Jungle Of Steel And Stone vk-2 Read online

  "What happened, Victor?"

  Raskolnikov spread his arms out to his sides in a gesture of helplessness. "I couldn't stop it, Veil. Everything just happened too quickly. Now this man I hired to guard the statue is dead."

  "How did it happen?"

  "The young woman over there came in with a young man. The man, he had a very strange look in his eyes—and he was looking at the statue from the moment he came in the door. He never said a word, just started walking straight toward the statue. The woman screamed and tried to stop him; she grabbed his arm and shouted at him in this funny language, like nothing I've ever heard before—click! click! click! Very strange. The man just pushed her away, grabbed one of the spears off the wall, and used it to smash the glass case over the statue. He moved so fast that he caught Frank—the guard—by surprise. Frank yelled at the man to stop, and when he didn't, Frank kind of panicked, I guess. He drew his gun and fired—hit the man in the shoulder, I think. Then the man threw the spear at Frank. Veil, I've never seen anyone move that fast. One moment Frank was aiming and getting ready to fire again, and the next moment he was dead." The Russian paused, swallowed hard, then gestured toward the opposite wall without looking at it. "Like that."

  "Your guard did hit the man, Victor. I saw him. He escaped into Central Park after causing the damnedest chain collision you've ever seen on Fifth. But they should have him soon. By now there'll be an army of cops beating the bushes for him, and they're using a helicopter. I just hope your statue isn't damaged."

  "I don't give a damn about that statue!" Tears suddenly glistened in the art dealer's eyes. "I paid a lousy three thousand dollars for it. What's three thousand dollars— what's anything?—compared to a man's life? The newspapers sure as hell made a big stink about it, but they couldn't tell me what I should do with the damn thing. The police wouldn't take it off my hands because they said it was legally mine. The United Nations made a stink, too, but they wouldn't take it. If they took it, then they wouldn't have anything to make a stink about. I didn't want to sell it to just anyone, Veil, because I felt very deeply in my heart for that tribe. All I wanted was my money back, and that didn't seem unreasonable. Then this gangster business came up and the courts said I couldn't sell it to anyone until a complete investigation had been made, but the judges wouldn't take it off my hands, either. Hell, I figured I might as well keep the statue on display for the publicity value. But I didn't want the tribe to lose it to some thief, so I hired a guard to make certain it stayed safe until somebody told me what I was allowed to do with it. I simply should have sent it back to the tribe in the beginning. Then I wouldn't be responsible for this man's death."

  "Take it easy, Victor," Veil said evenly. "You aren't responsible for anything but being a very decent man caught in a bind and trying to find the right thing to do. You didn't fire a gun to protect a piece of wood, and you didn't throw the spear."

  "Are you Veil Kendry?"

  Veil turned to find the big man with the doughy face and dead, raisin eyes standing very close behind him. "I'm Kendry," he replied evenly.

  "You've met Detective Vahanian," the big man said in a rumbling, phlegmy voice as he jerked a thumb in the general direction of the dark-complexioned man who was standing off to one side, trying not to look embarrassed. "I'm Detective Nagle. I understand you witnessed what went on up the street."

  "Yes. As I told your partner—"

  "I know what you told my partner, and I don't need to hear it again. You're the one who needs to be told something."

  "You sound like a man with heavy things on his mind," Veil said in a neutral, flat tone. "Why don't you unload them?"

  Nagle leaned even closer, to the point where his face was only inches from Veil's, and Veil could smell beer and garlic on the man's breath. "You've got a bad rep, Kendry," Nagle rumbled, planting the thick index finger of his right hand in the center of Veil's chest.

  "Do I?"

  "You do. For one thing, I hear that you have a habit of sticking your nose in police business. I hear you think you're a hotshot private investigator."

  Veil considered pushing the finger away from his chest but instead stepped back. Nagle grunted with satisfaction.

  "You'd better back off from me, pal."

  "Am I to take it that you're feeling a bit cranky this evening, Detective Nagle?"

  Nagle frowned. "I'm in a good mood, Kendry. You'd better hope you never see me in a bad one."

  Veil glanced across the room to where the woman was staring at him, the expression on her face frozen somewhere between fear and amazement. "Look, Nagle," Veil said easily, "I don't know what your personal problems are, and I don't care."

  "You watch how you talk to me, chief."

  "You picked up wrong information somewhere. I'm not an investigator, private or otherwise. I'm a painter."

  "You bet your smart ass you're not a PI. You've got no license. If you had, it would have been pulled long ago. The point is that you act as if you were a PI. You've had run-ins with cops all over this goddamn city, and cops most definitely do not like amateurs stepping on their toes. We've got more than enough bag ladies, bums, street jugglers, and street musicians; we don't need a street detective."

  "From time to time I do a favor for a friend."

  "You seem to have a lot of friends."

  "Yeah. I make friends easily."

  "I've even heard it said that you have friends in very high places in Washington, like in the CIA."

  Veil resisted the impulse to laugh. "Well, you couldn't be more wrong about that. But you'd be surprised how many of those street people you mentioned need a friend to take care of business for them. Sometimes I take money; more often I accept goods or services. But I'm not a private investigator, and I've never pretended to be."

  "Are you a bad-ass, Kendry? Some people say you're a bad-ass."

  "I can't help what people say," Veil replied, casually turning his head to watch as a police photographer began snapping pictures of the corpse hanging on the wall.

  "Let's cut through the bullshit, chief. The message I have for you is short and sweet: I'm a much bigger bad-ass than you are. I'm telling you to stay the fuck out of my way. I don't know what you're doing in the neighborhood, or if you have any connection with these other people. If you do have a connection, it doesn't mean diddly-squat. If you're even thinking about poking your nose into this idol business, you think again. If you don't, it's possible you could lose whatever it is you do your thinking with. I don't want to see your face again. Got it, chief?"

  "I hear what you're saying," Veil replied flatly, his face impassive as he stared back at the police detective.

  "You carrying a gun?"

  "I don't have a permit to carry a gun."

  "That isn't what I asked you, chief," Nagle said tightly. "You just made a mistake. Turn your ass around and lean against that wall."

  Veil did not move. "Are you trying to harass me, Nagle? I'm not a lawyer, but I can't think of any reasonable cause I've given you for searching me. I'd hate to see a lawsuit or a review board hearing keep you from your diligent pursuit of this case."

  "You long-haired bastard!" Nagle reached for Veil, and suddenly lost all feeling in his right arm, below the elbow. Amazed, he looked down and saw that the other man, moving so quickly that the motion had been imperceptible, had gripped his arm and was pressing a thumb into a nerve inside the elbow.

  "Excuse me, Detective Nagle," Veil said as he released the arm. "Are you all right? I thought you were going to fall."

  Feeling slowly came back into Nagle's arm. The detective glanced down at his elbow, then back up at the man with the long blond hair and pale blue, gold-flecked eyes who stood before him. The man's face wore an expression of genuine concern—an act, for the eyes were absolutely cold and appraising.

  Nagle roared with rage and swung a wild, roundhouse right fist at a head that was suddenly no longer there. An instant later he felt arms wrap themselves around his waist, fingers that felt like
steel rods pressed into his solar plexus, and he doubled over with a gasp. But he did not fall; he could not fall. The powerful arms held him up while the fingers, hidden from view, continued to press and knead, jab and squeeze, until sickness began to burn at the back of his throat. Veil's voice, soothing and solicitous, came from somewhere behind his right ear.

  "Just relax, Nagle," Veil continued. "You'll be all right. Vahanian, you want to give me a hand here? I think your partner's just a little drunk; I smell booze on his breath. I hope he's not going to be sick."

  Then the fingers were abruptly gone from his belly, the arms from around his waist. As if on cue and conspiring against him, his stomach churned and its contents splattered over the front of his jacket, slacks, and shoes. Then he fell forward. He tried to twist around, slipped, and sat down in the pool of vomit.

  Veil stood over the soiled detective, waiting calmly. All activity in the gallery had stopped, and there was silence, broken only by Nagle's gasps, retching, and coughing. The police photographer, two morgue attendants, a patrolman, Vahanian, the woman, and the spectators beyond the plate-glass display window all gaped in astonishment. Raskolnikov kept shaking his head, as if the muscles in his neck had gone into spasm.

  Finally Nagle stopped retching. He took a deep, shuddering breath, wiped away a trail of spittle that hung from his mouth, then unzipped his blue windbreaker and reached for his gun.

  Raskolnikov grunted with alarm and started to step forward. Veil stopped his friend by planting a hand firmly on his chest, and by then Vahanian had stepped between Veil and Nagle. The stocky detective reached down and hauled his partner to his feet by the front of his jacket. Nagle's face was brick-red, the small eyes aflame now with rage, hatred, and humiliation. He lunged for Veil, but Vahanian—displaying amazing strength for a man at least seventy-five pounds lighter than his partner—managed to shove Nagle back against the wall, where he held him.

  "Stop it, Carl!" Vahanian shouted. "You're losing it!"

  Vahanian dropped his voice and, still holding the other man firmly against the wall, put his mouth close to Nagle's ear and spoke in a low murmur. Veil, his ears trained two decades before to pick out sounds of life and death from a cacophony of jungle noises, could make out just a few words and phrases.

  ". . . witnesses . . . got you on the drinking . . . not worth the trouble . . ."

  Gradually Nagle stopped struggling, although his face remained the color of flame. Vahanian, careful to keep his right hand pressed against Nagle's chest, turned to face Veil. For a fleeting moment something that might have been respect flickered in his dark eyes, then was gone, replaced by the cold, hostile glint of a cop staring at an outlaw.

  "I hope you appreciate the size of the pass you're getting on this one, Kendry."

  "Oh, I certainly do. I certainly hope Detective Nagle is feeling better soon."

  "Shut up!" Vahanian snapped. "Now you're pressing your luck with me! What I'm saying is that this is a once-in-a-lifetime pass you'll never get again." He took a deep breath, continued in a calmer voice, "We've got your statements, names, and addresses. If we have more questions, we'll know where to get in touch with you."

  Nagle had gotten his second wind. Suddenly he bellowed and tried to run through Vahanian to get at Veil. Like an outweighed but fiercely determined offensive lineman, Vahanian blocked Nagle with his forearms, put his head down, and drove with his legs, pushing the bigger man toward the exit. A uniformed officer, barely able to suppress a grin, hurriedly opened the door. The crowd that had gathered outside quickly split, and Vahanian pushed Nagle out and into a car parked on the sidewalk. A few moments later Vahanian was behind the wheel, and the car shot out of sight with a squeal of spinning rubber.

  Inside the gallery, the photographer finished his work. The morgue attendants removed the body from the wall, slid it into a plastic bag.

  "My God, Veil," Raskolnikov breathed in a quavering voice. "What did you do to him?"

  Veil looked at his friend, smiled. "Just helping a police officer—"

  "You are crazy, my friend. You know that."

  "—who became ill while performing his duty."

  "What are you doing here, anyway?"

  "I was on my way to get your opinion on one of my latest pieces."

  "You have a painting with you?"

  "I did have; somebody stole it. Just a minute, Victor."

  Veil walked across the room to the woman who was standing absolutely still and looking profoundly forlorn, like some fragile piece of living sculpture that had been abandoned to the elements of confusion, fear, and panic and was in danger of shattering. She was a wounded woman, Veil thought. A man crucified on a wall by a spear was not the first horrible scene she had witnessed.

  "I'm Veil Kendry," he said softly, looking directly into the large, liquid eyes and smiling gently. "The man who stole the idol is a friend of yours, isn't he?"

  The woman swallowed and blinked; her eyes slowly came into focus on Veil's face, and the spare movement of her head was in direct contrast to the desperate, naked plea in her eyes.

  "He's all right, at least for the time being," Veil continued. "The last time I saw him, he was disappearing into Central Park."

  "But he'd been shot. . . ." The woman's voice was faint and breathy, as frail as her body.

  "A shoulder wound and, judging by the way he was moving, not too serious. The cops probably have him by now, so he may already be on the way to a hospital."

  The woman's eyes were the most expressive Veil had ever seen, and what they flashed now was relief. Her lips managed to form a shaky, tentative smile, and then she abruptly turned her head away, as if to hide whatever else might show in her eyes.

  "I'm Reyna Alexander," the woman said, her voice muffled slightly by the thick strand of hair that had fallen across the side of her face. "Thank you for telling me that." "You're welcome. I'd say you need a drink."

  The woman shook her head. "I don't drink."

  "Tea, then. Victor brews the strongest pot of tea this side of the Urals." Veil paused, then continued seriously. "You need something strong in you, Reyna. You need time to wind down."

  "No. I just want to go home."

  "Is anyone there?"

  "No."

  "Then I don't think that's a good idea—not for a while, anyway. You're suffering from shock."

  "I want to go home."

  "Where do you live?"

  "Wesley Missionary College."

  "How did you get here?"

  "I have a car."

  "Then I'll drive you. I know where the college is; I only live a few blocks from there. You don't have to be afraid. I'm quite harmless."

  Now the woman looked at him again; there was a new emotion reflected in her eyes that Veil could not read. "That's not true. You're a very dangerous man; I could feel that all the way across the room. And you must be insane to talk that way, and do whatever it was you did, to Carl Nagle."

  "That seems to be the consensus of opinion. You sound as though you speak from experience."

  Fear shimmered across the surface of the black eyes. The woman pressed her lips tightly together and shook her head. "I don't know what you mean."

  "I'm not dangerous to you."

  Reyna Alexander studied him for a few moments, then nodded her head. "I know that, Mr. Kendry. And I would appreciate it if you'd take me home. Thank you."

  Chapter Three

  Because of the chain collision on Fifth Avenue, most of the avenues and cross streets around midtown were jammed. Veil drove east on Sixty-eighth to the FDR Drive, then turned south and headed downtown toward the tip of Manhattan. A full moon was rising over the East River.

  Reyna Alexander had turned on the radio the moment they'd gotten into the '79 brown Buick, then tuned it to one of the city's all-news stations. The theft of the Nal-toon, the killing of the security guard, and the traffic tie-up were the lead items, but there were no details on who had stolen the idol or why. Nor was there any indication t
hat the thief had been captured, despite the helicopter and the large numbers of policemen dispatched to the scene.

  "He's K'ung, isn't he?" Veil asked casually as he maneuvered around a car that had stalled in the center lane.

  Reyna glanced over at Veil and was obviously surprised. "You pronounce that remarkably well."

  "I heard it pronounced that way on television a few weeks ago, when the story first started to break. I have a fairly good ear for languages."

  "So do a lot of other people, but I'm the only person in the northeast I know of who speaks K'ung—and you're the first person I've heard even come close to pronouncing the tribe's name correctly. Where did you learn to make the glottal sound?"

  Veil thought about it, then decided that mentioning work with tribes in Southeast Asia would only lead to questions he could not—was not permitted to—answer. There were men in Washington who were extremely displeased by what they considered the high profile he had developed in New York. Orville Madison in particular was displeased, Veil thought, and that was dangerous. It did not matter what he did for this man or how often he did it; he was still under sentence of death. That had been made clear to him at the time when he had bartered his soul for Sharon's life.

  "It doesn't matter," Veil replied evenly. "Am I right about him being K'ung?"

  Reyna abruptly turned off the radio, looked at Veil, and nodded. "Yes. His name's Tobal'ak. I call him Toby. He's the chief's son—a prince." She paused, smiled wryly. "He's also the toughest kid in the rather large block known as the Kalahari Desert. The fools!"

  Veil glanced sideways at the woman. There was sorrow and anxiety reflected in her eyes, but the rest of her face was clenched in anger. "Who are fools?" he asked quietly.

  Reyna shook her head. "I shouldn't have said that. It's not their fault; all they could see was need, not consequences. I don't want to talk about it."