George Chesbro: Dark Chant In A Crimson Key

"— you're liable to find yourself in a hall of mirrors instead of on any milk run. In that hall nothing may necessarily be what it seems to be. In fact, I'm suggesting to you that nothing you may have read or heard about John Sinclair is necessarily true."

Veil's words, as well as his sincerity and obvious concern in giving me such a dear warning, intrigued me. I knew I probably should be patient and allow him to explain his somewhat mysterious approach in his own way, but my irritation at the fact that he seemed to be withholding information that would back up his warning won out. "What the hell are you talking about, Veil?" I asked, somewhat surprised at the sharpness of my tone. "What can't necessarily be true? The man's got an M.O. and track record going back twenty years. He's a big-time thief and a murderer of sometimes unbelievable cruelty. If you have something else to tell me about him, why not just come out and say it? Why the hell jerk me around like this?"

"You're angry with me," Veil said evenly, leaning back in his chair and smiling thinly. "You feel I've stuck my nose in your business. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you."

"I'll tell you what offends me, Veil. Certainly not that you care about me, or that you're concerned for my safety. I take that for granted. But you seem to be playing some kind of game here, and that offends me."

"Mongo, I-"

"For Christ's sake, Veil, you and I share some history. You know the types of situations I've been in, and you know what I can handle. You, Garth, and I have faced up to some pretty dangerous people together. Now I casually mention that I'm off to Europe to do nothing more than ask for a progress report from the authorities, and you issue a ringing warning for me to avoid anything involving John Sinclair. That clearly tells me you do know something, and you won't tell me what it is." I paused, took a deep breath. Suddenly, I realized that what I felt even more than anger was hurt. Perhaps I was overreacting, but it seemed to me that Veil's obvious reticence in discussing all he knew or suspected about John Sinclair implied that, despite everything I knew about Veil, and other confidences we had shared over the years, he did not completely trust me. That came as a shock, and gave me a decidedly empty feeling. "You damn well do know something more about Sinclair," I continued quietly. "Earlier, when I mentioned his name, it startled you, and you lost your concentration. That's why I was able to whack you. But you won't tell me what it is you know. This isn't like you at all, Veil. You know me well enough to know I don't pry, but you're the one who brought up the subject in the first place."

"I'm sorry you're angry, Mongo," Veil said, looking away. "I'd take it as a personal favor if you'd let me come along with you."

"Thanks for the warning and the offer, Veil," I said coldly, abruptly standing, "but at the moment I can't see how either is of much value. I'm going to Zurich to take care of my business, then I'm going to spend a few days in the mountains with Harper, and then I'm coming home. I'll send you a postcard."

I waited, still hoping that Veil would say something more, or at least explain why he wouldn't say more. It wasn't so much that I thought I needed the information to accomplish what I still could not conceive of as anything more than a minor errand, but because I felt that in a space of only a few minutes, with words that had-or had not-been exchanged, a friendship that I valued beyond what any words could describe had been irretrievably damaged.

When Veil did not reply, I turned and headed for the freight elevator that would take me down to the street.

I emerged out of Customs into the main terminal at the Zurich airport and was startled to see a figure in a fabulously ill-fitting chauffeur's uniform holding up a sign with what might have been my name had it not been misspelled, with two k 's. He was a very tall man, well over six feet, whose physical grandeur was marred by a crippled left leg and what appeared to be a permanent stoop. His blue serge uniform looked like it had been put together from spare parts; although the cap precariously perched on top of his head was at least one size too small for him, the rest of the outfit had the appearance of being hastily cut and sewn together from some enormous blanket with no other purpose in mind than to simply drape his large frame. There was an anxious, almost furtive air about him as he peered over the heads of the people around him in search of his fare. Pushing my luggage cart ahead of me, I veered off to my right, heading for a side exit where an array of gleaming silver and blue buses were parked at the curb.

"Dr. Frederickson! Dr. Frederickson, please wait!"

It seemed the man with the sign had been waiting for me after all. I stopped and turned as the big man lurched toward me, leaning heavily on his stout cane and half dragging his crippled leg after him. He was decidedly short of breath by the time he reached me, and it took him a good thirty seconds to get his wind back. This accomplished, he pulled himself as erect as his damaged body would allow, then tugged at the tails of his coat and brushed some imaginary lint from his lapels. Despite his comic-opera outfit, there was a distinct, touching air of dignity in the way he presented himself.

"I am Carlo at your service, Dr. Frederickson," he said in English laced with a heavy Italian accent. "I am to be your driver during your stay in Switzerland."

I smiled up at the man with the craggy face with permanently weathered flesh, coal-black eyes, and unkempt, silver-streaked black hair flaring out from beneath his cap. "It's nice to meet you, Carlo, but I told Mr. Neuberger I didn't want a chauffeur. It's nothing personal; I just believe in public transportation. Have a nice day, and tell your boss I said thanks anyway."

I proceeded toward the exit, stopped again, and heaved a little sigh when I heard Carlo's cane thumping behind me on the tile floor. "Dr. Frederickson, please wait!"

Once again I waited for him to catch his breath, hoping he wasn't going to have a heart attack.

"I don't know this Mr. Neuberger, sir," he finally managed to say. "I was sent by my superior at Cornucopia here in Zurich. I have been ordered to make sure you are made as comfortable as possible."

"I understand, Carlo, but I really do not want a chauffeur. Being waited on makes me nervous."

He repeated his curiously dignified gesture of pulling himself up and tugging at the tails of his coat. He turned his head to one side and swallowed hard. When he looked back at me, I was startled to see that his ebony eyes were moist. The air of anxiety about him I had first noticed was now even more pronounced. "What's the matter, Carlo?" I continued. "I told you it was nothing personal. I just don't want to have to wait around for a chauffeur to come when I want to go someplace, and I don't want one hanging around when I don't. Like I said, it makes me nervous."

He planted his cane on the floor in front of him, leaned down as far as he could, whispered, "You don't understand, signor."

"Please stop leaning over like that, will you, Carlo? You're going to throw out your back. What is it I don't understand?"

His response was to lean down even closer to me and whisper, "I'm Italian."

"Really?" I said, suppressing a smile.

He shook his head. "It's so embarrassing."

"Being Italian?" I asked incredulously.

"No. It is my situation. I am Italian-Italian, not Swiss-Italian."

"So what?"

Now he straightened up, but continued to gaze down at me with his soulful black eyes. "The Swiss allow me to work for good wages, which I can use to support my family back in Italy, so I do not mean to sound ungrateful. But I must speak the truth if I am to make you understand why it is so. . important that you use me. The Swiss are a very rich people. There are jobs for all Swiss who want them, and it is not necessary for any Swiss to do menial jobs like collecting garbage or cleaning streets. For those kinds of jobs they hire foreign workers like myself who cannot find jobs in our own countries. But they are very strict about certain things. For example, they do not allow foreign workers to bring their families with them. More important, they issue only temporary work permits that are good for staying in this country only as long as you are working. If you lose your job or quit, you must leave the country immediately."