. It has a cot. When he's disguised to your satisfaction, I can either put him up in a chalet or an apartment in staff quarters."

  "Make it a chalet—and a remote one. If anyone asks, say he's a new staff member who needs the peace and quiet of a chalet for the special work he's doing. I want Veil to have maximum privacy so he can come and go without attracting undue attention."

  "I'll take care of it, Jonathan."

  Pilgrim lit a cigar. "I'll see the two of you later."

  The woman smiled wanly. "Get some sleep, Captain Hook. We both know how much you need it."

  Pilgrim stepped back into the cable car and closed the door after him. A moment later the car lifted from the platform and began its return journey to the top of the mountain on the other side of the valley.

  Sharon Solow watched the car for almost a minute before she finally turned and smiled at Veil. "This way to the Solow Hilton, Mr. Kendry," she said, pointing to her right to indicate a path cut into the side of the mountain.

  Chapter 8

  ______________________________