Dark Chant In A Crimson Key

by George C. Chesbro

  "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?"

  "Mongo," Veil said in a slow, measured tone, "if you go to Zurich to investigate this matter—"

  "I'm not investigating anything. I don't have a franchise to investigate anything outside of New York State. I'm going over there to politely ask Interpol and the Zurich police about their investigation."

  "—you're liable to find yourself in a hall of mirrors instead of on any milk run. In that hall nothing may necessarily be what it seems to be. In fact, I'm suggesting to you that nothing you may have read or heard about John Sinclair is necessarily true."

  Veil's words, as well as his sincerity and obvious concern in giving me such a dear warning, intrigued me. I knew I probably should be patient and allow him to explain his somewhat mysterious approach in his own way, but my irritation at the fact that he seemed to be withholding information that would back up his warning won out. "What the hell are you talking about, Veil?" I asked, somewhat surprised at the sharpness of my tone. "What can't necessarily be true? The man's got an M.O. and track record going back twenty years. He's a big-time thief and a murderer of sometimes unbelievable cruelty. If you have something else to tell me about him, why not just come out and say it? Why the hell jerk me around like this?"

  "You're angry with me," Veil said evenly, leaning back in his chair and smiling thinly. "You feel I've stuck my nose in your business. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you."

  "I'll tell you what offends me, Veil. Certainly not that you care about me, or that you're concerned for my safety. I take that for granted. But you seem to be playing some kind of game here, and that offends me."

  "Mongo, I—"

  "For Christ's sake, Veil, you and I share some history. You know the types of situations I've been in, and you know what I can handle. You, Garth, and I have faced up to some pretty dangerous people together. Now I casually mention that I'm off to Europe to do nothing more than ask for a progress report from the authorities, and you issue a ringing warning for me to avoid anything involving John Sinclair. That clearly tells me you do know something, and you won't tell me what it is." I paused, took a deep breath. Suddenly, I realized that what I felt even more than anger was hurt. Perhaps I was overreacting, but it seemed to me that Veil's obvious reticence in discussing all he knew or suspected about John Sinclair implied that, despite everything I knew about Veil, and other confidences we had shared over the years, he did not completely trust me. That came as a shock, and gave me a decidedly empty feeling. "You damn well do know something more about Sinclai
r," I continued quietly. "Earlier, when I mentioned his name, it startled you, and you lost your concentration. That's why I was able to whack you. But you won't tell me what it is you know. This isn't like you at all, Veil. You know me well enough to know I don't pry, but you're the one who brought up the subject in the first place."

  "I'm sorry you're angry, Mongo," Veil said, looking away. "I'd take it as a personal favor if you'd let me come along with you."

  "Thanks for the warning and the offer, Veil," I said coldly, abruptly standing, "but at the moment I can't see how either is of much value. I'm going to Zurich to take care of my business, then I'm going to spend a few days in the mountains with Harper, and then I'm coming home. I'll send you a postcard."

  I waited, still hoping that Veil would say something more, or at least explain why he wouldn't say more. It wasn't so much that I thought I needed the information to accomplish what I still could not conceive of as anything more than a minor errand, but because I felt that in a space of only a few minutes, with words that had—or had not—been exchanged, a friendship that I valued beyond what any words could describe had been irretrievably damaged.

  When Veil did not reply, I turned and headed for the freight elevator that would take me down to the street.

  Chapter Three

  I emerged out of Customs into the main terminal at the Zurich airport and was startled to see a figure in a fabulously ill-fitting chauffeur's uniform holding up a sign with what might have been my name had it not been misspelled, with two k's. He was a very tall man, well over six feet, whose physical grandeur was marred by a crippled left leg and what appeared to be a permanent stoop. His blue serge uniform looked like it had been put together from spare parts; although the cap precariously perched on top of his head was at least one size too small for him, the rest of the outfit had the appearance of being hastily cut and sewn together from some enormous blanket with no other purpose in mind than to simply drape his large frame. There was an anxious, almost furtive air about him as he peered over the heads of the people around him in search of his fare. Pushing my luggage cart ahead of me, I veered off to my right, heading for a side exit where an array of gleaming silver and blue buses were parked at the curb.