Two Songs This Archangel Sings

by George C. Chesbro

  Kevin Shannon had wasted no time in displaying for us his own brand of “ruthless efficiency.”

  The committee hearing was three days off, and it turned out to be a very long three days; the hammer blows of raw political power continued to fall.

  My P.I. license, along with my carry permits, was lifted pending investigation of my “moral character and commission of certain criminal acts.” I declined the invitation to turn my handguns in to the nearest police station.

  Also, Viktor Raskolnikov and his gallery had suddenly become the target of an I.R.S. investigation; all of his files, including slides of paintings that had been sold and a list of their owners, had been seized. Now we had nothing but the knots in our lives Kevin Shannon had promised us, nothing left to do but play out a string that had already unraveled.

  It was all very depressing.

  “First, I would like to thank the committee for allowing this statement to be read into the record,” I intoned in a flat, dry voice, reading from the paper in front of me. “Regardless of the outcome of your deliberations, I believe this statement will bring into sharper focus certain events of mutual interest which have happened in the past, are happening now, and which may happen in the future.”

  Beside me, Garth sat very straight, stiff and still, hands folded on the bare, warped wooden surface of the ancient witness table at which we sat. The expression on his face was blank, and he seemed to be lost in his own thoughts, a long way away. Wherever he was, I thought, it would have been just as well if I were with him. I felt like a lonely blackjack player in a near-empty casino waiting for a dealer to show up. Except that this game had been rigged before we’d ever sat down at the table in the well of a cavernous, dusty meeting hall in an otherwise unused section of the Old Senate Office Building. The choice of setting was at once meant to be intimidating, while at the same time underscoring the futility of our appearance there. It was a perfect example of overkill.

  “It is important for you to know that I love the United States of America—not because it is the country where I was born and grew up, but because it is the country it is. Indeed, it is only within the past fifteen years that I have come to feel at home here, and to appreciate how much I owe to it. Before that, I had no love of anything; I did not know what the word ‘love’ meant. I had only drives and needs. The institutions and traditions of this society literally saved my life, allowing me to discover talents and strengths within myself in a way I would never have thought possible.”

  I estimated that the hall could hold upwards of five or six hundred people. There was even an overhanging balcony, but it was cloaked in darkness now, like the entire rear of the hall which spread out beneath it. In fact, the “hearing” could just as well have been held in a cloakroom. There was a stenographer in the well with us, situated between the table and a long, raised dais where five senators, all men in their late fifties or early sixties, sat behind a table covered with green felt. Senator Kathleen Wyndham, head of the committee charged with investigating Orville Madison in the first place, was conspicuous by her absence.

  Orville Madison also sat up on the dais itself, albeit apart from the senators, near one end of the table. He was flanked by two black-suited aides who sat stiffly in their chairs, felt-tipped pens poised over white legal pads, glaring at Garth and me. Madison had a microphone placed in front of him, and it appeared that he would be given the opportunity to ask questions or make a statement if he so chose.

  In person, Orville Madison was a rather unimposing figure—probably a good part of the reason he had been so successful in his career as a master spy. He had thinning gray hair and a head that seemed slightly too large for the rest of his body. His black suit, although obviously expensive and well cut, did not fit well, and I suspected he might have lost a lot of weight recently; the collar of his white shirt was loose around his neck, and his tie was crooked. His face was puffy, and there were angry red, broken veins in his nose. He had not glanced at us once, preferring to stare straight ahead of him out into the darkness beneath the balcony. His dark eyes seemed curiously lifeless, like buttons sewn into the face of a rag doll. There was no sign of guilt, regret, or any other emotion registered on the doughy features.

  The burly, armed marshal standing next to the side door a few feet in front of Madison looked bored.

  I continued: “During the time frame covering incidents in the past that are the basis of this investigation, it would be fair to say that I was quite mad.”

  “Dr. Frederickson?”

  “What is it, Senator?” I asked, looking up from the paper I’d been reading.

  John Lefferton, the senior senator from Oklahoma and the man who appeared to be chairing the hearing, peered down at me through his thick bifocals. “I’m not sure I understand what’s happening here. You said that you wanted to read a statement.”

  “I am reading a statement.”

  “You’re telling us that you are, or have been, mentally ill?”

  “A lot of people who know me think that, but I never admit to it. No, that’s not what I’m telling you.”

  “But your statement—?”

  “I said I wanted to read a statement; I didn’t say it was my statement. This was written by Veil Kendry.”

  After some exchanging of startled glances, there was a hurried conference, with the microphones shut off. Finally, the microphones were switched back on.

  “How did you come by this document, Dr. Frederickson?” Lefferton asked.

  “It was left in my room at the YMCA last night.”

  “You’ve seen Veil Kendry?”

  “No. The letter was in an envelope on the table next to my bed when I woke up this morning. It’s from Veil; I recognize the signature.”

  “Uh, didn’t you lock your room?”

  “Sure. Veil Kendry’s a very sneaky fellow, when he wants—or has—to be.”

  Suddenly the senators and the marshal seemed decidedly nervous; the senators looked at each other, while the marshal stiffened and squinted into the darkness of the balcony and at the rear of the hall. The marshal unsnapped the flap over his holster, put his hand on the butt of his gun.

  Fred Mares, the senator from Michigan, turned in his chair. “Marshal, are the doors to this meeting hall locked, as directed?”

  “Yes, sir,” the marshal replied with a firm nod. “I locked them all myself, and checked them again just a few minutes before you all arrived.”

  John Lefferton turned his attention back to me. “Dr. Frederickson, I’m sorry, but I’m afraid we can’t permit you to finish reading a statement that is not your own. We’ve heard—and suffered—quite enough from Mr. Kendry, in absentia. If he has more to say, he should be here. This hearing is being held as a courtesy to you and your brother, but we will not allow a killer at large to dictate what this committee will or will not hear.”

  “Suit yourself,” I said as I shrugged and dropped the paper on the table in front of me.

  “Pardon me?”

  “I said, suit yourself, Senator. If you don’t want to hear Veil’s statement, I won’t read it.”

  Arlen Smith, the senior senator from Texas, leaned his rail-thin frame forward on the table and looked down at Garth. “Lieutenant, is there anything you wish to say to this committee?”

  “My brother speaks for both of us,” Garth said in a flat voice, without looking up. He hadn’t even bothered to turn on his microphone.

  “What is it that you wish to say to this committee, Dr. Frederickson?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I don’t understand. Why are you here?”

  “I came to read the statement Veil Kendry wanted read, Senator, and—originally—to bear witness to the events he describes. When he wrote this, he couldn’t have known what a waste of time this hearing would be. Well, I’m not about to waste my time with you. The fact that Senator Wyndham has been excluded from this little gathering tells me who you are; you’re all original members of the committee that heard
details of, and passed on, Operation Archangel. Of active members of government involved in the plan, the only person missing here is Kevin Shannon. This has got to be the ultimate in ad hoc committees, and I say you can all go to hell.”

  That produced some startled glances, a few flushed faces, and another hurried, whispered conference.

  “Dr. Frederickson,” Lefferton said, “we must caution you to maintain an attitude of respect here. Otherwise, you will be held in contempt.”

  “Suit yourselves.”

  “How did you first become involved with Veil Kendry in this matter?”

  “It’s all explained in Veil’s statement. Do you want to hear the rest of it?”

  “No, sir, we do not. We want you to answer the question.”

  “Veil’s my friend.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “You know the answer, Senator; you’ve all been briefed.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because you’re United States senators, from both parties, and you wouldn’t have agreed so quickly to what amounts to a most unusual procedure unless Kevin Shannon told you a few things. You may not know the whole Archangel story, or all of what that man sitting to your right has done, but you’ve been told enough to become convinced that a great deal is at stake here.”

  Lefferton cleared his throat. “We’d like to hear your version of events.”

  “No. I pass, Senator. What you want is for me to make certain statements on record, so that you can shoot me down later. Expect to hear from me again in five years or so—or however long it takes me to find the proof to back up what I have to say. When I do put it together, you’ll be able to read all about it in the newspapers—along with an account of this hearing.”

  “Ah,” Smith, the senator from Texas, said as he leaned forward and peered down at the stenographer, whose fingers were flying over her keyboard. “Are you telling the committee that you have no proof of the allegations you came here prepared to make against Secretary Madison?”

  “I had proof, Senator. What I strongly suspect you weren’t told at your presidential briefing is that Kevin Shannon, through his aides, has either destroyed or confiscated all of my evidence. In fact, I.R.S. investigation or not, all of it has probably been destroyed by now.”

  “That’s an outrageous accusation, Dr. Frederickson,” John Lefferton said in his most reproving tone of voice.

  “Yeah? Well, I thought snatching and destroying the evidence was pretty outrageous.”

  “Dr. Frederickson—”

  “My brother and I would like to be excused, Senator. We have nothing further to say at this time.”

  “You may not be excused, Frederickson! And if you try to leave before you are excused, the two of you will find yourselves escorted directly to jail for contempt of Congress!”

  “You do what you want, Senator.”

  “Do you know where Veil Kendry is?”

  “It looks like he’s in Washington, doesn’t it?”

  “Do you know where in Washington? Do you know where he is staying?”

  “No.”

  “When did Secretary Madison’s name first become linked in your mind with the events under review?”

  “When I read it in the newspapers.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Are you trying to have fun at the expense of this committee?”

  “I wouldn’t think of it, Senator.”

  “You’re saying that before you read Secretary Madison’s name in the newspapers, you had no indication of any wrongdoing on his part?”

  “You’ve got it.”

  Lefferton, allowing himself a small self-congratulatory smile, removed his bifocals and cleaned them with a linen handkerchief. “That’s really quite an incredible admission, Dr. Frederickson,” he said at last.

  “I’m glad I’m holding your interest.”

  “Now, you say that we may hear from you in five years or so, and at that time you may have some kind of incriminating evidence against Secretary Madison. Would you be so kind as to share with this committee how you plan to gather this proof? Will you be reading more newspapers?”

  I waited for the laughter on the dais to die down, said, “For openers, I plan to kind of go into the art business.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “The man sitting to your right is a murderer—”

  “Dr. Frederickson!” Arlen Smith shouted, pounding his fist on the table. “How dare you make such a statement without anything whatsoever to back you up?!”

  “Come off it, Senator,” I said wearily. “You love it; the whole purpose of this hearing is to get me to make statements like I just did, so that you can make comments like you just did. It looks great in a transcript. You asked me a question, and I’m trying to answer you. I happen to know that Orville Madison is responsible for the murders of thirteen people. That may never be proved, but what can be proved—with time—is that Madison is a liar when he says he’s never heard of Veil Kendry. Once that link is established, other bits and pieces of evidence may well surface. You see, when you passed on Operation Archangel, Madison never told you who Archangel, the centerpiece of the plan, was. Veil Kendry was Archangel.”

  The aide sitting on Madison’s right tapped his microphone with the tip of his pen. “That’s preposterous, Frederickson.”

  “Are you speaking for yourself, pal, or your boss?”

  The aide glanced at Orville Madison, who gave an almost imperceptible nod of his head. “Secretary Madison continues to deny any knowledge of Veil Kendry, aside from what he has heard in the past few days.”

  “No kidding? Then, perhaps the good secretary would care to tell us just who Archangel was.”

  “That information is classified,” the aide said stiffly.

  “It doesn’t make any difference, pal. As far as I’m concerned, what you just said is the first worthwhile thing that’s gone into this record. I trust the stenographer will make a note of the fact that Madison nodded his head when I asked if you were speaking for him. In fact, some years ago Veil executed a series of paintings—”

  “Paintings,” Lefferton interrupted, peering over the top of his bifocals at a paper in front of him. “There is something here about paintings. Would you care to tell us what it is these paintings purport to show?”

  “They paint a picture of a liar.”

  “But you don’t know where to find these paintings. Is that correct?”

  “You know it’s correct, Senator. Thanks to the I.R.S., acting on behalf of the president, the records of the whereabouts of these paintings have been seized. The paintings are scattered all over the country, maybe all over the world. But I’ll eventually find them—and if I end up in prison as a result of all this, then I’ll hire somebody to find them for me. That’s something you’re now betting your reputations and reelection campaigns on, gentlemen.”

  “And they lose, Mongo,” a very familiar voice said from somewhere above and behind me. In the vast, nearly empty chamber, the voice echoed. “I know where the paintings are.”

  Veil Kendry’s words were punctuated by an ominous schlish-clack of metal sliding over metal—an ammunition magazine being slipped into the stock of an automatic weapon, the safety being released.

  The faces of the marshal, aides, stenographer, and the senators drained of blood and their eyes went wide as they stared up at the balcony above our heads. Garth and I slowly turned in our chairs, glanced up.

  Veil, dressed in jeans and a faded denim jacket over a green plaid flannel shirt, was standing on a seat in the balcony, one booted foot resting on the protective brass rail. His gray-streaked, yellow hair fell to his shoulders, and he was unshaven. Even in the dim light that just reached the first row of the balcony, his pale blue eyes glinted with anger as his gaze swept over the men on the dais below him; even without the Uzi submachine gun he held in his hands, he would have made a most imposing, spectral figure, and I felt a chill run
through me.

  The anger left Veil’s eyes as he looked down at me, and he flashed a crooked, bittersweet smile. “It looks like you’ve found the dark at the end of the tunnel, my friend. A hell of a job, Mongo; a hell of a job.”

  “Yeah,” I replied dryly. “Thanks, Veil; it’s always nice to hear from satisfied clients.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “For all the pain, and for placing you in such bad company.”

  “You don’t have to apologize for anything, not to me. I know you never really wanted to involve me in the first place; I just about had to ransack your place to find my retainer. I’m honored that I was the one you chose to ask for help.”

  “I’d be long dead by now if it weren’t for you, my friend.”

  “Somehow, I doubt that.”

  “It’s true. You distracted the bastard, and made him split his forces. I needed you and you were there—as I knew you would be.”

  “Yeah, well, wait’ll you see my itemized bill.”

  “This wasn’t the way I thought it would go, Mongo.”

  “I know. You made the mistake of giving some of our elected representatives too much credit for integrity and guts. They don’t want to hear what you have to tell them.”

  “So I’ve noticed. Well, maybe we can still salvage something from this mess.”

  “Go for it.”

  The marshal had taken advantage of the chitchat between Veil and me to start to draw his gun out of his holster. Now his hand froze in midair as the Uzi abruptly swung in his direction.

  “Unless you want to be carried out of here in halves,” Veil said calmly to the man, “take the gun out of its holster with your fingertips, then carry it over and put it on the witness table.”

  The marshal hesitated just a moment, and Veil squeezed off a burst of fire that cut a line of holes in the wall barely six inches above the man’s head. The marshal ducked, covered his head with his hands, and fell to the floor. Veil waited for the terrified man to look up, then waved toward the witness table with the Uzi. The marshal rose to his feet, walked quickly down into the well, and placed his .45 on the table in front of Garth and me, then went back to where he had been standing.