23.
Mr. Lippitt arranged for Garth to be taken to the C.I.A.’s psychiatric clinic on the agency’s grounds at Langley, Virginia. It was, Lippitt had assured me, not only the most secret but the best facility in the country for psychiatric diagnosis and short-term care. Garth’s ending up in a C.I.A. psychiatric clinic was a bitter irony I did not care to dwell on.
Indeed, I did not care to dwell on much of anything. As much as possible, I tried to keep my mind a blank as, hour after hour, I sat beside my brother’s bed and stared at his unseeing eyes staring at the beige ceiling. Doctors came and went, Garth was wheeled out for tests and brought back, and still I sat, lost in my own dark world of despair, remorse, and self-recrimination. Finally I fell asleep in my chair, and when I awoke I found Veil and Lippitt in the room.
Lippitt, a physician himself, was studying the thick ream of charts and test reports secured to a clipboard tied to the railing at the foot of Garth’s bed. Veil, his injured right arm in a sling, saw that I was awake, offered me a thermos filled with hot coffee. I nodded my thanks, poured myself a cup.
“I’ve got a pint of Irish Mist hidden up my sling, Mongo. You want some?”
I shook my head. “How’s your arm?”
“I was lucky; the collarbone’s cracked, but not broken. It should heal fairly quickly.” He nodded toward Garth. “No change?”
“No change.”
“Does he show any signs of recognizing you, or hearing anything anybody says?”
“See for yourself,” I said, trying to keep the bitterness I felt out of my voice. “He reminds me of your loft; the lights are on, but there’s nobody home. It’s just a shell, fed and drained by tubes. He told me he was dying.”
“He’s not,” Lippitt said as he circled something on one of the sheets with a red felt-tip pen, then turned the page. “But it’s understandable that he thought so.”
“What does that mean, Lippitt? What’s the matter with him?”
“Just give me a chance to finish checking these,” the Director of the Defense Intelligence Agency said, holding up one hand.
“Sorry about your arm,” I said to Veil.
“I’m sorry for what’s happened, Mongo. I feel responsible.”
“No, I’m responsible. Garth and I went through some bad times a couple of years ago, and I guess Garth just never recovered from it. He came out not caring about anything but me; all my life, from the time I was a child, Garth was my protector. It’s why … what happened happened. I should have paid more attention to certain symptoms.”
Veil reached out and gripped my shoulder. “I don’t know how to thank you, Mongo. If you ever need me, I’ll be there.”
“I know that, and it wasn’t necessary to tell me. Incidentally, I think you might want to move out of your loft and lie low for a while, at least until your shoulder heals.”
Veil raised his eyebrows slightly. “Why?”
“You could have a ninja biding his time, waiting to off you. His name is Henry Kitten, and he’s the real McCoy. The man has talent.”
Veil shrugged his good shoulder. “Never heard of him, and word of real talent usually gets around to me sooner or later.”
I told Veil about Henry Kitten, the incident in the Fort Lee Historical Park, what the pale-eyed ninja had told me. Veil listened with keen interest, but absolutely no sign of concern.
“I hope he got some money up front,” Veil said with a thin smile when I had finished.
“He did; all of it. But—”
“Then he’s long gone, Mongo. Don’t worry about it.”
“But—”
“Mongo,” Lippitt said, abruptly dropping the chart on its connecting cord, turning and walking toward me, “with your permission, I’d like to place Garth in the Rockland Psychiatric Center, up in Rockland County. All expenses will be covered by the D.I.A.”
“No thanks, Lippitt,” I replied curtly, offended when I knew I shouldn’t be. “Garth has good insurance coverage; what that doesn’t cover, I’ll pay for. It’s because of me that he’s here, so I’ll damn well take care of him until … I’ll just damn well take care of him.”
“I don’t care for the self-pity in your voice, Mongo,” Lippitt said with an impatient shake of his head. “It’s most unbecoming in a man with your courage and usual good sense; there are better ways to spend your wits and emotions. I heard what you said to the colonel a few minutes ago about Garth’s never recovering from the unfortunate events in which we were involved. Interesting. You and I seem to have bounced back quite nicely. Do you consider Garth the weakest of the three of us?”
“I didn’t say that, Lippitt, and I don’t appreciate your putting words in my mouth or thoughts in my head. But I’m looking at my brother. You look at him. If it weren’t for me, he wouldn’t be here.”
“If it weren’t for your willingness to help Colonel Kendry, I’m quite sure that your brother would be dead right now. This Archangel business saved his life. Now, it’s up to the doctors—and perhaps you and me—to save his mind.”
I could think of nothing to say, so I said nothing; I simply sat and, with Veil, stared dumbfounded at the old man. Lippitt sat down on the edge of the bed, took Garth’s limp hand in his. When he spoke again, all traces of harshness were gone from his voice.
“Have you ever heard of a chemical called nitrophenylpentadienal?” Mr. Lippitt continued quietly, looking inquiringly back and forth between Veil and me.
Veil immediately shook his head. I thought about it for some time, thinking the name sounded familiar, and finally found the answer in memories of a brief flurry of newspaper articles that had appeared in connection with the expulsion of a number of exposed K.G.B. agents from the United States.
“Spy dust,” I said.
Lippitt nodded. “Right. NPPD, so-called spy dust, is a rather unusual chemical in that it has extreme tenacity when bonded to human flesh; once picked up from an object, it will remain on a person for a very long period of time, through repeated washings, and will in turn leave traces on any object the person touches.” Lippitt paused, smiled thinly. “It’s the Silly Putty of the spy trade, great fun to play with. Even infinitesimal traces will show up under fluoroscopic light, so it’s a very useful chemical for keeping track of the movements of certain people whose movements you want to keep track of. The C.I.A. uses it, the K.G.B. uses it, we use it—and we all deny it, because the long-term health effects of the drug aren’t known.
“In fact, aside from its tenacity in clinging to human flesh, very little is known about NPPD. You won’t even find it listed in any standard chemical reference book. Virtually all information to date about NPPD has been discovered by government scientists, and that information is classified. Would either of you care to venture a guess as to why it’s classified?”
“Because they really haven’t found out that much,” Veil replied dryly. “In government circles, incomplete information usually ends up classified information.”
“Correct, Colonel. Now, Mongo, there are certain laboratories around the country, staffed by government scientists, authorized to produce and conduct research on NPPD. They are trying to determine whether the chemical can be absorbed through the skin and, if so, what its short- and long-term effects might be.”
“The case of industrial espionage Garth was working on,” I said, looking at my brother’s still form and feeling short of breath.
“That’s right,” Mr. Lippitt said. “Somebody was—is—stealing secrets from such a laboratory in New York City. Although neither the NYPD nor Garth was aware of it at the time, I was the one who arranged for Garth to be assigned to that case, precisely because I had such faith in his honesty and his ability to get the job done. I wasn’t aware that he’d been transferred, or why, until your calls started coming in. We believe he was being slowly poisoned, and the only thing that saved his life was being transferred away from whoever was poisoning him. However …” Lippitt finished by holding up Garth’s lifeless hand.
“Presumably. But more tests have to be made. That’s why we want him at RPC; they’re the best, and we do have a secret affiliation with a highly specialized clinic there. He’ll receive the best possible care, and you’ll have unlimited access to him; Rockland County isn’t that far away. Also, I will personally make certain you are kept up to date on all developments concerning his condition.” Lippitt paused, turned to Veil. “What I’ve just discussed is strictly between us, Colonel.”
“Of course, sir,” Veil said evenly. “And both of you will know where to find me in case I’m needed.”
There was a large lump in my throat; I swallowed hard, but it wouldn’t go away. “Thanks, Lippitt. Thanks for what you just told me, and … just thanks.”
“You’re quite welcome,” Lippitt said, putting Garth’s hand back beneath the sheet. The old man rose, gently squeezed my shoulders. “Now, no more self-indulgence; no self-blame. All right?”
“All right.”
“Let me take you to a hotel. There’s nothing more to be done here.”
I shook my head. “Thanks, Lippitt, but I’d like to stay just a bit longer.”
“Just let me know when you’re ready to leave. A car will take you to the airport, and the driver will have a ticket for you. We’ll transfer Garth to RPC as soon as you sign authorization papers.”
“Have somebody bring in the papers. I’ll sign them now.”
“You want company, Mongo?” Veil asked.
“No, thanks. I’ll see you back in New York.”
Veil and Lippitt were almost out the door when, drifting up from the psychological rubble in my own mind left by Garth’s breakdown, I suddenly remembered another small matter that would have definite impact on all our futures. “Hey!” I called after the men. “What’s being done about Madison?!”
Veil and Lippitt turned back, and it seemed to me that there was just a trace of a smile on both men’s faces. “Done?” Lippitt said. “Just what is it you think should be ‘done’ about the secretary of state?”
“Come on, Lippitt. What’s been going on? How are the newspapers treating the whole thing?”
“Colonel, have you seen anything in the newspapers about Mr. Madison?”
Veil shook his head. “I haven’t seen anything in the papers, but I believe the White House issued some kind of statment to the effect that he’d planned to take a short vacation. I think he’s off on a hunting trip.”
“Jesus, you’ll never get away with it,” I said. “You’ve got five senators, a United States marshal, two legal aides, and a stenographer who saw Garth blow out Madison’s brains.”
“Ah, yes,” Lippitt said mildly. “Five old politicians worried about their place in state and national history, two young men who’d very much like to work for the D.I.A., and two career civil servants.”
“You’ll still never get away with it.”
“No?” The old man’s lips pulled back slightly in what was, for him, the equivalent of a broad grin. “Obviously, you’re not one of those people who believe in conspiracy theories of history.”
24.
The Rockland Psychiatric Center, located in Orangeburg, New York, was a small city, complete with its own police and fire departments. As I drove back out through its tree-lined streets after seeing Garth settled in and conferring with his doctors, it struck me that the vast complex more closely resembled a college campus than a mental health facility—except, of course, for the thick steel bars on the windows of many of the buildings and the vacant stares of many of the patients wandering about the grounds on the arms of nurses or volunteers.
I wondered if I would ever again see my brother up and walking around.
As I neared the eastern exit from the complex, I caught a glimpse of a separate, newer complex of buildings off a hundred yards to my left. There were swings, a baseball field. It would, I thought, be the Children’s Hospital, a separate facility where Veil would have been treated when he was here, if it had existed.
Veil’s service record had been corrected, and all of his honors restored to him.
A much chastened and humbled Kevin Shannon had issued an invitation to me—through Mr. Lippitt, of course, who had undoubtedly planted the notion in the man’s head—to come to the White House to receive a personal apology. I’d declined. Lippitt had told me he thought Shannon could turn out to be a fine president. I didn’t care what he turned out to be.
My P.I. license had been restored, along with my carry permits, and all pending criminal charges against me had been dropped.
The university had likewise dropped its charges against me and had offered me a hefty raise. In my letter of resignation to my ex-department head, I had suggested that she consult with Kevin Shannon as to what she could do with my raise. I didn’t feel like teaching anymore, couldn’t see the point. After what I considered the university’s betrayal of me, I felt I had nothing left to teach anyone that was of any value—at least nothing that would be accepted in a curriculum guide.
From now on, I thought, my life belonged to my brother.
But first, there was another bit of business to be taken care of before I could consider the Archangel affair over. I was not nearly as sanguine as Veil concerning the threat posed by Henry Kitten; indeed, it had occurred to me that Veil might know a great deal about Henry Kitten and had professed ignorance and indifference simply to keep me out of further harm’s way. In any case, I considered Henry Kitten to be nothing less than a walking, talking doomsday machine. The sudden death of his employer would make no difference at all to the assassin, who had made it clear to me that he took great pride in his work, played for an international audience of potential future employers, and always finished an assignment. There was no doubt in my mind that Henry Kitten would keep coming until either he or Veil was dead. I planned to do all I could to see that it was Henry Kitten who ended up dead. Veil, with his injured arm, would certainly need help.
It was dark by the time I reached the East Village, and the streets were crowded with people of all ages, types, colors, and dress out enjoying an unusually balmy early spring evening.
The crowds thinned out and finally disappeared by the time I reached Veil’s street. I parked my car in front of his loft, smiled when I looked up and saw the white light spilling out all the windows; injured arm or not, Veil was back to work, painting. It would be interesting, I thought, to see what changes, if any, would now show up in his style.
And then the lights in the loft, and all along the block, winked out. The rest of the neighborhood appeared to be unaffected, and I could see the lights of the skyscrapers in midtown continuing to glow, but I was left sitting in a car in the middle of a rectangular piece of unrelieved night. I quickly ducked down behind the dashboard and drew out my Beretta. I pushed open the door on the passenger’s side and sucked in a deep breath. Then I rolled out of the car and, keeping low, sprinted across the sidewalk toward the steel door below Veil’s loft, which I somehow knew would be open.
Turn the page to continue reading from the Mongo Series
1.
I was on an errand to help an injured friend who scoffed at my insistence that he was in great danger from a pale-eyed, monstrous ninja who could do just about everything but walk on water, and who was working for a dead man. I hoped I wasn’t too late.
It was dark by the time I reached the East Village, and the streets were crowded with people of all ages, types, colors, and dress strolling about and enjoying an unusually balmy early spring evening in New York City.
The crowds gradually thinned out, and the streets were deserted by the time I reached the deteriorating, desolate block where Veil Kendry lived. I parked my Volkswagen in front of the otherwise gutted factory building housing his loft, smiled when I looked up and saw the bone-white mercury vapor light spilling out of all the windows; despite the fact that he had his right arm i
n a sling, Veil was back to work, painting. I wondered what changes, if any, would now show up in his work after months of subtly hunting, and being hunted by, Orville Madison, Veil’s ex-C.I.A. controller and United States secretary of state, recently appointed and confirmed, and even more recently deceased when my brother had blown his brains out.
The feud between Veil and Orville Madison had extended over two decades, its poisonous seeds having been planted during the war in Southeast Asia. Madison, who had always hated anyone whose spirit he could not crush, had particularly hated Veil, who—on a good day, in the best of moods—had been unpredictable, supremely contemptuous of authority, and prone to unexpected violence. Destroying Veil became an obsession to Madison, and he had finally struck at the man whose code name was Archangel with a plan marked by stunning deviousness, subtlety, and cruelty. Veil, when he realized just what it was Madison intended to do, had struck back with stunning directness and brutality.
My friend had prevailed, inasmuch as he had thwarted Madison’s plans for him and the Hmong people he had fought with for years, but there had been a heavy price to pay. In the course of his duel with Madison, Veil had been forced to betray his countrymen in order to save a Hmong village from destruction. Veil had been stripped of all his honors, and his service records altered to erase most traces of his military career and make it appear that he had been discharged from the army because he was a psychotic. Madison, convinced that Veil would self-destruct in civilian life, had nonetheless added an unusual, and secret, punishment of his own: an indeterminate sentence of death. The day Archangel ever experienced true happiness or peace, Madison told Veil, would be the day Archangel died.
But Veil had not self-destructed. He had found sanctuary from his private, savage demons in art. And Orville Madison had gone on to bigger and better things in government.
Two Songs This Archangel Sings Page 30