Veil

"Almost living, Jonathan. You have a tendency to forget that little problem."

Pilgrim, still leering and wriggling his fingers, continues as if he hasn't heard. "Can you imagine what the world's spy masters would want to do with this place?"

"Yes, I can. Jonathan—"

"They'd make up their little plots, then try to recruit Lazarus People as spies. Around the world would go the Lazarus People, at least in the spy masters' minds. The Lazarus People would work diligently, nine to five, all week at their nefarious little deeds, and then—yes!—all meet here on Saturday morning at 0500, Greenwich Mean Time, for a conference. I love it! Beats blind mail drops, huh?"

"Except that a person would have to be three-quarters dead in order to attend this conference. That's tough duty, Jonathan. Also, this is one conference we don't know it's possible to walk away from."

"A piece of cake. Sharon's done dozens of computer simulations. She got you here, didn't she? She'll get you back."

"I'm definitely counting on it."

"Not to worry."

"What worries me is the fact that I don't even have a distant relative who remotely resembles a computer simulation."

"It wouldn't work," Pilgrim says, suddenly serious.

"Uh, what wouldn't work?"

"The espionage scenario I just outlined. Lazarus People don't care about spying, and they won't lend their efforts to anything that might harm another human being. They can't be manipulated, and they'll just jerk around anyone who tries. Unfortunately, people would try. This place would become an obsession to any 'outsider' who even suspected its existence."

"Yes," Veil replies simply, remembering the network of caves.

"Great harm would be caused. Any information having to do with near-death studies would be classified. Hospital records would be searched, Lazarus People rounded up. Idiots."

"Jonathan," Veil says evenly, "I've got a flash for you. I'm not convinced this is happening."

Pilgrim frowns. "What are you talking about? You're experiencing it. That's why I waited for you to come to me."

"I don't know what I'm experiencing. A rush of endo-morphins from my brain as I approach death, yes; that accounts for the ecstasy we feel, and that all Lazarus People report. As for the rest, it could all be a hallucination. I expected, I wanted, to meet with you, and so my dying brain may be indulging itself in a little wish fulfillment. You could very well be a hallucination, and I may be talking—thinking— to myself. There's only one way to prove that this is really happening."

Pilgrim turns his back to Veil, and when he speaks, his tone is almost petulant. "You're too heavy, Veil. You and I share what may be the greatest discovery about humankind in the history of humankind, and all you can do is talk like a goddam lawyer. Or a detective. I don't care if you are a detective; it's unbecoming."

"I'm not a detective, Jonathan," Veil says with a sigh. "I'm a painter. You have no idea how tired I get of explaining that to people; it ranks right up there with trying to convince people that I'm not a CIA agent."

There is a long pause, then Pilgrim asks quietly, "How can I convince you that I exist, and that this is really happening?"

"Come back with me and we'll compare notes. We'll go into separate rooms and write down our detailed recollections of this conversation. You're a scientist, Jonathan; you know it's the only way."

Again there is a long pause, during which Veil waits patiently, staring at his friend's back.

"How's Sharon?" Pilgrim says at last.

"More than a little pissed at both of us."

"I can believe that." Suddenly Pilgrim turns back to Veil. He is grinning once again, but the expression seems forced. "Oh, I almost forgot. Don't you want to know who the fucker is who shot me?"

"I already know. Ibber."

Pilgrim raises his eyebrows slightly. "How do you know?"

"Process of elimination, to begin with, combined with accumulated circumstantial evidence and an important slip on Parker's part. The more I thought about it, the more it always came back to the fact that it was Ibber who did my initial background check. Now, a standard check by someone who was only an Institute investigator would have turned up nothing but the garbage that the Army and CIA had strewn about. Granted that a good investigator would have smelled the garbage—something Ibber dutifully reported to you because he couldn't discount the possibility that you could have baited a trap for him. But Ibber was much more than just an Institute investigator; he was KGB, and the KGB file on me certainly hadn't been tampered with at all. All the KGB saw in their file was Veil Kendry before the Fall. Whatever they'd heard about the breach between the CIA and me, they weren't willing to buy it. Red warning flags popped up all over the place."

"What about the similarity between your paintings and Perry Tompkins's?"

"Then you know Ibber was spying on the hospice, using Army personnel?"

"The thought occurred to me at about the time he was squeezing the trigger. I'm a bit slower than you are."

"I'm not sure Ibber or anyone else from the compound who was sneaking into the hospice ever saw Perry's paintings; if they did, they wouldn't know what to make of them. They may have checked out a few chalets, but I'm sure they were far more interested in Sharon's files and the computer data. Ibber probably figured that you'd grown suspicious, and I was being brought in, through contacts you might have with the CIA, to do some general housecleaning."

"Why didn't he have you killed in New York? Why wait until you got here?"

"I'm not sure. He may have been afraid that I was closely guarded, or he may simply have considered the Institute a safer, more controlled situation. Also, he may have wanted to size me up in person, see how I reacted to him."

"Have you told anyone else?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Ibber will kill anyone who looks at him the wrong way. I have to handle him myself."

"Well, you're pretty damn vulnerable right now. You're taking one hell of a big chance, my friend."

"I'm counting on Ibber thinking that I'm still holed up somewhere over in the Army compound."

"What did Parker have to do with it?"

"He said that he wasn't going to let you in. Well, Ibber also had access to the compound—so why not mention Ibber?"

"Ah, yes. I told you Parker was a fuck-up."

"If I'm right, Ibber is a bit more than a KGB agent who managed to penetrate your Institute. I think he's a KGB agent who managed to become a high-ranking Army officer in charge of that entire military installation in the valley. I was certain Parker was reporting to someone, and that someone was faking phone calls and feeding phony information to Parker just to make sure Parker would end up letting me die. It had to be Ibber, which means that the U.S. Army has a very fat KGB mole sitting on its collective face."

"Do tell," Pilgrim says in a somewhat cryptic tone.

"Then again, there's more than one spook running around over there. Someone arranged to spring me—who, and why, I don't know."

"Do tell."

"I must say that you don't sound too surprised."

"Don't I?" Jonathan says with a smile. "Go ahead; I want to hear what else you've been up to."

Veil studies Pilgrim for a few moments, but Pilgrim merely stares back, the same enigmatic smile on his face. Finally Veil shrugs, continues. "After I'd roamed around over there for a while, I realized that the safest and fastest way out of the compound would still be through a gate that Parker opened for me. I was hoping that turning myself in after having escaped might finally get the man's attention. But by then Ibber had already shot Parker."

"Parker's dead?"