It was a very good question. I was deliriously happy to see Harper, to be able to hold her in my arms, but I felt guilty for it, as if I were indulging my pleasure at risk to her life. "Harper, Harper, Harper," I murmured into her ear. "What the hell are you doing here?"
"You must be joking, Robby," she replied, releasing her arms from around my neck. "When I heard about the hotel massacre,
I just knew you had to be on the scene somewhere, probably being shot at. You need help. I was getting ready to fly over here on my own when Veil called. I just told him to wait for me. I flew my own plane to JFK, then came over here with him and your brother. Did you think I was going to just sit around in Florida while you were in trouble over here?"
"Foolish me," I said evenly, resisting the impulse to roll my eyes toward the ceiling. I satisfied myself with casting a grim and accusatory glance at my brother and Veil as they approached.
"I appreciate your wanting to keep me out of harm's way, Robby," Harper said, just the slightest edge to her voice, "but that's typical of your sexist thinking. Didn't I come in handy during that business with the loboxes and the circus?"
"Harper, I—"
"Since I've already saved your life once, I just thought you might like to have me around. I guess I'm the one who's foolish."
"Harper, I didn't want any of you here. There's nothing to do here but duck."
"Garth and Veil have important information."
"That's why phones were invented."
She tilted her head back slightly, sniffed. "Veil and Garth didn't argue when I insisted I was coming along. They both agreed they could use all the help they could get in handling you."
Garth and Veil had taken up positions on either side of us, and were standing very close as their gazes swept over the other people in the terminal. Seeing the two men together like this, working as a team to guard Harper and me, it would have been impossible for anyone else to detect the animosity that existed between them. Both of them had shoulder-length hair tied back in a ponytail, and they were about the same height; they might have been brothers.
By way of greeting, Garth put a large hand on my shoulder and squeezed gently. Veil offered me a curt nod, then went back to surveying the people around us.
"Handling me?" I said, looking up at Garth.
"You heard right, brother," Garth replied gruffly. "True to your character and track record, it looks like you've executed a perfect swan dive into one deep pile of shit."
"That was Lee's line. So, naturally, you and Veil had to dive right in with me, bringing Harper along for the ride. Why couldn't you just do what I asked? I don't need handling."
"Mongo, right now you need handling more than anyone else in the world I can possibly imagine. You shouldn't have come to the airport."
"I made sure I wasn't followed."
"There are a lot of things you don't know that can kill you."
"I didn't need you to come to Zurich to tell me that, Garth. As I recall, I left you a shopping list of subjects to look into. You haven't had time to do any real digging, but now here you are."
"I cashed in a favor, and got somebody to open up the Forty-second Street library all night for me. I had three research assistants, and two librarians to run between the stacks. I found out enough—as much as I was likely to in New York. We're going to get you out of this business, Mongo, but you're going to have to back off and let Veil, Harper, and me take care of business from here on out. You're not going to be hunting anyone, which is what I know you think you're going to be doing."
"Bullshit. I don't need you to tell me what to do; just what you found out about the matters I asked you to look into."
"That's going to take some time, and this definitely isn't the right place. Right now, we have to get you out of this airport. We have reservations at your hotel, which is probably no more dangerous a place for you than anywhere else; the security guards there probably outnumber the guests. We'll go pick up our luggage and then take a cab into town."
"We don't need to take a cab. I've got a car."
"Okay," Garth said, nodding to Veil, "let's get out of here."
Garth and Veil continued to closely flank Harper and me as we went to the baggage area to pick up the luggage of my unwanted visitors. Then we headed to a side exit leading to one of the parking areas. Carlo had the limousine waiting for us at the curb, and he was standing by the open trunk. When he saw us, he hurried over, snatched the luggage cart from my startled brother, pushed it back, and began loading the bags into the car.
"What the hell is this?" Garth asked, turning to me. "You hired a limo?"
"Not exactly. It belongs to Cornucopia. I figured the least I could do to repay Neuberger for throwing me to the wolves was to use his foundation's car and chauffeur."
"Terrific thinking, brother," Garth said in a flat tone as he glanced at Veil.
Veil nodded curtly to Garth, then abruptly strode across the wide sidewalk to where Carlo was struggling to fit the last bag into the limousine's trunk. I started after him, but was stopped by Garth's firm grip on my shoulder. "Whoa, brother," Garth continued in the same emotionless tone. "You stay here."
I watched as Veil walked up to the old man who was my driver. Carlo smiled tentatively as they exchanged words, and then Veil put his hands on the man's shoulders, gently but firmly turned him around, pushed him up against the side of the car. First Veil searched Carlo's pockets, then began to pat him down. As Veil's hands quickly and expertly ran over his body, Carlo turned his head and cast me a plaintive, questioning look.
"Give me a break, Garth," I said, again starting forward, only to be pulled back with even greater force. "He's only a chauffeur, for Christ's sake."
"He works for the man who got you into this mess."
"Not directly. He's just a worker, an employee of the office here. He's harmless."
"Just like you once thought that Emmet P. Neuberger was just a poor, harmless, misunderstood, and bumbling fool, right? This newfound naivete of yours is not amusing, Mongo. How do you know what your chauffeur's real marching orders are? Even if he's not personally working against you, how do you know the car itself isn't bugged, or that it doesn't carry a transmitter that would allow somebody to follow you? As long as you allow that man to drive you around in this car, it's possible that whoever's trying to kill you knows your every move. And you say you don't need handling? You act like your brains have run out of your ears."
"He saved my life, Garth. He ran down the gunman at the hotel about one tenth of a second before he was able to drop a pound or so of bullets into me."
"So we'll send him a medal. The car could still be bugged."
Harper gently squeezed my hand. "Your brother and Veil are right, Robby. You can't afford to take any chances."
They were right, of course, and I felt more than a little chagrined at the fact that it had never occurred to me, even after it had become obvious that Emmet P. Neuberger had been using me very badly, that it was a risky business to be using Cornucopia's car and driver. While it was true that the car could have been bugged or outfitted with a signal-emitting device without the Italian's knowledge, I had instinctively liked and trusted Carlo, and still did. I was convinced he, at least, meant me no harm, and it made me decidedly uncomfortable to watch him being so rudely—if gently—treated by Veil. I looked away as Veil, having finished with Carlo, steered him off to the side before getting into the car to begin searching the interior.
"You owe your friend over there an apology, brother," Garth said in a low voice, shaking me slightly. "You're being childish as well as naive, and you should be ashamed of yourself."
"Oh, yeah? What do you know about it?"
"Enough to know you owe Veil an apology."
Harper said, "Veil told us about the conversation the two of you had before you left, when he tried to warn you off."
"Did he, now? Perchance, did he tell you what he knows about John Sinclair that he wasn't able to share with me?"
>
"No. But he did imply certain things."
"Well, bully for him. A number of people are now dead who might still be alive if I'd been more adequately prepared for what I was going to find over here."
Harper shook her head, said firmly, "Veil's not responsible for that, Robby, so stop talking like he is. He knows you, sweetheart, just like your brother and I do. Whatever it is Veil knows or suspects, I'm convinced there wouldn't have been any payoff for you in connection with the reason you came here, and it could have been dangerous information. He didn't want you harmed; he was just trying to protect you."
"I needed information, not protection."
"It wouldn't have helped you. Veil assured us of that, and Garth and I believe him." Harper paused, squeezed my hand.
"Besides, there was another reason he was reluctant to say more to you than he did. He was afraid of your brother."
"That's lunacy," I said, wincing inwardly as Carlo, standing off to one side as Veil painstakingly searched under and behind the seat cushions of the limousine, shot me another pained, questioning look. I again averted my gaze. "They may not get along too well, but Veil is no more afraid of Garth than Garth is of Veil."
"You should listen to Harper, Mongo," Garth said gruffly, "because she's right." He paused, glanced quickly at Harper, then looked back at me. "If you remember correctly, I once tried very hard to kill him. The tension between Veil and me is my fault."
"I remember all too well, Garth," I said quietly.
Garth said to a startled Harper, "Forget what you're about to hear; don't mention it to Veil."
Harper nodded. "You can talk freely."
I started to protest, not wanting the woman I loved to hear things that could conceivably put her at risk one day, but Garth ignored me.
"The reason I tried to kill him," Garth said to me, "was that I blamed him for involving you in the Archangel business and almost getting you killed. I damn well would have killed him, but—thanks to you—I wasn't able to pull it off. Veil could have killed me, and he had every right to after the way I'd gone after him, but he chose not to. And he's never forgotten my rather extreme reaction to his sucking you into that mess; he didn't want to risk creating a similar situation by telling you things that might set you off on various courses of action and get you into trouble. He tried to simply warn you off, but you wouldn't listen. He didn't think anything he could say would be of any help to you, but the information could have proved dangerous: He was afraid I'd find out he'd talked to you, and contributed to any danger you might be in, and that I might come after him again. You're right that he's not afraid of me, Mongo, but he was very much afraid that he might have no choice but to kill me if I tried to lay my 'mad big brother' number on him again, and his killing me might not set too well with you. Veil's a good friend, Mongo, and a very good man—the finest I've ever known, except for you. Like I said, you owe him an apology."
Veil had finished searching the limousine. It was obvious that he hadn't found anything, but it was just as obvious that he wasn't going to let that fact alter his and Garth's determination to get rid of Carlo. He took out his wallet to give the old man some money, but Carlo stiffened, shook his head, and backed away. Veil threw some bills through the open window onto the passenger's seat. Carlo hobbled around to the driver's side, paused with his hand on the door handle, looked at me. Then, in a gesture I found at once faintly ridiculous and profoundly sad, he waved to me. I waved back. Then Carlo got into the limousine, turned on the engine, and pulled away from the curb.
"It may not be so easy to make amends," I said quietly to Garth as Veil came back across the sidewalk toward us. "I said some pretty nasty things to him."
"Oh, I don't really think it's going to be a problem," Harper said brightly as Veil reached us, shrugged his shoulders to indicate he had found nothing incriminating on Carlo or in the limousine. "Now be a good boy and do what your brother says. Make nice to Veil and tell him how sorry you are."
"Right," I said, and proceeded to do so.
* * *
As the waiter brought our drinks to the isolated table at the back of the half-filled restaurant in downtown Zurich where we had gone to eat and talk, Garth took a notebook out of his pocket. He set the notebook down in front of him, but did not open it. "Anybody know how we can get hold of a gun or two around here?"
I looked at Veil, who shook his head. "Not in Switzerland."
"Just thought I'd ask," Garth said with a shrug. He tapped the cardboard cover of the notebook, continued matter-of-factly, "John Sinclair was born in Osaka, Japan, in nineteen forty-six to Henry and Anne Sinclair. The father was a midlevel career diplomat who'd gained a virtually permanent posting in Japan and had a reputation as having gone native, in a manner of speaking. He was a Japanophile. He'd been part of Mac Arthur's occupying army after the war, and he spent most of the remainder of his life there. According to one of the obituaries I read, the man became deeply steeped in Japanese culture and spoke the language fluently. Both the mother and father died under what were described as mysterious circumstances, when the son was nineteen years old, and there was some speculation that the couple had been murdered as retribution for the father having delved too deeply into the secrets and practices of certain mystical Japanese secret societies.
"John Sinclair's upbringing in Japan is shrouded in speculation and seeming contradictions; accounts differ, and there's a lot of obvious tabloid stuff that's fiction. However, I think we can safely assume that he was educated in the best American private schools there. He learned the language as a child, and so can be assumed to be fluent. Also, we can assume that the father arranged for him to begin learning the martial arts at a very young age. That's where he picked up his fighting skills. He attended graduate schools in both London and Paris and picked up the equivalent of a doctorate from the Sorbonne. His dissertation was on secret Japanese societies in the eleventh and twelfth centuries. He enlisted in the United States Army after he received his degree and was subsequently commissioned.
"Whatever he did in Vietnam is still highly classified, and I didn't want to take the time to try to dig it out, but I think it's also safe to assume that he was involved in intelligence and covert military operations in Laos and Cambodia, like Veil. He was a super-soldier." Garth paused, sipped at his drink. He set the glass down, glanced at the man sitting on his left and my right, continued, "There were two men in that war who received a disproportionately high number of medals for exceptional bravery above and beyond the call of duty. John Sinclair was one of those soldiers. The other was Veil Kendry."
Harper reached across the table and squeezed Veil's hand. She waited until the waiter, who had arrived with our salads, went away, then said quietly, "That's very impressive, Veil. Robby is always talking about your incredible martial arts skills, but he never mentioned that you were a war hero."
There were several good reasons why dear Robby had never mentioned Veil's war record, which no longer officially existed; not the least of those reasons were the circumstances surrounding his dishonorable discharge engineered by the man who had been determined to celebrate an enormous political victory by killing his old enemy, Archangel—Veil Kendry. It hadn't worked out well for him. Although Orville Madison had very nearly killed not only Veil but also Garth and me, in the end it was Madison who died in a hail of bullets in a dusty congressional hearing room in the Old Senate Office Building. Kevin Shannon, President of the United States, had, for his own very good reasons, conspired to cover up the whole affair, and it was not a subject we wanted to talk about ever again, especially not to people we loved. Garth and I exchanged glances, and I was pondering ways to change the subject when Veil managed to at least steer it off into safer channels.
"I wasn't a war hero by any good definition, Harper," Veil said casually. "I was a war lover. Without boring you with too much of my personal history, suffice it to say that I was more than a bit mad back then. I loved the war, because that outlet for sanctioned vio
lence helped me with a certain medical problem I suffer from, which is associated with brain damage I sustained when I was born. I dream vividly. Now my painting resolves the conflicts and enables me to function. But before I learned that I could paint in order to ease the pain, I picked up a lot of decorations in Southeast Asia simply because I usually managed to be where the fighting was; that's where I wanted and needed to be. That's a description of psychosis, not courage. Sinclair was brave, not psychotic—at least not back during the war years. Now . . . well, I suppose there's no way of knowing."
I watched as Veil leaned back in his chair and sipped at his drink. What he had said wasn't true; as far as I was concerned, he was a war hero, by any definition. Psychotic or not, he had risked everything to save a village marked for destruction by his controller for political reasons, and it had been that act which had led to his dishonorable discharge and sentence of death. But those facts were hidden away in the larger labyrinth of secrets about Archangel that were best kept that way.
Garth turned to Veil. "How do you know this?"
Veil shrugged. "About Sinclair's head back during the war? I don't know for sure. What I do know is that he had a reputation as a top soldier. I wasn't interested in being any kind of soldier; I was only interested in killing."
Garth grunted, and for the first time he opened the small notebook in front of him on the table, referred to one of the pages. "You certainly got that part right about his being a top soldier. He was the youngest major the United States Army has ever had. Word was that he was being groomed by army brass for an eventual top post in the army after the war. In short, he wasn't exactly considered a loose cannon."
"And then one day he ups and deserts," Harper said quietly.
I nodded. "And the same army that had once considered him General Staff material now sent five Rangers after him with orders to kill."
Harper shook her head. "It just doesn't make sense. What could have happened?"
Dark Chant In A Crimson Key Page 9
