The Fear in Yesterday's Rings

by George C. Chesbro

  “I can see that,” I said, suppressing a sigh. “Look, Garth is in Brussels taking care of some business for another client. He’ll be finished in a day or two, and I’ll have him swing through Zurich on his way—”

  “No, no, Mongo!” he said sharply, almost plaintively. When I looked at him, somewhat taken aback by the vehemence of his reaction, he continued quickly, “Garth isn’t you, Mongo. I mean, he doesn’t have your tact. He can be quite abrasive with certain people, as I know you’re aware. I’m not sure he could get the job done.”

  “Damn it, Emmet, that’s an insult to Garth. He’s a professional, and he’s every bit as well known and respected as I am. Besides that, he’s an ex-cop; the Zurich police and Interpol could be a lot more impressed by him than by me, and they might extend him professional courtesies they would deny me. Garth may stand a better chance of getting the job done than I would, and he’s already in Europe. It will not only save you money, Emmet, but it makes more sense.”

  Neuberger leaned forward even farther in his chair, clasped his hands in his lap, and bowed his head, allowing me the privilege of studying his bald spot and pronounced dandruff. He made a strange, muffled sound deep in his throat, and when he looked up, I was startled to see that his pale green eyes were misted with tears that puddled in his puffy lids, then rolled down his round cheeks. “But Garth doesn’t like me, Mongo. You know that. Not many people do. You may not care much for me, but at least you treat me with courtesy and respect.”

  “I like you just fine, Emmet,” I said lamely, looking away in embarrassment.

  “Even as a child, I was never able to make many friends, no matter how hard I tried. Having a lot of money wasn’t enough; it just led people to try to take advantage of me. I wanted to do something, to be somebody. Cornucopia has given me the chance to make my life meaningful. The foundation is my life. This may sound odd to you, Mongo, but what John Sinclair did to Cornucopia makes me feel personally violated. I just want to feel as if I have some measure of control, or at least that I’m being kept properly informed about events concerning my … child. Having you personally go to Zurich to prepare this report would give me a great measure of relief. Please, Mongo. As a personal favor, would you do it for me?”

  “Emmet,” I said quietly, hoping my exasperation didn’t show in my tone, “I have personal reasons for not being able to go over to Europe right now. I have a lady friend whom I haven’t seen in a long time coming into town, and—”

  “Miss Rhys-Whitney,” he said, smiling broadly. “The snake woman. Such a lovely lady. I met her at the Museum of Natural History benefit, remember?”

  “Harper and I were planning on spending some time together, Emmet. We’ve been looking forward to it.”

  “Then spend it together in Switzerland! She can meet you there. I’ll pick up all expenses, so you can think of this as a paid vacation if you like. It shouldn’t take you long to meet with the people you’ll want to talk to. You can fax me your report, and then the two of you can be on your way.”

  Actually, the thought of a European vacation with Harper was not unappealing; we had talked about going off somewhere for a couple of weeks, but hadn’t decided where it was we wanted to go. “I don’t accept paid vacations from clients, Emmet. But I’ll go over to Zurich and poke around a bit, if you insist you want to spend your money that way.”

  Emmet P. Neuberger positively beamed. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this, Mongo. Just tell me when Miss Rhys-Whitney is scheduled to fly in, and I’ll make all the arrangements to have her flown on to Zurich.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Emmet. You let me take care of Harper. I’ll bill you for what I think is fair. I’ll do the best I can to provide you with a clear picture of what’s happening, but I want it clearly understood that, no matter how much of my time and your money I spend, it’s unlikely that I’m going to find out much more than you knew before you walked in here.”

  “If that’s the way it turns out, so be it,” Neuberger said, rising and reaching out to pump my hand. “At least I’ll know it’s the truth, and I won’t be depending on strangers, or on subordinates who may have something to hide. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this, Mongo.”

  “Right.”

  He walked quickly to the door, then turned back and smiled tentatively. “Will you be … leaving right away?”

  “No, Emmet, I will not be leaving right away. I have appointments and other business to take care of. But I will be there by the end of the week.”

  He flashed a broad grin, nodded eagerly, then turned and walked out of the office. There was a decided bounce to his step.

  Chapter Two

  Veil Kendry was a friend of mine, and a most unusual man with a midnight-dark past whose secrets Garth and I were privy to, a past which could one day conceivably blow up in our faces and ruin a lot of lives as well as the increasingly strong presidency of Kevin Shannon. Most of the world knew Veil as the painter he was, an artist who in the past few years had received international acclaim for his decidedly eerie “dream paintings,” very large-scale works comprised of any number of smaller, individual canvases which existed on their own as works of art, and were sold separately. I was probably one of the few people in the world who had actually seen one of the “master paintings” whole, with all of the component canvases hung together in neat rows and covering all of one wall in Veil’s spacious loft in a building he owned on Manhattan’s Lower East Side.

  Garth considered this man with the long yellow hair and glacial-blue eyes a very dangerous man, which was right on the mark. My brother didn’t much care for Veil, his enmity going back to a time when I had been drawn into the mist of Veil’s hidden past, and we had all nearly lost our lives. But in the end, the journey we had taken had enriched all our lives. Many, if not all, of the friends and connections Garth and I now had in Washington had come to us as a direct result of my leap into the history of this man who had once been known and feared as the deadly “Archangel,” combat soldier extraordinaire, martial arts master, and one-time point man in the CIA’s secret war in Laos.

  Indeed, the more I thought about it, the more it seemed to me that Veil’s background as a soldier had much in common with what I knew of John Sinclair’s military record. Both men had been highly decorated combat soldiers in Vietnam, both had been officers, and both had departed from the service under unusual circumstances—Sinclair as a deserter, and Veil after being branded a traitor and subsequently cashiered as part of an insidious plot to destroy him concocted by his CIA controller, the man who, decades later, would have been shaping the nation’s foreign policy had it not been for his obsession with killing Veil, and incidentally Garth and me. Both men were capable of extreme violence—Sinclair obviously by design, and Veil as a result of brain damage suffered at birth; Veil had sublimated his penchant for violence into high art, while Sinclair had parlayed his into a career as a master criminal and what might be termed the art of commercial terror. Both men had unusual names, albeit “Chant” was a mysterious nickname, while Veil’s name had been given to him by his parents as a kind of prayer for deliverance from the smothering caul that had enveloped him at his birth. Sinclair was a legendary hand-to-hand fighter, arguably the world’s most accomplished martial arts master, and part of the mystique surrounding him was that he possessed special powers acquired as an acolyte of a secret society of Japanese masters. It was the sort of item that Garth, with his long-standing disdain for any kind of fighting that wasn’t done with fists, would term a typical “ninja bullshit story,” and I sort of agreed. I was highly skeptical of all the “special powers” business, and in fact I suspected that a great deal of what was reported about John Sinclair was pure myth, “ninja bullshit stories,” but I had no doubt that he was a formidable warrior, even now in middle age.

  As was Veil. Veil was the most accomplished street fighter and martial arts master I had ever seen. While Sinclair had reportedly begun formal training as a young child in
Japan, where his father had been a State Department official, Veil was completely self-taught, his fighting style eclectic, a mixture of many oriental martial arts disciplines laced with not a few devastating moves he’d developed himself. I had a black belt in karate—the fruit of natural physical skills, quickness, and a few thousand hours spent practicing kata. My karate skills had served me extremely well in any number of difficult situations, but all of my knowledge, talent, and skills were insignificant compared to Veil’s, and he had become my teacher. We worked out two or three evenings a week, using the mats and equipment set up in a corner of Veil’s loft.

  As usual, we started off the evening practicing muzukashi jotai kara deru, a loathsome practice of Veil’s invention which could be loosely translated as “extricating oneself from knotty situations,” and which I found boring and time-consuming. However, since Veil was the teacher and I the student, I did what I was told, keeping my impatience to myself in the face of Veil’s insistence that “muzu,” as he called it, was a handy thing to know.

  I was happy when we moved on to the more traditional physical stuff, and we proceeded to practice stick-fighting skills, with long poles of split bamboo taking the place of the heavier kendo sticks we sometimes used. We used the poles to train for quickness and agility, and the exercise primarily consisted of taking turns flailing away at each other; while one attacked, the other sought to escape a painful whack by blocking or moving out of the way. We wore no padding to slow us down, since—unlike working with nunchaku or kendo sticks—there was no real danger of injury; a smack with the bamboo pole could leave a painful welt, but broke no bones.

  I was pretty good at this business, rarely taking a full hit—but then, I wasn’t exactly a looming target. Veil, at six feet, made a right fine target when he was standing still, but when you swung at him, he was always someplace else by the time the pole sliced through the space where he had been standing only a moment before. On defense, he rarely bothered to use his pole to block or parry. His evasive skills were extraordinary, to say the least, and it seemed he could effortlessly hop over, duck under, or spin away from just about any blow, delivered from any angle. He occasionally had another of his students videotape one of our sessions, and I always found it breathtaking to watch him on tape; he resembled a ballet dancer.

  We’d been at it for ten minutes since our last water break, with me assuming the attacking role. It was unarguably more taxing to keep leaping out of the way than it was to slash with the light pole, but I was the one getting sweaty and out of breath as I kept slicing up the air around Veil’s constantly dodging and weaving body.

  “I’ve got Mets tickets for Thursday night,” Veil said as he leaped high into the air to avoid my swipe at his knees. I followed up with a chop at his head, and he spun away. “Want to go?”

  “I can’t,” I wheezed, hacking at his right shoulder and missing as usual. “I’ll be in Switzerland.”

  “Business or pleasure?”

  “Going to Switzerland is always a pleasure.” Puff-puff.

  “You got that right.”

  I feinted a blow at his left thigh, then spun around and swung at the space where his midsection should have been. I missed by a foot; Veil always seemed just out of reach. “I plan to take care of a little business and a lot of vacation.” Puff-puff. “Harper’s coming over on Saturday.”

  “Sounds good to me. What’s cooking in Switzerland that requires the attention of the senior partner of Frederickson and Frederickson, if I may ask?”

  “The senior partner of Frederickson and Frederickson isn’t really sure what he’s supposed to do in Switzerland,” I said as I abruptly leaped forward and launched a vicious series of short chops aimed at Veil’s head and shoulders. He retreated, and I went after him, moving him smartly around the loft, but never landing a blow. “As close as I can figure it, my client”—puff-puff—“simply wants me to go to Zurich and ask Interpol to grade themselves on their progress in the hunt for a very kinky crook by the name”—puff-puff—“of John Sinclair, who nipped a foundation my client operates for a cool ten million. Since I can’t believe he believes Interpol and the police over there will say much of anything except that they’re doing a wonderful job, I consider my mission a bit foggy.” Puff-puff.

  I swung hard at Veil’s head, and to my utter astonishment the splayed end of the pole landed square on his right cheek with a loud swonk. Because I was so accustomed to having Veil avoid anything I could throw at him, I had swung with all my might. But he had suddenly and unaccountably stopped dead in his tracks a moment before I had launched my strike, and now the end of the pole had sliced his flesh. His deep blue eyes registered neither surprise nor pain, but blood welled up over the edges of the two-inch-long cut, then rolled in a scarlet sheet down his cheek.

  “Jesus, Veil!” I cried, throwing the pole to one side and hurrying over to him. “I’m sorry!”

  “Not your fault,” Veil said somewhat absently as he walked over to the matted area. He picked up a towel, pressed it to his slashed cheek, then headed for the partitioned-off living area at the far end of the loft. “You expected me to get out of the way, and I should have. I slipped, lost my footing.”

  Feeling queasy and guilty, I followed him into the living area, through the small, spartanly furnished bedroom into the bathroom, where he turned on the tap, leaned over the sink, and began to flush the cut with cold water. It hadn’t looked to me like he’d slipped; he’d simply stopped moving. “You want help?” I asked anxiously.

  He shook his head as he opened the medicine cabinet above the sink and took out a gauze compress, which he pressed against his cheek. Then he turned, fixed me with his ice-blue eyes. “I’m all right, Mongo. It’s just a superficial cut.” He paused, and shadows seemed to move in the depths of the bright eyes that continued to stare at me. Finally, he continued, “You mind if I ask you a question about your business, Mongo?”

  It seemed an odd question, coming from Veil, and there was an uncharacteristically terse tone to his voice. “When have I ever minded you asking me about anything?”

  “What’s your—or your client’s—interest in whether or not Interpol captures John Sinclair?”

  “Are you kidding me? I already told you.”

  “Indulge me, Mongo. Tell me again, in detail, if you will.”

  “Sinclair used a little financial wizardry, which I don’t understand, to rip off ten million dollars of funds earmarked for famine relief in the Sudan. The director of the philanthropic foundation that provided the money is just a bit pissed off about it. He’s taking it personally, and he wants his own man on the scene to report to him on what’s going down. I don’t expect to find out anything he doesn’t already know, but it seems he’ll be perfectly satisfied just to get an independent report with my name on it. It’s such a milk run that I’m embarrassed. I should be finished by the weekend. Harper’s meeting me over there, and we’ll split for Zermatt.”

  Veil grunted softly, then turned back to the medicine cabinet. He removed the compress, washed the cut with hydrogen peroxide, then applied an antiseptic salve. “How are Garth and Mary?” he asked in a flat tone.

  “Just fine,” I replied, staring at his reflection in the mirror. I had the distinct impression his mind was elsewhere. “Mary has a new album out and climbing the charts, and Garth’s in Brussels taking care of some business for a client.” I watched him apply a clean, smaller compress to the wound, tape it in place. “You might want to go for some stitches in that cut. It could leave a scar. You want me to drive you over to the hospital?”

  He turned around, placed his hand gently on my shoulder. “Let’s have some juice.”

  We went into the kitchen, and I sat down at the small, painted wood table. Veil set up two glasses, then retrieved a frosted pitcher of fresh grapefruit juice from the refrigerator. He poured for both of us, then sat down across from me. He sipped his drink, studying me over the rim of the glass.

  “What’s on your mind, Veil
?”

  Veil drained the glass and set it back down on the table. He sighed, shook his head slightly. I had the feeling he’d made some kind of decision—one he was not particularly comfortable with. “I’d like to offer you some gratuitous advice.”

  “You know I value any advice you have to offer, my friend. What is it?”

  He poured himself more grapefruit juice, again fixed me with his steady gaze. “Steer clear of anything whatsoever that involves John Sinclair.”

  Suddenly, I felt a slight chill. I wasn’t sure if it was an aftereffect of the exercise, or from the sudden rush of excitement I was experiencing. “Hey, you know this guy?”

  Veil shifted his gaze to the glass in front of him, shook his head.

  “Ever met him?”

  “No. I just know what I read in the newspapers.” Now he looked up at me, and I again had the impression that he was uncomfortable and that he was struggling with some private dilemma. “But I hear things too. I wish I could be more specific, but I can’t. It’s just a feeling. I know you think it’s an easy job, Mongo, but maybe you should pass on this one. Don’t go to Zurich.”

  My friend’s uncharacteristic reticence was beginning to make me uncharacteristically annoyed with him. “Wow,” I said, my tone just a millimeter or two short of sarcasm. “Now, there’s some pretty straightforward gratuitous advice, Veil. I shouldn’t go to Zurich because you hear things, and you have a feeling.”

  “Mongo—”

  “Just what do you hear that I haven’t heard, Veil? What’s the word on the street regarding John Sinclair? Is there something even more awful about him I should know, aside from the fact that he’ll starve children to line his pockets and that he has a nasty tendency to torture, maim, or kill anybody who gets in his way?”