"Your turn, Jonathan. Tell me about Golden Boy."
"Right," Pilgrim said, perfunctorily mashing out his cigar in the ashtray. His voice had taken on an edge. "I don't know who he was, but I know what he was. After what happened, that son of a bitch Parker was forced to tell Henry and me a few things. Golden Boy belonged to the Army. He was a member of an experimental, ultra-elite unit the Army's doing some funny things with."
Pilgrim reached behind his head and tapped the map with his hook, indicating the unlabeled gray area in the valley between the two mountains. "He came out of here," the director continued, "and there are at least a half dozen more in there like him. They're code-named Mambas, and they're assassins—probably among the best in the world. Our answer to terrorism; people sic assassins on us or our friends, we sic ours on them. They're trained in ninjitsu techniques by a couple of Japanese masters, and Parker crapped brass bars when he learned that a Greenwich Village artist who paints funny pictures took one of them out. He damn well knows that you're not the average artsy type, but he doesn't know what to do about it. Are you a CIA operative, Veil? Did they fool with your records because they had better things in mind for you than sending you out on lecture tours?"
"Don't you share your information—and guesses—with Parker?"
"No. Let him use his own investigators. If he's made any connection between you and that other business I mentioned, he didn't say anything to Henry or me. He certainly didn't send Golden Boy after you, which makes him one very confused and worried man."
Veil thought about it, decided that Pilgrim was probably right. If Parker had somehow been involved in the assassination attempt, for whatever reason, he certainly would not have told the director and the Institute's investigator about the Mambas. "So," he said at last, "the Institute trains assassins."
Pilgrim flushed slightly. "We don't train them, the Army does."
"The land in the valley belongs to the Army?"
"They lease it from the Institute."
"If you don't like what they're doing, why don't you throw them out?"
"It's not quite that simple. Keeping the Institute functioning properly requires me to whore a little. Without Pentagon money, this place wouldn't be half of what it is. A lot of valuable work wouldn't get done. It's a trade-off—except that Parker and a few other officers over there are constantly stepping over the lines drawn in our contract. The original deal was that I'd allow the Pentagon to set up a compound on leased land, and they would have the right to monitor the experiments we conducted. Well, Parker is in the habit of using raw data he gets from here to set up his own experiments, and he thinks I'm a pain in the ass for demanding to know things he considers none of my business. Well, it's my operation—although some people over there would dearly love to force me out."
"Can they do that?"
"Not legally. That doesn't keep them from constantly pressuring me to step aside, or allow them greater latitude to use our facilities and staff as they see fit. There's been quite a power struggle going on here for the past few years."
"Why is the Institute so important to them?"
"We're in the business of finding out more about human beings; we're the cutting edge of that research, acknowledged by virtually everyone to be the best overall facility in the world. Armies—all armies—are in the business of controlling people. Information is power, of course, and so they see all our work as being of potentially great military significance. They couldn't duplicate our research because—as a straight military operation—they wouldn't be able to attract the subjects or research scientists we do. The Pentagon would very much like me simply to act as a front for them, and I won't do that. For now, at least, the integrity of the Institute is only as solid as my personal integrity."
"You still haven't explained what it is you want from me, Jonathan."
"Are you CIA?"
"I was," Veil said after a long pause. Pilgrim had been very candid, and Veil knew that he would have to begin to respond in kind if he were to get the information he had come for. His life probably depended on it. "It was a long time ago—in another lifetime. Now you could say that our relations are a bit strained."
"Strained enough for them to want to kill you?"
Veil didn't answer.
Pilgrim nodded and waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal, as if the answer were now self-evident. "It's no big surprise that you're agency-trained, you know. Not after what you did."
"Why not KGB?"
"Ah. That possibility is what worries Parker. Rest assured that there are Defense Intelligence people waiting to pick you up at La Guardia. They want to take you someplace of their own choosing where they can really question you."
"It makes sense."
"I never said that Parker isn't logical."
"You don't worry that I might be an enemy agent?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Good vibes bother you?"
"The possibility that you've managed to drug me bothers me. From the first, I've felt as if I've known you all my life. There are people I've known for years, and I can't think of any circumstances under which I'd admit to them that I'd once worked for the CIA. I told you and it was easy. There's a strange chemistry between us, Pilgrim, and I'm not sure if I like it. It makes me uneasy."
Pilgrim laughed as he put a match to another cigar. "I think you're showing a little residual paranoia. Under the circumstances, that's not hard to understand. I can't say why you feel free to talk to me, but I can give you my reasons for trusting you. For openers, you're an artist; you spend too much time by yourself, or with the wrong people, to be an effective intelligence agent. When you're not painting, you're helping an odd assortment of people less sensitive souls might consider real losers. I mean, how many state secrets can you extract from bag ladies, Bowery bums, jugglers, and street musicians? Finally, the only reason you're here at the Institute is because I invited you. That's the end of my case."
"Except that you still haven't told me what you expect to happen now."
"What I want from you is the reason that man tried to kill you. Do you think the CIA used him to try to settle this mysterious old score you won't tell me about?"
"It's possible."
"How possible?"
Veil shrugged. "I can't quote odds. Keeping me hanging is part of the punishment; I can be executed at any time, in any place. But, when they do take me out, they won't want to leave a trace; I'll just disappear. They've already waited years, so it wouldn't make much sense for them to move on me here, in a swimming pool. There's another possibility, and you're not going to like it."
"Try me."
"Whoever recognized me, or knew I was coming here, thought, like you, that I might still be working for the agency. They assumed that my job was to put them out of business, so they decided to move on me first."
Pilgrim grunted with annoyance. "It means the Institute has some unwelcome guests."
"Right. I can't be certain, but I don't think the guests are CIA. Golden Boy was a double agent, but he was still just running an errand for his controller. That man or woman is still here, and I have to find out who it is; it could make a difference in my future plans."
"Shit," Pilgrim said. He sipped at his beer, grimaced. "It's not bad enough that the Pentagon is trying to screw me; now I've got foreigners lining up on my ass too. Did you recognize anyone at the reception?"
"Only the obvious celebrities. But there were a lot of people there, and I wasn't looking for anyone. If there's someone here I'd recognize as an enemy, that person is constantly on guard and watching."