Two Songs This Archangel Sings m-5

by George C. Chesbro

  What I saw when the smoke cleared didn't look good. The second Chevrolet had skidded to a stop at a sharp angle off the side of the highway, and Madison's men were behind it, their backs to me, trading gunfire with four troopers who were shielded by their own cars, forty or fifty yards away.

  There was no sign of Garth.

  I raised the gun with my cuffed hands, carefully sighted down the barrel on the back of one of the men, and shot him between the shoulder blades. His arms flew up in the air as he arched and fell stiffly backward. Startled, the second man ducked away from the trooper's fire, turned, and saw me at the same time as I squeezed off two shots; one bullet caught him in the face, the other in the chest. I was up and running even before he hit the ground.

  Fortunately for me, the troopers had stopped firing when the two men had disappeared from sight. My muscles fueled by fear at what I might find inside the Chevrolet, I sprinted up the slight incline, yanked open a rear door on the bullet-scarred car. To my immense relief, I found Garth huddled on the floor, where he had rolled in order to avoid the hail of bullets. He appeared unhurt, and his eyes went wide with both joy and concern when he saw me.

  "Mongo! You're shot!"

  At first I didn't understand, until I looked down and realized that I was covered with blood. "I had to take a little nip out of a guy," I said as I dropped the gun and grabbed two handfuls of Garth's parka and helped him out of the car. "It's his blood, not mine."

  The four troopers, with Captain McGarvey in the lead, came running toward us, guns drawn, along the shoulder of the highway. When McGarvey saw us walk out from behind the car, he abruptly stopped and holstered his gun, motioning for the others to do the same. Then McGarvey walked slowly toward us, disbelief written all over his face as he stared at me.

  "Frederickson," the captain said, "how the hell did you survive that car crash?"

  "Oh, that? Surviving flaming car crashes is just a routine part of Russian spy training. You'd be amazed how many candidates they mash or burn up before they get somebody like me who can do it right."

  McGarvey didn't smile. "Are you all right? You're covered with blood."

  "Like I was telling Garth, most of it doesn't belong to me. How about getting our cuffs off?"

  "Sorry, Frederickson," McGarvey mumbled as he produced a set of keys from his pocket and freed my hands, then Garth's. "I still don't understand what's going on, but you were certainly on target when you said I shouldn't turn you over to those men."

  "Don't worry about being sorry," I said as a trooper brushed past me and walked to join one of his colleagues, who was angrily waving on rubbernecking drivers. "I'm just happy you changed your mind and came after us."

  "I wish I could take credit for changing my mind, but that's not what happened. We got a call five minutes after those guys drove off with you. There's someone who wants to talk to you."

  "Who?"

  "Come on," McGarvey said, motioning for us to follow him to the trooper cars. "There's a good motel a few miles back where you can clean up and get some rest. The rooms will be courtesy of New York State."

  "We need our backpacks."

  "No. Everything we have stays with us for the time being. If you'll give me your sizes, I'll see that you get fresh clothes-also courtesy of New York State."

  "Hold on a minute," I said, stopping, then taking a step backward to stand beside Garth. "Your concern is touching, Captain, and I mean no disrespect to you when I say that you must have received one whopper of a phone call. Who was on the other end this time, and who wants to talk to us?"

  "You'll see."

  "What the hell does that mean?"

  "It means I can't tell you, Frederickson," McGarvey said in a slightly embarrassed tone. "Give me a break."

  "Give you a break?! Damn, Captain, I love your material. Are we still under arrest?"

  "No… uh, not technically."

  "Still, if it's all the same to you, we'll pass on the motel and save the state some money. We're safer in your lockup; you can leave the cell doors open if it makes you feel better."

  McGarvey shook his head. "They want you in a hotel or motel-the best. We'll put a guard on you."

  "How long will it be before we get to meet this person?"

  "I don't know."

  "What do you know?"

  "Whoever it is has to come from Washington. Besides that, all I've been told is that you're to be well taken care of."

  The thought of a hot shower, a good meal, clean sheets and a soft bed was certainly inviting-but I couldn't help but remember what had happened to Colonel Po when Orville Madison had decided to pay Henry Kitten's fee for an "extra assignment." If Henry Kitten were to be sicced on us, the assassin would also find the thought of us in a hotel or motel inviting.

  "We still prefer the lockup," I said.

  "No."

  "Remember what happened when you didn't listen to me before?"

  "This is different. I have my orders. I told you we'll put a guard on you."

  "One guard won't do. We'll need one outside our door, one on the roof, and one outside the window on the ground. Our room will have to be on the top floor. When you hear what I have to tell you-"

  "Hold it right there, Frederickson," McGarvey said, putting up his hand. "You can have anything you want, including as many guards as you think you need. But I don't want to hear what you have to tell me-not now. I'm not even supposed to talk to you, beyond what I've already said, and I'm not supposed to listen to anything you have to say."

  20

  We were taken to a motel just off the Thruway, no more than a mile or two from the trooper substation. Caked with blood and mud and sprinkled liberally with powdered glass, I looked like nothing so much as a grisly variation on some Wednesday night special at the local ice cream parlor; we were taken to our suite of rooms through a back entrance so as not to shock any early guests who might be a tad taken aback by my appearance. The captain was a fast shopper, because he was back with new clothes by the time we'd pulled ourselves out of our hot tubs. He'd also brought our wallets and the rest of our personal belongings, but not our guns or backpacks. We ordered a pitcher of martinis and lunch to be brought to our suite. We ate, checked-rather blearily, to be sure-to make sure our guards were in place, then lay down to take a nap. We had barely fallen asleep when the phone rang. A driver was waiting for us downstairs.

  We were taken back to the substation, ushered into McGarvey's small but nicely appointed office in an administrative wing of the substation, and left alone. Garth paced while I eased myself down into the captain's red leather swivel chair and propped my feet up on the edge of his desk.

  "Well, looky here," Garth said dryly as he stopped by a window that looked out over a small auxiliary parking lot adjacent to the administrative wing.

  "I'm comfortable. Describe it to me."

  "One long, black limousine with smoked windows, one uniformed chauffeur, two trim, mean-looking guys with walkie-talkies."

  "Sounds like Secret Service."

  "Could be. The door to the limousine is open, and the help look like they're just hanging out. I wonder where our esteemed visitor is."

  "Probably talking to McGarvey, finding out what we said to him and precisely what happened."

  "What's our strategy with this guy, brother?" Garth asked quietly.

  "A good question; I'm not sure of the answer. We're still a long way from home, and I'm pretty sure we still have miles to go before we sleep. The administration has finally gotten a whiff of what Orville Madison really smells like, but that doesn't mean we're going to be awarded any medals. On the contrary; there are going to be a lot of people rushing to cover their own asses, while at the same time they do everything in their power to protect Kevin Shannon. This guy's here to assess how much damage we could inflict if we wanted to, and to try to gauge our attitudes. I think we'll just have to wait and hear what he has to say, and play it by ear."

  "Agreed."

  Fifteen minutes late
r the female trooper opened the door and ushered in a youngish-looking man in his mid or late thirties. He was lean, with a full head of razor-cut brown hair and large brown eyes. Elegantly dressed in a three-piece black pinstripe suit, he wore highly polished Gucci shoes that matched his black leather attache case. He looked decidedly uncomfortable as the trooper closed the door behind him, leaving him alone with us.

  I immediately recognized the man as Burton Andrews, a baby-faced troubleshooter whose star had rapidly risen because of his ability to bash state committees into line during the campaign and bash delegates into line during the convention. He had a reputation for single-minded loyalty to Kevin Shannon, and now carried the title of Personal Aide to the President. There was no doubt in my mind that the aide had been dispatched to a trooper substation near Albany to try to bash us into line, regardless of what we had to say, or what we might think.

  Andrews kept switching his attache case from one hand to the other as he glanced back and forth between Garth and me. I suspected he was waiting for me to get up and offer him the swivel chair; he would have a very long wait. Garth had settled down into the second most comfortable chair in the office, and it was obvious that he wasn't moving either. Andrews, a man used to power and its accoutrements, as well as the deference of others, was going to have to sit in a metal folding chair, which he did after a few more moments of case and foot shuffling. He placed both feet flat on the floor, rested the attache case on his knees, and folded his hands on top of the case.

  The presidential aide coughed nervously, cleared his throat. "My name is Burton Andrews. I've… uh, I've heard a great deal about the two of you."

  Garth and I looked at each other, then back at Andrews. We said nothing, but Andrews must have seen something in our faces, because his own face reddened. "Forgive me, gentlemen," he continued. "I know that we have a great deal to discuss, and that you're certainly not in the mood for chitchat. It's just that it's very difficult knowing how or where to begin."

  "Begin by cutting out the bullshit," Garth said in a voice that was a low rumble from his chest. "The first thing we want to know is what your boss has done about that fucking madman Orville Madison. He damn well better be locked up someplace."

  Andrews' face grew even redder, and he began to fumble nervously with the handle of his attache case. "Gentlemen, obviously all of us in the adminstration are aware that we have a serious crisis on our hands. I wouldn't be here otherwise, would I?"

  "Crisis?" Garth said in a voice that I knew was deceptively mild, like the eye of a hurricane."What fucking crisis? We're not talking about any crisis. Are we talking about a crisis, Mongo?"

  "No, Garth, we're not talking about any crisis."

  "Andrews, what have you done about Madison? That's what we're talking about. Try to pay attention."

  "I don't think I care for your tone of voice, Lieutenant," Andrews said to my brother, his own tone slightly petulant.

  "You're not listening, Andrews," I said, waggling my feet at the aide. Slouched in the swivel chair, I could just see over the desk into Andrews' face. I felt shielded from all the power Andrews had brought with him into the room, and I liked it that way; I made no effort to sit up straighter. "Garth's point, which I believe he has been most patient in trying to make, is that we don't care pigshit about the administration's political problems as a result of this business, which is what you mean when you talk about a crisis. A lot of innocent people are dead, and Orville Madison's men, acting under his direct orders, killed them. Since Orville Madison is the president's responsibility, we would like to know what Kevin Shannon is doing about it. In short, we would like to know where Orville Madison is at this moment."

  "I'm not your enemy, Dr. Frederickson," Andrews said in the same slightly petulant tone.

  "We never said you were, Andrews. But you're certainly not our friend, either. You're the president's man, and I think you'd do just about anything to protect him-which leads me to point out that you haven't answered the question. Madison's trying very hard to kill us, you know."

  "This is a very complicated matter, Dr. Frederickson."

  "Answer the question, or you won't get what you came here for."

  "What did I come here for?"

  "To find out exactly how much we know about a number of things, and what we intend to do with the information. Now, can you guarantee our safety?"

  "Yes," Andrews replied curtly. "I might point out that neither of you would be alive at this moment if it weren't for the president."

  "That's who called McGarvey?"

  "I called; the president authorized the call."

  "How did he find out where we were and what was going on?"

  "I think we may be getting ahead of ourselves," Andrews said in a low, strained voice, averting his gaze. "I'm not certain we yet know exactly what's been going on."

  "Bullshit," Garth said evenly.

  I asked, "How did you find out we were here?"

  "We… received word."

  "From whom?"

  "We just received word."

  "You've spoken to Captain McGarvey. You know what's happened here, and you must certainly understand that Orville Madison's men intended to kill us."

  "I understand that the two of you have made a lot of allegations and may be prepared to make more."

  "Allegations," Garth murmured, looking up at the ceiling. "Great word."

  "I can prove those were Orville Madison's men who came to get us," I said to the presidential aide as I swung my feet to the floor, sat up in the chair, and leaned forward on the desk. "I can prove Madison's involvement in thirteen murders, and I can demonstrate his reasons for ordering them to be carried out."

  "Can you, really?" Burton Andrews' eyebrows lifted ever so slightly.

  "Beyond a reasonable doubt, yes-to reasonable men who care about the truth and want to see justice done, regardless of the consequences. I'm not sure you fit into that category, which is why I see no reason for trying to prove it to you; a Senate hearing would be a more proper forum. You have no legal status, Andrews. You're just a high-powered errand boy sent here to assess what measures have to be taken to assure optimum damage control. Maybe we'll help you contain that damage, maybe we won't. We don't like your attitude. We've been through a gauntlet of death and destruction set up by Shannon's secretary of state, and we've watched a lot of good people-men, women, and children-die because of that maniac. Then, a couple of hours after Madison almost kills us, you show up and want to play games. You'd be well advised to play straight with us. Otherwise, Garth and I take a hike-maybe to the newspapers."

  "We should have you negotiating with the Russians, Frederickson," Andrews said wryly.

  "Fuck you. What do you want from us?"

  "You'd go to the newspapers with your so-called proof?"

  "There's nothing 'so-called' about it. Is that what we're doing? Negotiating?"

  "See what I mean? You'd be a tough man to bargain with-if we were bargaining. Tell me what your proof is. Show it to me."

  "First admit that the president knows that Orville Madison is a murderer, and then tell me what's being done about it. Is Madison under arrest?"

  Andrews' answer was to snap open the case in his lap. A vein pulsed in his temple as he took out a sheet of paper, which he did not offer to show to either Garth or me. "Dr. Frederickson," the baby-faced man said stiffly, "you filed a petition under the Freedom of Information Act for certain documents concerning any and all operations in the Viet Nam war under the general code name Archangel. You also requested the 'true and original'-your words-service records of one Veil Kendry. Is that correct?"

  "If you know that, am I to assume that the materials I requested are waiting for me at home in my mailbox?"

  "I would doubt it very much, Frederickson. First of all, it often takes months-sometimes years-to process petitions like yours. In addition, as you may or may not know, the information you request is highly classified. Your petition will eventually be denied."
>
  "Then why bring it up?"

  "Because even a request for such information could make some people question your motives."

  "My motives were to shake up certain people and get their attention; it seems to have worked. In any case, I don't need any of your documents; Garth and I already know all we need to know about Archangel."

  "Do you, really?"

  "Yes. Do you know about Archangel, Andrews?"

  "How did you get mixed up with this man, Veil Kendry?"

  "Am I mixed up with him?"

  "You asked for his service records."

  "He's a friend of mine."

  "What do you know-or think you know-about Kendry?"

  "Let me tell you something about Veil Kendry, Andrews," I said softly. "He is, or was, Archangel, and there are two songs this Archangel sings. One song is of gentle, almost aching beauty; the other is of savagery, violence, and death." I paused, then-curious as to what his reaction might be-raised my right hand and waggled my thumb at him. "You know what I mean?"

  He knew what I meant. The presidential aide's face went pale, and he quickly looked away. For a moment I thought he was going to be sick, but he contented himself with taking a series of deep breaths. It meant that, while the first five thumbs had almost certainly gone to Orville Madison, the last batch, from the commandos in the mountains, had gone directly to the Oval Office along with a detailed report on everything that had happened since the night of the president's speech at the Waldorf, and perhaps with a list of certain demands. It explained the president's quick action in having Andrews call the trooper substation. Veil had saved our lives once again, this time through the mails.