Two Songs This Archangel Sings

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 later 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.

"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.

"What had happened to him had to have been eating up Veil inside, but he couldn't talk about it to anyone. What he did was to paint it, after almost self-destructing, and that got it out of his system. Eventually he began to sell his work, but before he sold any painting he would photograph it, number the photograph, and probably record the name of the person or institution that had purchased the painting. The packet contained a photographic record-probably slides-of all the Archangel paintings, along with a number key for putting all the individual canvases back into their original sequence to form the larger mural. There would also be a list of people and museums that had the paintings. In fact, I had number one, the very first painting in the first sequence. I had it hanging on my bedroom wall, but it was lost in the fire that Madison's men started when they tried to kill me. But the rest of the paintings still exist, scattered all over the country." I paused, smiled thinly at Andrews. "How am I doing, you amoral son-of-a-bitch?"

Andrews, dripping blood all over the front of his shirt and vest, rolled over on his side, took a handkerchief from his pocket, and pressed it to his nose. "How could you know?" he said, defeat in his voice as well as his body. "The package was sealed."

McGarvey's breath came out of him in a small explosion, and the big trooper reached over and gripped my shoulder. "Goddamn," he said, a huge grin on his face.

"I'm tired of you, sleazeball," I said, leaning over Andrews and fairly spitting the words at him. "I'm also tired of your sleazeball boss, the president of the United States. I can't believe I voted for the bastard. Damn, you're small men."

"Frederickson, listen-"

"Shut up. I've already listened to everything I want to hear from you, or anybody else in this administration. All the people Madison has killed and the lives he's destroyed… and you treat us like criminals. You didn't think that Garth and I were concerned over the impact this information might have?! You didn't think Veil was concerned?! Yet, you would have destroyed Veil Kendry and us, and sent Madison into a cushy retirement someplace, just so that your administration wouldn't be embarrassed. You helped to save our lives, and we appreciate that, but it's not enough; nothing you seem able to do or propose is enough. Too many other people have died at the hands of your secretary of state. All we ever wanted and want, all Veil wants, is justice. You knew what we'd been through, and still you couldn't come here and deal with us in good faith." I paused, sucked in a deep breath to try to tamp down my rage, turned to McGarvey. "Are Garth and I free to go, Captain?"

"You certainly are, Frederickson. The sergeant out at the front desk has your guns. Tell me where you want to go; one of my men will drive you, or we'll get you plane tickets-courtesy of New York State, of course."

Garth walked over to me, put his arm around my shoulders, and gave me an appreciative pat. "Is it the Times or the Post, brother?"

"Let's start with the New York Times. Captain, may we use your telephone?"

"Certainly," McGarvey said, picking up the telephone on his desk and moving it to the edge closest to me.

"I know a few reporters on the Times, Andrews, and I'm going to begin by talking to one on the phone; that's just in case something happens to us after we leave here. Once the story gets going, our deaths won't make a difference; the reporters will have Veil's paintings to look for and piece together to verify that story. You may have the sequence key and catalog of owners, but that's fine. Keep them. Even if you've destroyed them it won't make a difference. Viktor Raskolnikov has slides of every painting Veil has ever sold; with his eye, sorting out the early slides and piecing them together into the Archangel mural or murals shouldn't be too great a trick. Raskolnikov also has a list of the original owners, so reporters across the country will not only know what to look for, but where to look. It won't prove Madison's a murderer, but it will make a great story, and it will reveal what kind of a man Madison really is. That may be all we can hope for. Then, when Veil kills him, at least people will know why. It will be a great media event-an entire nation, through newspapers and television, putting together one huge jigsaw puzzle with themes of treachery, betrayal, and death by Kevin Shannon's secretary of state. Every time another piece of that puzzle is found, a big, bloody chunk of this administration goes down the toilet. And, who knows? Maybe, as the process goes on, something will be found to prove that Madison's a murderer, and Veil won't have to do your dirty work for you. It's certainly going to be interesting, don't you think?"

Andrews looked up at me, fear in his eyes. "If you do this, Frederickson, you'll be a traitor," he said hoarsely. "The damage you'll do to this country will be unimaginable."

"Bullshit. The damage we'll do to the Shannon administration will be unimaginable, but you're the one, acting on orders from Shannon, who decided he wanted to play what you politicians love to call hardball. People like you and your boss are the ones who do unimaginable damage to this country when you lie, and when you use your power to twist or circumvent laws for your own convenience. You have no soul. This country doesn't need sleazeballs like you in power. The bad taste this story leaves in people's mouths will be more than offset by the tale of one unbelievably courageous man, a fierce patriot and the greatest soldier this country has ever produced, fighting against impossible odds, not only with his combat skills, but with his art. And he wins when the truth finally comes out. The image Veil projects will be what Americans are attracted to, and what they will identify with. Your whole sleazy crew will soon be forgotten, but not Archangel. Maybe Veil will give Americans new respect for themselves, and help us finally to get the Viet Nam war behind us once and for all. In fact, I think it might be jolly good fun if we dubbed this whole process Operation Son of Archangel. You like that idea, Mr. Andrews?"

Garth smiled crookedly, said: "I like it, Mongo."

McGarvey said: "I don't understand half of what the hell you're talking about, but I like it too."

Andrews said: "Captain, I need to use your phone."

"Just as long as you call collect, creep," McGarvey said, then turned and walked to the door. "I'll get a medical kit for His Highness."

Garth and I followed McGarvey out of the office, and I closed the door behind us. Five minutes later the door opened and Andrews, his face still covered with his bloody handkerchief and fear in his eyes, stood and stared at us for some time without speaking. McGarvey, Garth, and I stared back.

"Would you two come with me, please?" Andrews said at last.

"Sure," I replied. "Right after I make my call to my reporter friend. I'm a little anxious to get Son of Archangel rolling."

"Please, Frederickson; no calls yet. You've won, and you are in a position to destroy this administration. I… mishandled this situation badly. Perhaps you'll be more gracious than I was, and give this administration and this country just a bit more time."

"Give me back the package of slides, the list of owners, and the sequence key. We'll give it all to Captain McGarvey for safekeeping."

Andrews lowered his eyes. "I'm sorry. I destroyed the package after I saw what it contained."

"He's telling the truth," McGarvey said, the disgust in his voice directed at himself as well as Andrews. "He had me start a fire in a trash can in the back. For your information, it looked like there were four pieces of paper along with the slides. One had names and numbers on it, and the other three looked like sketches."

I grunted. "Three murals to piece together."

"There are still the slides belonging to the art dealer," Andrews said. "You have nothing to lose by holding off just a little longer. Will you come with me? There's a plane waiting for us at Albany Airport."

"Where are we going?"

"Washington. The president of the United States would very much like to speak to the two of you."