Madison, Po, Sharon, Parker, Pilgrim, and Perry Tompkins are all in the crowd.
I am dying.
Raskolnikov glances at Veil's paintings and walks on. He crosses the street at the intersection, steps up on the curb, and stops. He stands still for some time, absently licking his icecream cone as people pass by on either side of him. Then he abruptly tosses his cone into a wire trash container, wheels around, and comes back across the intersection against the light. A car screeches to a halt, narrowly missing him, but Raskolnikov does not even seem to notice.
"Dead and buried in the riverbank," Parker whispers in Veil's ear.
Raskolnikov again walks past Veil's paintings, but immediately turns, comes back, and stops in front of them.
"Call Madison or Bean," Veil whispers. "Please, please. Please. I'm so thirsty."
"Interesting," Raskolnikov says as he turns toward Veil. "One really has to view your paintings out of the corner of the
Chapter 21
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The cold water splashed over his fever-hot body like a tidal wave of torment. Veil's muscles knotted and quivered, but he only had enough strength to lick the water off his cracked lips. He allowed himself to fall sideways, and he sucked at the wet ground. He kept glancing to the side, waiting—praying—for the ladle of water to be offered through the bars. It did not come.
"Please give me water," Veil said. Or thought he said. He would do anything now for water—beg, make up a story about the Russians and the KGB; but he could not even be sure that he was speaking loud or clear enough to be understood.
Parker's voice was strangely hollow, as if the man were speaking to him from the opposite end of a large cavern. "You've got balls, Kendry. I'll say that for you. You really are going to manage to kill yourself. Do you think we're idiots?"
Veil somehow managed to rise to his knees. He clutched at the bars, resting his head against the steel. "Don't . . . understand. Give me water. You've got what you wanted."
"You're crazy," Parker replied in a tone in which outrage, confusion, and genuine distress vied for control. "You think I want to watch a crazy man kill himself? What the hell did you think you were doing? Did you think you could bluff me? How can a man be dying of thirst, for chrissake, and still find the will to lie?"
"Don't understand. Call Madison. CIA."
"The CIA's never heard of you or anyone named Orville Madison."
"No. Not true. Lie. You didn't talk to the right people, or . . . Madison told them to lie. Call Bean."
"Bean retired six years ago, and he was killed in an automobile accident three months later. You probably knew that."
"No. Madison ..."
"There is no Orville Madison. You pulled the name out of a very dry hat."
Something was wrong, Veil thought as he struggled to hide from the agony in his mind and body in order to concentrate. There was something in Parker's tone, something in the dream, that told him what was wrong, but he could not pull his thoughts together, could not make the connection. "No," he whispered, feeling lost. "Madison was my controller. Not his style to . . . let this happen. Who did you talk to?"
There was a long pause. Veil moved his head slightly in order to look up at Parker, but he could see only a blurred image.
"You're going to die, Kendry," Parker said in a husky voice filled with emotion. "I wouldn't have believed any man could do to himself what you're doing. I wish I could say that I admire your guts, but I don't. You're just stupid. I don't want you to die. Do you understand? I really don't. But I can't let you screw us, either. Don't you understand that I know you're KGB? Kendry, I know you're lying. One thing; just give me one thing and I take you out. Give me the name of your controller."
"Madison. CIA."
"Stop it! You're finished, Kendry! No man can endure more than you've endured. Let it go. If I take you out now, give you some water and medical attention, you'll be all right. Another few hours and you'll be finished. Stop telling me lies and give me the name of your Russian controller. It won't take me long to check. I may even give you a long drink right now."
"You didn't talk to anyone."
"The name of your controller, Kendry! What specific information did you hope to get here? Give me something, will you? I want to take you out. I don't want to see you die for nothing!"
"Not you. You didn't make the calls personally. Someone else. Who?"
"Damn you, Kendry!" Parker shouted. "Damn your eyes! If you think the communists are going to take over the world because you're tougher than we are, you've got a big surprise coming! Fuck you! Die!"
Veil waited a few moments, then looked up again and squinted. The blurred image was gone. He groaned and licked at the moisture left on the bars of his cage.
Chapter 22
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Veil dreams.
Out of control in mind and body, he speeds down the endless corridor between the swirling gray walls in which figures move and occasionally beckon. He does not try to roll out of the dream, or even slow himself, for there is less agony here.
There is no agony here.
In the corridor, speeding toward the electric-blue horizon, there is no thirst or fever-heat or pain. He will not go back, he thinks. Never. He will suffer no more. He will fly along this corridor until he dies, if he is not dead already.
We're looking for heaven.
Familiar, disembodied voices call out from the mist on either side of him.
"He can guess all he wants to. By the time I let him in here again, you'll either be dead and buried in the riverbank or on your way to Washington for more detailed interrogation about your bosses and your network."
"Ah, but you blew it, dummy," Veil replies in a casual tone that issues from his chest, throat, and mouth as a series of soft chiming notes. "If you're still interested in the truth, give my buddy Orville a little ding-a-ling. But you call him. Don't let anyone else do it for you."
"You're a dead man, Kendry. I'm going to shoot your ass on the day when you're happy."
For a few moments, Veil considers remaining silent; he no longer cares about anything but remaining in the state he is in.
"Good luck, Orville," Veil says at last. "I am at peace here, and I am happy; and there isn't a damn thing you can do about it. Even you can't reach into heaven. Shoot away."
Chimes suddenly sound. They are outside himself, very loud, and reverberate in the corridor.
"Madison! Tell Parker the truth! Kill me with a bullet, not a lie!"
He does care.
His speed increases. If he is not dead, Veil thinks, he is certainly now very close to it. He is sorry he has never found the courage to look directly into the walls. He would look now, but he is going too fast; he is at once paralyzed and elongated; he feels as if his body is stretched out for miles behind him, and he cannot turn his head.
"Stop it! Kendry, I don't want you to die!"
Chimes. Bong! Bong! Bong!
"Parker! Hey, dummy, pick up the phone and make the call! Call Madison!"
His speed increases even more. The moaning, chiming walls flash past in a blur. Veil feels as if his body is coming apart, stretched so thin that there is nothing left but spinning atoms that somehow still carry the electrical charges of emotion and thought.
Then, suddenly, pain pierces heaven.
Something sharp, like a snake's fangs, sink into the floating atoms where his right shoulder had been. He wants to grab the wound, but he is stretched too thin. He cannot find his hand.
"Interesting," Raskolnikov says. "One really has to view your paintings out of the corner of the eye."