Veil vk-1

by George C. Chesbro

  He was certain that the woman had been disturbed by some of the things he had said, or the questions he had asked, but she had tried to cover her reactions—as he had done when she'd mentioned soul-catching. Soul-catching, he thought, was a phenomenon he'd experienced all his life. Pilgrim knew of at least one instance, for Veil had told him about it in connection with the assassination attempt by the Golden Boy. Yet Pilgrim had said nothing. Veil wondered why; he wondered what, if anything, the man and woman were trying to hide.

  Veil had been certain that Jonathan Pilgrim and Sharon Solow were his allies. Now he was not so sure.

  Chapter 10

  ______________________________

  Veil dreams.

  Madison glances up as Veil enters the small, cluttered office in the basement of the American embassy. Blood rushes to the obese man's face, and his lips curl back from his teeth in a snarl as he leaps up from his chair. "Where the fuck have you been, Kendry?!" A bloated hand with thick, stubby fingers sweeps across the top of the cheap metal desk and sends folders, a small paperweight, a framed photograph, and a half-filled cup of coffee sailing through the air to smash against the cracked plaster wall. "You were supposed to be on a fucking plane for fucking Washington twenty-seven fucking hours ago! Do you know how many generals, senators, and congressmen were standing around waiting for you with their thumbs up their asses? You left the fucking President of the United States standing around with his thumb—" Too late, the CIA controller sees the murderous rage in Veil's eyes and face, the subtle but deadly weaving of his hands, the ominous acceleration of his gait. Madison grabs for the .45 automatic in his shoulder holster. Veil shifts his weight and throws a side kick that flicks through the air with the speed of a chameleon's tongue and the force of a pile driver. The instep of his left foot snaps Madison's wrist cleanly at the joint, and the gun flies across the room to land near the coffee-stained litter already there. Madison, eyes glazing with pain and shock, clutches at his shattered right wrist and falls back into his chair.

  "If you want to shout or press an alarm button, feel free," Veil says in a low voice that crackles like electricity around the edges. "Just know that the first person into this office had better be a damn good shot, and fast, because I'll snap your fat, sweaty neck the moment I hear the door open."

  Madison, chest heaving as he gasps for air, manages to shake his head.

  "Abort Cheshire Cat," Veil continues evenly, pointing to Madison's desk telephone. "Stop it right now."

  "How did you find out?" Madison's eyes have cleared, but his voice is a fuzzy croak.

  "A couple of hours before takeoff, a pimp tried to sell me a couple of kids—a boy and a girl." Now Veil's voice breaks slightly. "Kids, Madison. I happen to know these two; they're from my village. Your Major Po and his men have been terrorizing that tribe of Hmong, and Po's been making a little extra money on the side by selling the women and children to Saigon pimps. I killed the pimp, and I'm probably going to kill you when we're finished with our business. Then I'm going to kill Po."

  "I didn't know, Kendry."

  "I believe that you didn't know what Po is up to—but you knew Po, knew his reputation. I've spent the past few hours plugging into every connection we've got here, and it turns out that the good major is very well known in South Vietnam—as a black marketeer, whoremaster, and big-time dope dealer. He was getting to be too much even for the South Vietnamese, which is saying something, considering the level of corruption in Saigon. ARVN asked the Americans to find a nice quiet place to put him, and our command went to the CIA. You got the detail. When this whole idea of turning me into a toy soldier came up, you saw an opportunity to take care of two pieces of business at the same time. For chrissake, Madison, you cold-blooded son of a bitch. You turned my village over to a bloodsucker."

  Madison grimaces as he uses his left hand to lift his broken wrist onto the top of the desk. Sweat pours from his face and neck, stains his shirt dark. "Come on, Kendry," he says with a grunt. "You were their adviser and trainer, not their mother."

  "Shut up! I fought with those people, and at least a half dozen died for me. They hated the communists even worse than we do, and they believed the things I told them about America and Americans. In just six weeks Po was able to do something the communists hadn't been able to do in twenty years—turn that village around. It's become a Pathet Lao stronghold. Po's answer, naturally, is to mount a commando operation to kill them all off. Cheshire Cat. Pick up the phone and call it off, Madison."

  "I can't, Kendry. It's an ARVN operation."

  "Bullshit. We're ARVN. They'll do what you tell them."

  "Not this time. They're really into Cheshire Cat, Kendry. They've been itching to cut across that border, just to prove that they can do it. The village is easy pickings, and they're hot for it."

  Veil picks up Madison's .45 from the floor and sticks the muzzle into the CIA controller's ear. "Give it a bit more thought," Veil says softly. "Come up with something creative or I'm going to spray the wall with your brains. You know I'm not bluffing."

  Madison continues to sweat profusely, but he does not flinch. "Killing me won't make any difference, Kendry," he says in a firm voice. "I'm telling you that I can't stop Cheshire Cat. Even if I had the juice to countermand ARVN on this thing, there isn't time. Po and his boys are on their way. Forget it. We've got more important things at stake here, and that's just gook against gook."

  Veil steps back, swivels Madison around in his chair, and delivers a quick blow on the left shoulder that snaps the man's collarbone. Madison's arm flops, then goes limp in his lap. He closes his eyes and utters an animal moan of agony, but he does not cry out. "You're throwing it all away, you crazy bastard," the fat man manages to whisper.

  "You threw that tribe away like yesterday's garbage."

  "Listen to me, Kendry. There isn't anything I can do about Cheshire Cat, and busting me up isn't going to change that. You're going to forget that tribe, and I'm going to forget what's happened here; I just took a nasty fall. We have to think about your assignment."

  Veil abruptly grabs the front of Madison's shirt, hauls the broken man out of his chair, and slams him back against the wall. Madison's snapped limbs flap, and he clenches his teeth to choke off a scream that issues from his throat as a muffled, mewing screech.

  "Do exactly as I say," Veil replies evenly as he reaches for Madison's crotch and cups the man's testicles. "If you don't, I'm going to rip your balls out by the roots. I'm going to pick up this phone and dial some friends of ours. You're going to pull yourself together and issue a series of commands, and you're going to do it in your usual snide, cold, son-of-a-bitch tone. First, I want a car and driver sent to the back to take me to the airport, where there's going to be a fully armed chopper warmed up and waiting for me. I want a box of grenades, a machine pistol, and fifteen magazines loaded into the cockpit. If you won't stop Cheshire Cat, I will. And I'll kill anyone, Vietnamese or American who tries to stop me."

  "Don't do this, Kendry. We're losing this war because we're losing the support of our own people. The last thing we need is a hero turned traitor. Hate me, bust me up some more if it will make you feel better, but don't do something that will cause tremendous damage to the United States of America."

  "Like yesterday's garbage," Veil repeats as he picks up the receiver, dials a number, then holds the receiver to Madison's ear and mouth. "And you used me like a newspaper to wrap it in."

  Veil reaches down and again cups the controller's testicles. When the orders are given, Veil rips the telephone wire from the wall. He slides the .45 into his belt, turns and heads for the door.

  "Kendry!"

  "Remember that anyone who tries to stop me is a dead man."

  "You're the dead man, Kendry."

  "I presume so," he replies evenly.

  "God damn you! Stop and listen to me!"

  Veil turns and faces Madison, who is still leaning against the wall. The fat man's sweat-soaked face is ashen with pai
n, but his voice is steady. His eyes glitter with rage and hate. "I won't try to stop you," Madison says, "because I don't feel like trying to explain to the world why we had to gun down our own hero in the streets of Saigon. Knowing you, you'll probably survive whatever it is you're about to do. But you're still dead meat. You were my man. I recommended you for this mission back in the States. You're the one turning traitor, but my ass is going to go up in smoke along with yours. I'm responsible for you. They'll try to break me for this, but I'll survive too. I want to be in a position to have you killed. One day a bullet is going to smash your brain, Kendry. It won't be right away. I may wait a few years because you're too insane to really suffer now. I think I'd like to wait and see if you ever find peace—or maybe even a little happiness. That'll be the day you die, you fucking madman. Think about that in the years to come."

  Veil turns and walks out of the office, leaving the door open behind him.

  Chapter 11

  ______________________________

  It was after ten P.M. by the time Veil returned to his chalet. He removed the tinted aviator glasses and black wig that comprised his simple disguise, tossed the articles on the bed, then poured himself half a tumbler full of Scotch from the well-stocked bar. It had been a long and frustrating day—long because he had been up and across the valley to the Institute's main complex before dawn; frustrating because his random search for a familiar face had been an exercise in futility. There was a good possibility that he wouldn't recognize the man he was after even if he walked past him. He had managed to cover the entire complex; he had seen many fascinating and sensitive experiments in progress, but nothing that would justify the risk and cost of setting up the kind of spy network that would include the care and feeding of an assassin like the Golden Boy. He knew that he needed a more systematic approach.

  He had more faith in his dreams. His past seemed to be the key, and when he slept, his subconscious kept returning him there, allowing him to sift and sort memories in the search for a link between then and now—if there was one.

  He opened a dresser drawer and took out a map of the Institute that included the hospice and the Army compound. He drained the Scotch, then set the tumbler on the gray area of the Army compound. The Golden Boy had come out of there, Veil thought, and he was going to have to find a way to get in.

  "Veil?"

  He turned to find Sharon Solow, her fine hair backlit by moonglow, standing in the shadows just beyond the open doorway. The muscles in his stomach and groin fluttered with surprise, pleasure, and anticipation. "Come in, Sharon," he said quietly.

  The woman entered the chalet carrying a covered tray, which she set down on the rough-hewn wood table in the center of the sunken living room. She removed the gingham cloth to reveal an array of sandwiches, a bowl of tossed salad, and a carafe of red wine. "I know you missed dinner, so I thought you might like something to eat. Nothing fancy, as you can see."

  "Fancy enough," Veil replied with a grin as he moved to the table. He hadn't eaten all day, and the sight and smell of the food made him realize just how hungry he was. "Thank you very much. Will you join me?"

  Sharon shook her head. "I've eaten."

  "Then please keep me company."

  "All right," Sharon replied evenly, sitting down in the chair that Veil pulled out for her.

  He sat down across from Sharon, poured two glasses of wine from the carafe, then selected a roast beef sandwich from the tray. "Delicious," he said when he had finished the first sandwich and was about to start on another. "This wasn't necessary, but it's certainly much appreciated."

  "I had an ulterior motive for coming here tonight, Veil."

  Veil set aside the second sandwich and looked up. Sharon was leaning forward on her elbows, chin cupped in the palms of her hands. She was staring at him intently. "Which is?"

  "I'd like you to answer some questions."

  "I'll try."

  "What are you?"

  "Just a man," Veil replied softly, sipping at his wine.

  "We've established that you worked for the CIA. Are you a spy now?"

  "No. Now I'm just a painter from New York City."

  "I don't think I believe you," Sharon said after a long pause.

  "It's true."

  "What are you doing here?"

  "You know what I'm doing here; I was invited."

  Sharon sighed and closed her eyes for a few seconds. When she opened them, there was a glint of frustration and anger in their pale depths. "You're just using words, Veil. If you don't want me to know what's going on, simply say so. Don't play games."

  "I'm sorry, Sharon. I don't mean to be rude. If you want to know what's going on, I think you should ask Jonathan."

  "I'm asking you."

  "You seemed content yesterday to take Jonathan's direction on this. Has something happened?"

  "Let's just say that I feel a renewed sense of responsibility."

  "For the hospice, or Jonathan?"

  "Both."

  "Where is Jonathan?"

  "I don't know, Veil. Wherever he is, he went there in the helicopter just before noon. He may be in Monterey, or even San Francisco, doing research, but I can't be sure. He almost never leaves the mountain, unless it's on some kind of fund-raising business. I don't think that's what he's doing, and it makes me uneasy. That's why I'd like you to tell me what's happened."

  "Somebody made a mistake, Sharon. I have to find out who made the mistake and why it was made." "What kind of mistake?"

  "A dangerous one. It involved me, but it could also affect the Institute. That's why Jonathan wants me to get to the bottom of it."

  "You're not telling me anything, Veil."

  "I feel in an awkward position, caught between my host and hostess. Jonathan made it very plain that he didn't want you to worry."

  "Is there something to be worried about?"

  "I don't know, Sharon."

  The woman took a deep breath, slowly let it out. "Can what you're doing bring harm to Jonathan?"

  Veil rose from the table, poured himself a second Scotch, and lit one of the few cigarettes he allowed himself each day. "I don't know the answer to that question, either," he said as he exhaled a thin stream of smoke. "I'm beginning to wonder if there isn't something he's doing, or has already done, that could harm him."

  "I'm not following you."

  "What are you and Jonathan hiding from me?"

  The question startled the woman, causing her to stiffen in her chair. "Veil, I don't know what you mean."

  He sipped at his drink, studying Sharon over the rim of the tumbler. If she was putting on an act, he thought, it was a very good one. He set the glass down, ground out his cigarette. "What else do you do over here that you haven't told me about?"

  "Nothing." Sharon replied, a note of frustration creeping into her voice. "It's just near-death studies, and I've told you virtually everything there is to know about it. We look for changes in consciousness and behavior as people approach the cusp between life and death."

  "But you also study Lazarus People, whom you believe may already have been on that cusp."

  "Yes. And, of course, we provide any continuing medical treatment that's required. I'm sure you've seen our hospital, farther up the mountain." "What kind of medical treatment do you provide?"

  "The best, but standard—if there is such a thing. We're not a medical research facility, Veil; this is psychological research. Lazarus People, naturally, don't require medical treatment, unless they become ill from something else while they're here. As for the others, they've already run through the gamut of medical treatment by the time they get here. They come here to share their deaths with us, Veil, not to look for a cure. There's nothing more that medicine can do for them, except make them more comfortable."

  "And what you've just described to me is all that's happening on this mountain?"

  Sharon flushed slightly. "Well, 'all that's happening' isn't exactly the way I'd choose to put it, but I suppose the an
swer to your question is, yes—that's it. It's a terribly complex field of study, but our procedures are simple. This isn't a large facility, and you've seen what I do."

  "No secret research here? No Pentagon-funded studies?"

  "Of course not."

  "Could anyone conduct research projects here without you being aware of it?"

  "You must be joking."

  "Sharon, I assure you I'm not joking."

  "It would be impossible. Besides, what would be the purpose?"

  "That's what I'm asking you."

  "And I've given you an answer. Veil, why are you so suspicious?"

  He finished his drink and lit another cigarette. "Remember the soul-catching phenomenon you told me about?"

  "Of course. It's part of the Lazarus Syndrome—but very rare."

  "Is it? What you describe as soul-catching is something I've experienced all my life—or at least as long as I've been getting into serious trouble, which covers quite a few years."

  There was prolonged silence as Sharon stared at him, her lips slightly parted and her eyes filled with confusion. Finally she swallowed hard and shook her head. "A bell inside your head? A chiming sound?"

  "Precisely as you described it."

  The woman lifted her hands in a gesture of bewilderment, let them fall into her lap. "Veil, I don't know what to say, except that I'm astonished."

  "Jonathan wasn't."

  "What?"

  "I told Jonathan about it, during the course of one of our earlier conversations. He didn't even twitch. In light of what you've told me about Lazarus People and soul-catching, I would have thought he might have said something when I mentioned it."

  "I would have thought so too," Sharon said softly, staring at the wall over Veil's left shoulder. "I'll have to ask him about it."

  "I'd appreciate it if you'd hold off on that. I'd like to talk to Jonathan about it—in my own time and in my own way."

  Sharon thought about it, finally nodded. "All right. Jonathan must have had a good reason. ..." Her words trailed off as she half turned in her chair and stared into the shadows in a corner of the room.