Veil

Spring. The Greenwich Village Art Show. Surrounded by his oil paintings, he sits in a tattered canvas folding chair on Christopher Street.

He is terribly thirsty; he is so thirsty that he cannot focus on the potential customers who walk by or occasionally stop to look at his work. Everything seems to be covered with pink gauze, as in fever-vision. He has a pounding headache, and he can think of nothing but water. He is near a number of bars, and he knows where there is a fountain, but he does not bother to rise and go to look for water, for he knows there will be none. Veil knows he is dreaming, and around his dream is a steel cage.

'You're a dead man, Kendry.'

Veil squints through the haze at Madison, who is emerging from a taxicab. The CIA controller's shoes are covered with steaming, green jungle mud.

The dream is out of control, Veil thinks, with disparate times, places, people, and things all bleeding into one another. He is dying, and he is both afraid and enraged. He could roll out of the dream, but chooses not to; a waking state will bring him only the worse torment of the cage and the sun.

'Tell Parker the truth, Madison,' Veil says to the man at the curb with the rotting jungle mud on his shoes. 'Kill me with a bullet, a knife, or a garrote—not a lie.'

Footsteps come up behind him, and Parker's voice whispers in his ear. 'He can guess all he wants to. By the time I let him in here again, you'll either be dead and buried in the riverbank or—'

Veil wheels, causing the pink fever-haze to swirl around him, but Parker is gone.

'I really wish I could get the two of you together,' Veil says, and begins to laugh hysterically.

'He can guess all he wants to,' Parker intones from the bottom of a well.

'Madison, don't kill me with a lie!'

'You're a dead man, Kendry. I'm going to shoot your ass on the day you find peace or happiness.'

'Orville, old stick!' Veil shouts. 'Today isn't that day! I'm really not very happy, so don't let this stupid bastard kill me!'

I'm losing it, Veil thinks as he suddenly finds himself standing in the middle of Christopher Street with cars passing through him. Thirst, exposure, exhaustion and fear are taking their toll, ripping up his mind.

There is no place left to escape to.

'Tell him the truth, Madison. You execute me as you see fit, but please get me out of this cage. I don't want to die like an animal. I don't deserve this.'

Raskolnikov, the White Russian art dealer who will become Veil's mentor, rounds a corner. The portly, bearded man carries an ivory-handled cane in one hand and a chocolate icecream cone in the other. His black patent-leather shoes flash in the sunlight; his footsteps explode on the sidewalk like beats of a snare drum.

Madison, Po, Sharon, Parker, Pilgrim, and Perry Tompkins are all in the crowd.

I am dying.

Raskolnikov glances at Veil's paintings and walks on. He crosses the street at the intersection, steps up on the curb, and stops. He stands still for some time, absently licking his icecream cone as people pass by on either side of him. Then he abruptly tosses his cone into a wire trash container, wheels around, and comes back across the intersection against the light. A car screeches to a halt, narrowly missing him, but Raskolnikov does not even seem to notice.

'Dead and buried in the riverbank,' Parker whispers in Veil's ear.

Raskolnikov again walks past Veil's paintings, but immediately turns, comes back, and stops in front of them.

'Call Madison or Bean,' Veil whispers. 'Please, please. Please. I'm so thirsty.'

'Interesting,' Raskolnikov says as he turns toward Veil. 'One really has to view your paintings out of the corner of the

Chapter 21

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The cold water splashed over his fever-hot body like a tidal wave of torment. Veil's muscles knotted and quivered, but he only had enough strength to lick the water off his cracked lips. He allowed himself to fall sideways, and he sucked at the wet ground. He kept glancing to the side, waiting—praying—for the ladle of water to be offered through the bars. It did not come.

'Please give me water,' Veil said. Or thought he said. He would do anything now for water—beg, make up a story about the Russians and the KGB; but he could not even be sure that he was speaking loud or clear enough to be understood.

Parker's voice was strangely hollow, as if the man were speaking to him from the opposite end of a large cavern. 'You've got balls, Kendry. I'll say that for you. You really are going to manage to kill yourself. Do you think we're idiots?'

Veil somehow managed to rise to his knees. He clutched at the bars, resting his head against the steel. 'Don't . . . understand. Give me water. You've got what you wanted.'

'You're crazy,' Parker replied in a tone in which outrage, confusion, and genuine distress vied for control. 'You think I want to watch a crazy man kill himself? What the hell did you think you were doing? Did you think you could bluff me? How can a man be dying of thirst, for chrissake, and still find the will to lie?'

'Don't understand. Call Madison. CIA.'

'The CIA's never heard of you or anyone named Orville Madison.'

'No. Not true. Lie. You didn't talk to the right people, or . . . Madison told them to lie. Call Bean.'

'Bean retired six years ago, and he was killed in an automobile accident three months later. You probably knew that.'

'No. Madison ...'

'There is no Orville Madison. You pulled the name out of a very dry hat.'

Something was wrong, Veil thought as he struggled to hide from the agony in his mind and body in order to concentrate. There was something in Parker's tone, something in the dream, that told him what was wrong, but he could not pull his thoughts together, could not make the connection. 'No,' he whispered, feeling lost. 'Madison was my controller. Not his style to . . . let this happen. Who did you talk to?'

There was a long pause. Veil moved his head slightly in order to look up at Parker, but he could see only a blurred image.

'You're going to die, Kendry,' Parker said in a husky voice filled with emotion. 'I wouldn't have believed any man could do to himself what you're doing. I wish I could say that I admire your guts, but I don't. You're just stupid. I don't want you to die. Do you understand? I really don't. But I can't let you screw us, either. Don't you understand that I know you're KGB? Kendry, I know you're lying. One thing; just give me one thing and I take you out. Give me the name of your controller.'

'Madison. CIA.'

'Stop it! You're finished, Kendry! No man can endure more than you've endured. Let it go. If I take you out now, give you some water and medical attention, you'll be all right. Another few hours and you'll be finished. Stop telling me lies and give me the name of your Russian controller. It won't take me long to check. I may even give you a long drink right now.'

'You didn't talk to anyone.'

'The name of your controller, Kendry! What specific information did you hope to get here? Give me something, will you? I want to take you out. I don't want to see you die for nothing!'

'Not you. You didn't make the calls personally. Someone else. Who?'

'Damn you, Kendry!' Parker shouted. 'Damn your eyes! If you think the communists are going to take over the world because you're tougher than we are, you've got a big surprise coming! Fuck you! Die!'

Veil waited a few moments, then looked up again and squinted. The blurred image was gone. He groaned and licked at the moisture left on the bars of his cage.