The old man turned to the Chinese on his right, said, “Inspect the bird, Kwok.”
The man called Kwok reached across the desk, opened the cage, and cupped his hand around the bird inside. He removed the bird, gave it a cursory inspection, then abruptly closed his fist, crushing the hua mei into a mass of blood, tiny bones, and feathers that oozed through his thick fingers. He threw the bloody remains back into the cage, wiped his hands on the shroud, then stepped back. “It is from Shanghai,” he said in English, his face impassive as he stared straight ahead, through Veil. “It has not been cared for or trained properly, and it does not sing. It is worthless.”
“I do not do business with foreigners, Mr. Kendry,” the old man said in his soft, wheezy voice. “Leave here now, and be thankful you are still alive to sing your songs.”
Veil stood motionless, his face impassive as he returned the gaze of Chan Fu Ong and considered his options, which appeared to range from few to nonexistent. Attempting to reopen the discussion would be futile, and would only earn him the tong leader’s contempt — which might prove more dangerous than his anger. Both bodyguards had altered their stance slightly and placed their hands behind their backs, presumably gripping the short fighting swords they would be carrying in the sashes of their robes.
He knew that many lives could depend on what he did in the next few seconds. On the eve of an important show at the Whitney Museum he could be plunged into a war with one or more gangs, and that war could easily spill over the boundaries of Chinatown. All of his resources would have to be redirected to defense and attack, and, in view of the numbers that would be sent against him, he would have to begin hunting again, as he had done so long ago. The streets of lower Manhattan could become a killing ground like the ones he had waded through so long ago. He had not come here to atone for personal guilt; in the final analysis, the Pathet Lao had been responsible for what had happened to the Hmong chieftain and his pregnant wife. Prodded by memory, he had come here simply to try to chase a bit of evil from the world and replace it with a bit of good. Now it appeared that could not be done. Killing, or dying, would accomplish nothing; indeed, the woman and child he had come to help could very well end up among the first victims of any conflict that began in this room. It would be a senseless battle, just like so many of the senseless battles he had been a part of so long ago.
Veil turned on his heel and walked out of the room.
Veil dreams.
He completes his journey back to the village, his clothes and flesh torn by the numberless tiny claws of the jungle he has surged through in an attempt to warn the villagers before the Pathet Lao come. But he is too late. Every man, woman, and child in the village has been slaughtered. Both the chieftain and his pregnant wife have been tied to stakes, disemboweled, and beheaded. The woman’s head lies at her feet in a pool of gore that had once been the child growing inside her.
He uses his bare hands and his knife to dig shallow graves for the chieftain and his wife and their unborn baby, then slips back into the jungle to begin a hunt of vengeance that will last six weeks.
There had been no tears in him then, no ability to cry, but his life has changed and he now weeps copiously in his dream as he flies away from the village, high over the jungle, rolls away, and drifts back down into deep sleep.
It was dusk when Veil finished the first panel in the mural that had become his work-in-progress. He framed it, then went into the kitchen area of his loft and took a garbage bag from beneath the sink. He put the painting in the bag, then went out and walked back over to Chinatown.
He was prepared to gain entrance to Chan Fu Ong’s brothel and social club any way he had to, but breaking in proved unnecessary. When he approached the phalanx of Shadow Dragons at the entrance to the building and looked up at the television camera, the door buzzed almost immediately. He entered, walked through the crowded hall that had once more gone absolutely still, and went through the door at the opposite end.
The tableau in the office was the same as it had been the day before, with the two blank-faced, robed bodyguards flanking the old man with the wispy goatee, who sat behind his desk.
“Thank you for seeing me again, Grandfather,” Veil said in a flat tone as he stopped before the desk.
“You have the look of someone who feels he has left something unsaid, Mr. Kendry. This is the last time you will be admitted here, for, in fact, there is nothing left to say.”
“That is unacceptable, Grandfather.”
The old man’s thin lips curled slightly at the corners of his mouth. “Unacceptable? I simply refuse to do business with you.”
“You caused me to lose face.”
Chan Fu Ong laughed scornfully. “Lose face? What do you know about losing face?”
“You killed my bird.”
“It was worthless.”
“Not to me. I was growing quite fond of it; you could say I always root for the underbird. You humiliated me in front of your men. To make up for that you must agree to turn the mother and child over to me.” He paused, took the painting out of the garbage bag, and held it up for the other man to see. “This is what I will give you in exchange for the woman’s contract.”
The tong leader studied the painting, frowned. “A green blob? This is what you call ‘art’?”
“I work on a very large scale — wall-length murals that are comprised of dozens of separate panels that are sold separately. As it so happens, collectors and dealers around the world vie to find and gather together the panels to complete the larger work, like a jigsaw puzzle.”
“An unusual commercial gimmick.”
“The way I work and choose to present it. The ideas often come to me in fragments, in dreams, and so the work is sold in fragments. In time, this painting could be worth more than the thirty-five thousand dollars I originally offered you.”
The old man looked back and forth between his bodyguards, then giggled. “What will the larger work of yours depict, Mr. Kendry?”
“A place I visited many years ago. There was once a village there, but now it is just jungle, completely overgrown. The completed work will be titled ‘Unmarked Graves.’ ”
Chan Fu Ong held out one of his frail hands. “Give it to me. Wing, here, is my art assessor. I will have him evaluate your work as Kwok did your hua mei.”
“I think not. I have already told you its value. You’ll get it when you bring the woman and child to me.”
“I have no interest in Western art.”
“Develop it. If you do not accept this offer, then you will have made an enemy of Archangel. If you do that, your operations in this particular sphere of yours may not continue to run so smoothly. You’ve taken pains to warn me that what happens here may never get the attention of the outside world. Fine. Archangel was always good in the jungle.”
“You are a fool, Mr. Kendry,” the tong leader said in a tight voice. His flesh had gone the color of faded parchment.
“And you are a whoremaster, a slaver with no heart, no soul, and no honor.”
“Kill him!”
Fighting swords suddenly appeared in the hands of both bodyguards. The Chinese raised the swords over their heads and came at Veil from both sides. Veil killed the man on his left, Kwok, first, hurling the throwing knife he carried in a scabbard on his wrist into the man’s throat. In virtually the same motion he spun around to his right, avoiding Wing’s sword thrust. He completed his spin by driving his stiffened fingers into the man’s exposed side, breaking ribs, then gripping the wrist of his sword hand. He broke Wing’s arm at the elbow, then put his forearm under the man’s chin and yanked. The man’s neck snapped with a loud crack.