"If your boss got the thumbs," I continued, "it means he also got a report on what Madison has been up to. What does the president think of his secretary of state now?*
"Please," Andrews said, a pained expression on his face. "He's not going to remain as secretary of state, Frederickson. Certainly, I don't have to tell you that."
"Well, that's the first piece of good news we've had since you walked in here; but it's not that good. What else is going to happen to him? Sending him off to Martha's Vineyard with a fat pension isn't quite going to do the trick. The party's over, and it's time for you to stop playing hide and seek. We've got the goods on Madison, and you know it. Are we going to work together, or not?"
Andrews' pained expression hadn't changed; if anything, it had grown more pained. "Frederickson, surely you're sophisticated enough to know that we-"
"We?"
"The administration. We have to keep our options open. This mess could cause a great deal of trouble for a lot of innocent people."
"You mean it could cause a great deal of trouble for Kevin Shannon."
"Of course it could. But I also include the citizens of the United States of America, and our allies. This matter must be handled with discretion. Kevin Shannon is the president of our country, which makes him a symbol as well as a man."
"Not to us. Shannon's just a man with a big job. If he can't handle it, he shouldn't have run. Or he should resign."
"Have Madison killed," Garth said matter-of-factly. "Blow the son-of-a-bitch away."
They were the first words my brother had spoken in some time; he'd been staring out the window during most of my conversation with Andrews, and I hadn't even been sure he was listening. Now his words hung in the air like dark, soaring birds of prey. I thought it was a rather good suggestion, providing a full and satisfying measure of poetic justice, and I waited to see what Andrews' reaction would be.
"I'll pretend I didn't hear that, Lieutenant," the aide said after a long pause. "Making casual statements like that could get you a long term in a federal prison."
"First of all, you heard me wrong if you thought I was being casual," Garth said in the same flat tone. "Second, you have too many conflicting loyalties and interests for me to give a shit what you do, pal. You don't want this story to come out because it would embarrass your boss, which means you don't want a trial. But I guarantee you that Mongo and I aren't about to let Madison have a pass on this. So, you have him killed. Madison has made a whole career of that type of thing, so there's no reason why the favor shouldn't be returned. If you don't want to bite that bullet, hand him over to me; I'll do the job for you."
"Well, Lieutenant, let's look at some alternatives. What if I were to assure you that-"
"You can't assure us of anything, Andrews," I interrupted. "You have to do something. We couldn't negotiate with you over what to do with Madison, even if we wanted to. We're not the final arbiters of his fate. There's still an avenging Archangel out there, remember? And he'll stay out until this business is taken care of to his satisfaction, not ours. Garth's suggestion is a good one."
"Please don't mention the possibility of killing anyone again," the aide said tightly.
"What the hell was Kevin Shannon thinking of when he nominated this guy?" I asked.
"I'm really not at liberty to discuss the president or his decisions."
"Does Madison have something on him?"
Andrews stiffened. "President Shannon is his own man."
"That would make him a unique politician. Did he know about Madison's involvement in Operation Archangel before he nominated him?"
Andrews frowned. "You really do know about the Archangel plan, don't you?"
"You're damn right, I do. Want me to go through it with you?"
"No," Andrews said after a pause. "I believe you. Frankly, I've just found out the details. That, along with the statement Veil Kendry submitted to the president, was my reading material on the flight here. The Archangel plan may have been tacky, but I don't really see anything sinister in it."
"That's your opinion. But the Archangel plan itself really isn't the point, is it? It's the sequence of events that led up to Veil's defection, and then what happened after the plan fell apart; it's the death sentence Orville Madison personally imposed on Veil, and his subsequent attempt to carry it out on the eve of his nomination; it's all the carnage that's resulted from Madison's botching the assassination and then striking out in all directions in a panic because of his fear of both Veil and the truth coming out. The issue here is the punishment'of a murderer. We're not saying that the president should have known about, or even guessed at, the dark side of Madison's character. Paranoid schizophrenics are usually intelligent, and they're very good at concealing their illness, especially from powerful people the paranoid schizophrenic thinks can help him."
"Oh? You're a psychiatrist in addition to all your other accomplishments, Dr. Frederickson?"
"No, Andrews, but I do happen to be a recognized authority on paranoid schizophrenia. Check it out."
"I'll take your word for it," Andrews replied dryly.
"Another characteristic of paranoid schizophrenics is that they never know enough to quit while they're ahead. Also, they love to gloat in victory over their enemies-real or imagined. Orville Madison blew it all when he decided to celebrate his nomination to one of the most powerful positions in the world by making good on a threat he'd made almost twenty years before. In effect, he engineered his own destruction. Now bury him."
"Perhaps we're trying to. But what we know, or suspect, may be very difficult to prove in a court of law. And for you two to start making what some might call wild accusations could only make matters worse. Do you see what I mean?"
"I see that you're a slippery son-of-a-bitch," Garth said. "You know we're telling the truth."
"Not the point, Lieutenant," Andrews replied without looking at Garth. "There's still not a shred of physical evidence linking Orville Madison to your troubles. There is only your word, and Veil Kendry's statement. Bear in mind that most people would brand Veil Kendry as a madman for the things he's done."
"Whatever he's done, Andrews, the fact is that he's given your boss ample time to clean his own house. Veil's already been betrayed once by this country. Now he has, in effect, done the work of Congress and the administration by exposing Madison for what he is. If you don't act against Madison, you'll be betraying Veil again."
"That's preposterous, Frederickson. You can't even link Madison to this Archangel plan, let alone to Veil Kendry. All the people you talked to who were supposed eyewitnesses to the events Kendry describes are dead."
"Killed by Madison."
"Proof, Frederickson. Where's the proof?"
"Damn it, there are records. The government has them. What the hell were you reading on the plane?"
"What I read on the plane was a brief overview of the Archangel plan, and its objectives. There were no names, no dates. The actual records are classified. As I'm sure you're aware, you can't cite classified records for reasons to subpoena classified records. You must have other evidence which the classified material may amplify."
"Find a man by the name of Lester Bean. He was a lieutenant general in the war, and he was Veil's C.O. He'll testify to the link between Orville Madison and Veil Kendry."
"Bean's name was mentioned in Kendry's statement. I made some inquiries before I came here to see you. Bean is in retirement, and nobody seems to know where he is."
Which might or might not be the truth. It didn't make any difference; the clear message was that we were not going to get any help from the administration. Dealing with Burton Andrews was growing tiresome and depressing.
"Veil Kendry was the Archangel plan, Andrews."
"Proof, Frederickson."
"What does Madison have to say about all this?"
Andrews shrugged. "What would you expect him to say? He claims to vaguely remember a plan for a minor public relations project that was eventually
aborted, but that's all. He denies knowing anybody by the name of Veil Kendry, and says he was never involved in anything called Operation Archangel."
"You believe that?"
"What you and your brother, the president or I, believe — or even know to be true-is irrelevant. Bear in mind that Mr. Madison has occupied the highest echelons of power for a very long time and has had almost unlimited access to the files you keep talking about. I wouldn't be a bit surprised if all those files have been tampered with, altered; otherwise, he would have made up some kind of a cover story instead of simply denying everything."
"Your point is well taken," I said quietly.
"You said you had proof of these allegations, but it's become obvious to me that you're bluffing. Still, proof or no proof, we're left with a most serious problem which must be dealt with. It's why I've given you the assurance that Orville Madison will soon be resigning as secretary of state. Considering our position, that may be the most we can hope for. It's going to be a very delicate thing-the almost immediate resignation of a newly appointed secretary of state-to handle with the news media, and we would like your assurance that neither of you will be feeding the media sensational stories that could have serious repercussions on everything from the value of the dollar to our relations with our allies-not to mention the morale of our citizens. Will I be able to give the president that assurance, gentlemen?"
"Forcing Madison out of office isn't enough, Andrews," I said, wearily shaking my head. "Not nearly enough."
"Personally, the president and I might well agree with you. But even if it were in everybody's interests to do so, you couldn't go into a court of law with what you have-which is nothing."
"It won't be nearly enough for Veil Kendry, Andrews."
"But he's not here, is he?"
"He's out there someplace, very close by, waiting to see what happens. If he doesn't like what he sees, I'm sure he'll kill Orville Madison himself."
"So be it," Andrews said with a kind of verbal shrug. "But if and when this Veil Kendry ever shows his face, he's going to have plenty of his own problems to deal with. The statement he sent to the president amounts to a signed confession to murder. The man's a self-confessed multiple murderer-and a barbaric one, at that. He admits to killing two men in New York City, three in Seattle, and six up in the mountains."
"Veil killed the killers Madison sent. Madison is responsible for the deaths of five people in New York, and six in Seattle."
"But Mr. Madison hasn't submitted a signed confession, has he? I'd say Mr. Kendry is finished."
Andrews was probably right, I thought; Veil would be destroyed. Even if Veil killed him, Orville Madison would still have defeated Veil Kendry. And the Frederickson brothers. I'd been beaten, burned, and jerked around a lot, but as things now stood it would all have been for nothing; Veil could have gone after Madison from day one, without involving me. I wasn't earning my ten thousand dollars.
Andrews nervously cleared his throat, continued: "We both agree that you can't negotiate for Veil Kendry, Dr. Frederickson. What about negotiating for yourselves?"
"Meaning what, Andrews?"
"It's my understanding that the two of you now have some legal difficulties of your own. Even if you manage to get these problems behind you, it's quite possible that your careers could suffer irreparable damage. On the other hand, if you and the lieutenant could be counted on to continue to exercise the caution and discretion you have so admirably displayed up to this point, I wouldn't be surprised if ways could be found to extricate you from this situation without penalty so that you can get on with your careers and your lives."
A curious offer, spoken, combined with a clear threat, unspoken, of lots and lots of additional problems if we didn't go along quietly. I had a serious urge to get up, walk around the desk, and punch the other man. Instead, I said: "I wasn't bluffing before, Andrews. I can prove a solid, very personal connection between Orville Madison and Veil Kendry."
"Oh, really? And how will you do that?"
I pressed the call button on the captain's desk intercom.
"What is it, Frederickson?" It was McGarvey himself, and he sounded a bit bemused. His trooper had obviously told him that I was sitting at his desk.
"Captain, would you be kind enough to bring in my backpack? It's the smaller, brown one."
"I know which one it is, Frederickson." Suddenly the captain's voice sounded strained, unnatural.
The three of us sat in silence, waiting. Five minutes later, McGarvey entered the office carrying my backpack. The burly trooper captain looked decidedly uncomfortable; his face was set in a kind of stiff mask as he walked across the room and set the backpack down on the desk in front of me. "Here you are, Frederickson," he said in a flat voice, and immediately turned away.
"Stay, if you will, Captain," I said as I repositioned the pack and snapped open the top. "I'd like you to witness this."
I dug my hand into the pack, pushed it down through dirty clothes into the middle of my bedroll, where I had stuffed the yellow oilskin packet. "Captain," I continued, "I have something here that I want you and Mr. Andrews to see. It's something that Veil Kendry had a friend bury for him up in the mountains a lot of years ago; a good forensic chemist will be able to tell us exactly how many. It will prove a link between Kendry and Madison that goes back to the war. Andrews, at the very least it will prove that Madison is lying through his teeth when he denies knowing Veil."
Wriggling my fingers, I continued to search for the feel of the oilskin, but found nothing where I thought I had put it. Fighting a growing sense of panic, I upended the pack and spread the contents out over the surface of the desk. I sifted through the dirty clothes, unrolled the sleeping bag. The packet was not there.
"There was a small package sealed in yellow oilskin inside this backpack," I said to McGarvey as I walked around the desk to stand directly in front of him. "I know it was there when you brought us in. What the hell did you do with it?"
McGarvey said nothing, but he did not avert his eyes. There was a curious expression on his face, a mixture of sympathy, embarrassment, and not a little anger. He was a man of integrity and honor, his eyes and expression said, but there was only so much he could do for us. He'd already bent far under heavy pressure once, but he was afraid he would be broken if he tried to do it this time; he could not buck the wishes-or actions-of an official presidential emissary, especially when, as had almost certainly happened, the spectral issue of national security had been raised.
Burton Andrews had been allowed to search our belongings. He had found the packet, opened it, and examined its contents. Whatever had been in the packet must have proved all I'd said it would, because the presidential aide had felt compelled to steal it.
"Dirty pool, Andrews," I said, turning to the baby-faced man with the large brown eyes who was sitting stiffly in his chair, steadfastly staring out the window. His hands were clenched tightly together on top of his briefcase. "Tough bargaining is one thing, but stealing and concealing crucial evidence in a series of crimes including murder is something else again. Now, you get your skinny ass out to the car and bring that packet back in here so that Captain McGarvey can see what's in it."
Andrews didn't move. Garth did. Deliberately, with disarming casualness, my brother rose from his chair and walked over to where the presidential aide was sitting. Sensing Garth's presence, Andrews turned his head back just in time to catch the full force of Garth's fist smashing into his face. Andrews' head snapped back as a crimson geyser of blood spewed from his shattered nose. Andrews and his chair flipped over backwards, while his attache case and the papers it contained went flying through the air.
"My brother almost died getting that package," Garth said to the fallen man in a voice that was all the more chilling for its lack of passion, its cool, measured tone. "Maybe you should die for taking it away from him."
McGarvey and I reached Garth at about the same time, and while the trooper wrapped his arm around Garth'
s neck in a choke hold I went for my brother's legs, trying to trip him up. But an aroused Garth is something-or not something-to see. My brother swatted me to one side and, with McGarvey lifted off the floor and hanging on his back, bent over and cocked his fist in preparation for another blow that would really put Andrews' lights out, and possibly even kill him. I wished McGarvey would hit Garth over the head with his gun butt, but it was very obvious where the trooper's sympathies lay, and it was too late for that anyway.
"Garth, stop it!" I screamed as I pulled at my brother's belt. "Don't hit him again! You'll kill him! It doesn't make any difference that he took the packet! I know what's in it! Nothing is lost!"
Garth's fist stopped in midair, and his arm dropped back to his side. McGarvey took his arm away from Garth's throat, stepped back and-like my brother-stared at me quizzically.
"You do?" Garth asked softly.
I looked down at Andrews. The presidential aide was holding both hands cupped over his broken nose, but in his eyes, plainer than either shock or pain, was the same question.
"I do," I said defiantly, staring hard at Andrews. "After the Operation Archangel abort and Veil's banishment from the army by Madison, he eventually learned to control his madness through painting. From the beginning, Veil's style and technique had been to compose massive, realistic murals comprised of smaller, surrealistic canvases that appeared abstract when viewed singly. I've seen many of those murals myself-surreal landscapes, peaceful, and without people. But I realize now that his work wasn't always like that. When he first started, his style- but not his technique-was different.
"When I spoke to Viktor Raskolnikov, Veil's dealer, he told me that Veil's style had been different when he first started to paint; the colors were richer, more vivid, and many of the shapes in the individual canvases more pronounced. Those first shapes were fragments of portraits of people, and the subject of his first mural, or murals, was the story of what had happened to him-his assignment in Laos, his conflicts with Orville Madison, his replacement by Colonel Po, the Archangel plan, the incident with the pimp in Saigon, his defection, and, finally, his banishment and the sentence of death imposed by his ex-C.I.A. controller. All of it was included in his first work, in fine detail. You can bet that Orville Madison's face is all over the place, along with Colonel Po's, and Veil's.
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