Two Songs This Archangel Sings

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.

"NPPD?" I asked, still feeling short of breath and having difficulty absorbing what Lippitt was telling me.

"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 statement 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."