Veil

Chapter 17

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He awoke to find himself naked, in a cage that had been anchored to the ground in the commons area, near the flagpole. The cage, with a locked drop gate facing the open end of the horseshoe of buildings, was not large enough for him to stand or fully extend himself on the ground, and Veil had to shuffle on all fours in order to turn around. It was what, in Vietnam, had been called a tiger cage, or "cramper." The object of the exercise, of course, was to break down psychological defenses through steady debilitation, as well as humiliation, and a prisoner's own mind was depended upon to facilitate the process.

From the position of the sun Veil guessed that it was early morning, which meant that he had been unconscious for almost twenty-four hours. He had a throbbing headache, and his mouth tasted green.

There was a good deal of activity in the compound as Army personnel, some with white lab coats worn over their uniforms, passed from building to building. Veil counted three women. Out on a dirt field just beyond the open end of the horseshoe and twenty yards from the bank of the swift-running river, six men in baggy black jumpsuits practiced advanced, complex martial arts kata under the watchful eyes of two Japanese, one young and one old. The old man, dressed in a flaring crimson robe and a broad, crimson headband, stood in front of the exercising men, erect, as still and as silent as a stone pillar. Both hands were placed on a simple wooden staff he held at arm's length in front of him. The old master was practicing his own kata, Veil thought, a Zen-linked exercise; without so much as the blink of an eye, the old man was able to project an aura of raw, mind-harnessed energy powerful enough to make an observer half believe that, if he so desired, the old man could drive the staff to its hilt in the ground, or perhaps split the world with an overhead blow.

With no apparent motions or words that Veil could hear, the old master was directing the kata of the six men moving in front of him. Fists flew, hands chopped, fingers poked, arms whirled, bodies spun. It was all done with blinding speed, a very special kind of beauty that tugged on a line between the mind, heart, and groin, and—like a deadly line of male Rockettes in a surreal Radio City Music Hall of sky, earth, water, and stone—in perfect unison.

Or almost perfect unison. Although Veil could not detect any mistakes, some were obviously made. On occasion the younger Japanese, a burly man dressed only in a loincloth, would abruptly step up behind one of the exercising Mambas and deliver a blow across the man's back or legs with a long flail of split bamboo; the force of each blow was such that the splat of bamboo striking flesh would echo down the valley, bouncing back and forth between the rock faces of the surrounding mountains. No struck Mamba flinched or slowed his pace; the ballet of violence, danced to the staccato, syncopated rhythm of beaten flesh, continued.

The point, aside from punishing errors in form, was to teach that pain is an illusion.

No one, researcher or Mamba, so much as glanced in Veil's direction. Veil turned around and leaned back against the bars. He brought his knees up to his chest, rested his head on his forearms, and waited.

Around noon, Veil felt the hairs on the back of his neck begin to tingle. He turned his head and found himself looking up at three of the Mambas and their Japanese master. The Americans had showered and changed into fresh jumpsuits, and Veil sensed that the master had brought them here to engage in some kind of mental exercise—perhaps nothing more than to test their stealth against his sixth sense, for they had approached without making a sound. The expressions on the faces of the three Americans were intense; the green eyes of the Mamba on the right, a stocky man with brown hair and a pockmarked face, gleamed with a naked yearning to test himself against Veil.

Although he stood as erect as the Americans, the Japanese now projected an aura of relaxation. His eyes were cast down—a gesture of respect.

"Good day, gentlemen," Veil said easily. "Listen, as long as you're up, would one of you do me a favor? You can never find your waiter when you want him. I'd like somebody to tell the maitre d' that I'm ready to order. Also, I'd like some water."

Once again, without any signal from the master that Veil could detect, the three Americans turned and walked away. The old man remained behind for almost a minute, eyes still cast down, then he, too, turned and walked away.

All day he had burned in the sun, and Veil knew he had lost a great deal of body moisture. Now, with the sun going down, the chill and damp of the Northern California evening was beginning to clog his lungs and seep up from the ground into his body. He shivered, and this only served to increase the spasmodic cramping of his muscles that he had been suffering since mid-afternoon. He kneaded the cramped muscles, then tried to exercise as best he could in the small cage in order to avoid hypothermia.

He heard a footfall behind him, turned, and found Colonel Parker standing over the cage, looking down at him. The setting sun shone golden on the man's hard, craggy face and made his eyes glitter. The Army officer stood with his hands behind his back, feet slightly apart. Over his shoulders was draped a heavy, cable-knit sweater, the sight of which made Veil groan inwardly.

"How're you doing, Kendry?" Parker asked in a flat voice.

"This tiger cage is a bit crude, Colonel," Veil replied hoarsely. His throat was now raw with thirst. "I'm really disappointed. From you I'd have expected nothing less than state-of-the-art."

"This is state-of-the-art, Kendry," Parker answered in the same flat voice. It was as if, safe on his home territory, he did not need to exhibit the blustering he had displayed in Pilgrim's office. Then again, Veil thought, Parker was no longer frustrated; indeed, he was beginning to look very much like a winner. "It cuts through all the bullshit. I don't know what kind of drug-resistance training you've had, and I don't care to take the time to find out. Electricity and pliers have always made me a bit squeamish. I'm an American, not a goddam torturer."

"Boy, am I glad to hear that."

"We've discovered that a bit of rolling around in your own piss and shit, combined with a great deal of thirst, usually does the trick—and with less chance of permanent damage. We're just leaving you alone and letting nature take its course. You know the routine."

"I sure do. So let's stop wasting time. Bring me a pitcher of water and tell me what you want to know."

Parker grunted. "That's good, Kendry. You have to respect a man who can make jokes while his throat and guts are turning to sand."

"What the hell makes you think I'm joking?"

Parker said nothing. Sunset gleamed in his steel-gray hair like veins of gold in rock.

"You've already wasted a day," Veil continued, his voice cracking. He coughed dryly, and pain that was not quite as severe as his desire for water flashed from his throat to his chest. "You could've come to me this morning and I'd have told you everything you wanted to know."

"Really? Then why didn't you simply come to me instead of trying to bust in here?"

"Because I had the sneaking suspicion that you'd still wring me out before you accepted anything I had to say. Also, there was no way you'd give me the guided tour of this place I need to answer my own questions. Now that you've got my ass, I have no choice but to cooperate."

"That, Kendry, is the truth."

"I came back to the Institute for the same reason I tried to sneak in here: I need to find out why your man wanted to kill me."

"Who are you working for? The Russians? Cuba? East Germany?"

"I'm not an intelligence agent, Parker, and I'm not working for anyone but myself. All I'm trying to do is find a way to protect my own ass."

"I'll see you tomorrow, Kendry," Parker said as he turned away.

"Parker!" Veil got up on his knees and gripped the bars of the cage with both hands. "Let me explain! Why walk away?"

"Because I haven't got time to listen to bullshit," Parker replied over his shoulder, waving his right arm in a casual gesture of dismissal. "You're just not thirsty enough. Sweet dreams, jerk."

Veil sank back down to the dank ground and watched Parker walk away toward the large building at the base of the horseshoe. His thirst and cold demanded that he call after the man, but his mind and heart told him that it would be useless to do so. Parker was not going to believe anything he had to say until Parker was certain that Veil was sufficiently—and thoroughly—broken. He was going to have to suffer.

Veil did a few isometric exercises against the bars, and the cramping in his muscles eased somewhat. He propped himself up in a corner, wrapped his arms around his legs, closed his eyes, and began a series of deep-breathing exercises in an attempt to relax and conserve energy. Whatever further ordeal lay ahead of him, he knew that he was going to need all of his reserves of strength and will to meet it. In the meantime, he was dead meat if his unknown enemy was in the compound.

He needed rest, and he needed to protect his mind as best he could. For a few hours, at least, he knew how to escape to a place that was safe and warm.