George Chesbro - Two Songs This Archangel Sings

"Are you speaking for yourself, pal, or your boss?"

The aide glanced at Orville Madison, who gave an almost imperceptible nod of his head. "Secretary Madison continues to deny any knowledge of Veil Kendry, aside from what he has heard in the past few days."

"No kidding? Then, perhaps the good secretary would care to tell us just who Archangel was."

"That information is classified," the aide said stiffly.

"It doesn't make any difference, pal. As far as I'm concerned, what you just said is the first worthwhile thing that's gone into this record. I trust the stenographer will make a note of the fact that Madison nodded his head when I asked if you were speaking for him. In fact, some years ago Veil executed a series of paintings-"

"Paintings," Lefferton interrupted, peering over the top of his bifocals at a paper in front of him. "There is something here about paintings. Would you care to tell us what it is these paintings purport to show?"

"They paint a picture of a liar."

"But you don't know where to find these paintings. Is that correct?"

"You know it's correct, Senator. Thanks to the I.R.S., acting on behalf of the president, the records of the whereabouts of these paintings have been seized. The paintings are scattered all over the country, maybe all over the world. But I'll eventually find them-and if I end up in prison as a result of all this, then I'll hire somebody to find them for me. That's something you're now betting your reputations and reelection campaigns on, gentlemen."

"And they lose, Mongo," a very familiar voice said from somewhere above and behind me. In the vast, nearly empty chamber, the voice echoed. "I know where the paintings are."

Veil Kendry's words were punctuated by an ominous schlish-clack of metal sliding over metal-an ammunition magazine being slipped into the stock of an automatic weapon, the safety being released.

The faces of the marshal, aides, stenographer, and the senators drained of blood and their eyes went wide as they stared up at the balcony above our heads. Garth and I slowly turned in our chairs, glanced up.

Veil, dressed in jeans and a faded denim jacket over a green plaid flannel shirt, was standing on a seat in the balcony, one booted foot resting on the protective brass rail. His gray-streaked, yellow hair fell to his shoulders, and he was unshaven. Even in the dim light that just reached the first row of the balcony, his pale blue eyes glinted with anger as his gaze swept over the men on the dais below him; even without the Uzi submachine gun he held in his hands, he would have made a most imposing, spectral figure, and I felt a chill run through me.

The anger left Veil's eyes as he looked down at me, and he flashed a crooked, bittersweet smile. "It looks like you've found the dark at the end of the tunnel, my friend. A hell of a job, Mongo; a hell of a job."

"Yeah," I replied dryly. "Thanks, Veil; it's always nice to hear from satisfied clients."

"I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For all the pain, and for placing you in such bad company."

"You don't have to apologize for anything, not to me. I know you never really wanted to involve me in the first place; I just about had to ransack your place to find my retainer. I'm honored that I was the one you chose to ask for help."

"I'd be long dead by now if it weren't for you, my friend."

"Somehow, I doubt that."

"It's true. You distracted the bastard, and made him split his forces. I needed you and you were there-as I knew you would be."

"Yeah, well, wait'll you see my itemized bill."

"This wasn't the way I thought it would go, Mongo."

"I know. You made the mistake of giving some of our elected representatives too much credit for integrity and guts. They don't want to hear what you have to tell them."

"So I've noticed. Well, maybe we can still salvage something from this mess."

"Go for it."

The marshal had taken advantage of the chitchat between Veil and me to start to draw his gun out of his holster. Now his hand froze in midair as the Uzi abruptly swung in his direction.

"Unless you want to be carried out of here in halves," Veil said calmly to the man, "take the gun out of its holster with your fingertips, then carry it over and put it on the witness table."

The marshal hesitated just a moment, and Veil squeezed off a burst of fire that cut a line of holes in the wall barely six inches above the man's head. The marshal ducked, covered his head with his hands, and fell to the floor. Veil waited for the terrified man to look up, then waved toward the witness table with the Uzi. The marshal rose to his feet, walked quickly down into the well, and placed his.45 on the table in front of Garth and me, then went back to where he had been standing.

Everyone but Madison had reacted sharply to Veil's unexpected appearance, and everyone but Garth and Orville Madison had jumped to their feet when Veil had fired the Uzi. Now I glanced at Madison, saw that his previously impassive face was twisted with hate. His button eyes had come alive and were glowing with hatred and rage. Both of his aides had dropped out of their chairs and crawled in the direction of the senators, leaving their boss alone and isolated at the far end of the table. I found myself grinning, immensely enjoying the show. I nudged Garth, but he did not respond.

John Lefferton took a deep breath, adjusted his bifocals, then stabbed a trembling forefinger at the figure in the balcony. "Sir, we are United States senators! You-!"

Veil silenced the man with a second burst of gunfire that raked the wall above and behind the senators' heads; wood splinters and chunks of plaster erupted in a spray that fell over the men as they ducked under the table.

Welcome to the war.

In a single motion, Veil pushed off the balcony railing, leaping out into space and sailing over our heads fully fifteen feet in the air. Flexing his knees at the last moment like a ski jumper preparing for a landing, he crashed down directly in the middle of the table on the dais. There was a sharp, resounding crack, and the table split, collapsing down its length. Veil, who had never lost his balance, casually stepped from the rubble, brushing plaster and wood splinters off his front, walked down into the well, around the table, and up to stand next to me.

"How'm I doing?" Veil asked in a low voice.

"Not bad. Damned if I don't think they're ready now to listen to your statement."

"We'll see," Veil said, placing the Uzi on the table in front of him, pulling up a chair, and sitting down next to me. He pulled the microphone over, tapped it with his fingernail to test if it was live. It was a somewhat eerie sensation watching Veil preparing to testify in a hall that was filled with suspended plaster dust particles, pocked with bullet holes, and reeked of cordite. My ears still rang from the thunderous gunfire.

Through it all, Orville Madison had barely moved, except to pull his chair back from the collapsed table. The marshal had backed up to the wall, and was staring wide-eyed at Veil. The senators and Madison's two aides, brushing debris off their suits and out of their hair, slowly emerged from beneath the table and glanced tentatively at the man with the Uzi seated at the witness table. Veil could easily have killed them all, and they knew it; but he hadn't, and now they were waiting anxiously to see what he was going to do.

"Seats, everybody," Veil said dryly. "You wanted me here in person, so here I am. Now here's my statement."

The marshal slowly reached out for the doorknob a few inches from his left hand. Veil merely grabbed the metal stock of the Uzi, looked at the man, and slowly shook his head. The marshal dropped his hand back to his side and moved away from the door.

"Ma'am?" Veil said to the stenographer, who was still slumped in her straight-backed chair with her hands over her head. After a few moments, she slowly peered out from under one arm, and Veil gestured toward the machine in front of her. "I won't hurt you, ma'am. Would you please continue to take a record?"