"Did you explain to him that the Nal-toon had to stay where it was?"
"Of course. I even lied to him—something I'd never done—and told him that we might be able to get the Nal-toon the next day. I was in a no-win situation, and I decided that the only way to keep him from hurting himself, or someone else, was to take him to the gallery so he could see for himself that his god was safe. It was a terrible mistake, obviously, and one I'll pay for, for the rest of my life. Because of me, a man is dead."
"No, not because of you. A properly trained guard never . would have fired his gun in that situation. It seems clear that all your friend wanted was the idol; he threw the spear only after he was attacked."
"Still . . ."
"It's not difficult to understand why you felt you had to do what you did. I can also understand Toby's feelings, if not his behavior. Doped-up or not, he must have had some realization of how futile it would be to try to steal the statue and run away like he did. He got incredibly lucky twice; he wasn't squashed on Fifth Avenue, and Central
Park happened to be across the street. What on earth did he think he was going to accomplish?"
Reyna was silent for some time. When she did speak, it was not to respond to Veil's question. "There are no villains in this, only victims."
"Reyna, I know that you're physically and emotionally exhausted. I don't want to butt into your business, but I'd think that you'd want to be around when they bring your friend out of the park. I know the police would certainly appreciate it. Toby will be terrified and terribly alone without you; you, at least, can talk to him. Indeed, you're the only person in the city who can talk to him."
"There's no need, Veil," Reyna said distantly. "Not tonight."
"I don't understand."
Reyna put the keys in the ignition and turned it on. Then she turned on the radio. It took a few minutes for the news sequence about the stolen idol to be repeated, but when it was, there was nothing new to report: The K'ung warrior-prince had not yet been captured.
"Nobody goes to ground like a K'ung," Reyna said simply as she turned off the radio, removed the keys from the ignition, and put them in her purse. Then she got out of the car.
Veil got out, walked around the car, and started up the sidewalk after the woman. Reyna turned and waited for him. She was trembling slightly, but her voice was steady.
"Thank you again, Veil—for the ride, and for your understanding."
"Are you sure you're all right?"
Reyna nodded, then dropped her gaze and suddenly began to tremble. "Veil, there's something I have to say to you."
Veil reached out to grip Reyna's shoulders, but the woman shook her head and moved back a step.
"What is it, Reyna?"
"That . . . man . . ."
"What man? The detective? Nagle?"
Reyna nodded. "I don't know what you did to him, or how you did it. I've never seen anyone . . ."
"You know this creep, don't you? What happened between you and him?"
"He'll never forget what you did," Reyna said quickly, still refusing to meet Veil's gaze. "You have to watch out for him. He's more dangerous than you can ever know. He'll kill you if you get in his way, Veil; he may decide to kill you, anyway. You may not believe that a policeman would do that—or that he could do it and get away with it. Carl Nagle can. Nobody can stop him. I'm telling you this because I know you're a kind man, and I don't want that man to hurt you."
"Reyna, I want you to tell me about Carl Nagle."
But Reyna had already spun around and was running up the sidewalk toward the three-story, wood-framed dormitory. Veil waited until she was safely inside, then turned and walked back the way he had come. A light rain had begun to fall.
Veil found Victor Raskolnikov's black, chauffeured limousine outside the brick building where his loft was located. Veil opened the back door and slid into the luxurious, leather-scented interior.
"You're wet." The Russian's voice was steady, but his face was still ashen.
"Yeah."
Raskolnikov used the ivory handle of his walking cane to press a button on the ceiling; a bar revolved out of the seat back. "Scotch, of course."
"A big one, Victor. No ice. Thanks."
The art dealer poured the drink, handed the tumbler to Veil. "How's the girl?"
"Upset, of course, but she'll be all right."
"Well, she's not the only one who's upset. How do you feel about the possibility of crossing that detective's path again?"
"Why?"
"I'd like you to do some work for me. Nobody in the city has the range of contacts and sources of information that you do. I've been slandered by the United Nations, jerked around by the courts and police, and generally hassled since the beginning of this damn idol business. Because the freedom to make my own decisions was taken away from me, I find I am responsible for a young man's death."
"Victor—"
"I'm sorry, Veil, but I do feel responsible. Now I am thinking that I want to do something about it, although I'm not sure what. I do know that I would like to be kept informed of what is happening."
"You'll be able to read about it in the papers."
"Not everything gets into the papers. In any case, I have a strong feeling about this idol and the young man who stole it."
"The idol was originally stolen from his tribe, Victor," Veil said quietly. "He was just trying to get it back."
"You are right, of course, and that is why I have a strong feeling. I just want you to keep your ear to the ground. If you hear nothing special, so be it."
"I was going to keep an eye on things, anyway, Victor, and I'll certainly keep you informed. I have a strong feeling too."
"Well, now you'll be paid for your trouble."
"Victor, I can never repay you for what you've done for me."
"Nonsense. I make money off your talents. You are a fine artist and getting better. The Raskolnikov Galleries are not exactly a philanthropic organization. I have done very well with your dream-paintings, and I will do even better in the future as you become better known. In fact, I take great pride in the fact that I discovered you. Now I am asking you to use your, uh, darker skills on my behalf. Do you need money?"
"No. I'm still living off what you got for me on my last two paintings."
"Then I will at least pay you for the painting that was stolen. After all, it was stolen while you were trying to get back the idol."
"No."
"All right, my friend," Raskolnikov said resignedly, tapping his cane on the floor. "I know better than to argue with you. We will decide later what payment you will take. Cash or barter—either is fine with me."
Veil drained his glass, then set it down on the mahogany bar shelf. "Thanks again for the drink, Victor," he said as he opened the door and got out.
"You will be careful!"
"Sure. I'll be in touch. Right now I'm going to get some sleep."
"Veil! You watch out for this Nagle fellow, huh? I have a very strong feeling about him, too, and it's a bad one. I know that you'd eat him for breakfast one-on-one, but he's a cop and he has friends. They have guns."
"Good night, Victor."
Chapter Four
Veil dreams.
Floating in a bodiless dream state through the Kalahari night, he watches as a tall Bantu crawls slowly and silently, like some great black desert lizard, to the crest of a steep star dune and peers over its spine. Below, in the dune's trough, the huge fire that had painted the sky an hour before is dying, reduced to a broad grid of glowing embers that pulse like a breathing creature in the desert wind just beginning to rise from the north.