Jungle Of Steel And Stone (5 page)

"Forgive me for asking, Miss Alexander—"

"My name's Reyna."

"And I'm Veil. Reyna, why did you take him to the gallery? You must have known it would be dangerous."

"I knew," Reyna replied, bowing her head slightly. "I felt I had no choice. The moment Toby got off the plane, I could see that he was full of shilluk."

"Shilluk?"

"It's a kind of combination narcotic-hallucinogenic drug. The K'ung make it by boiling down the sap of a certain cactus. Anyway, Toby had dosed himself to the eyeballs, which was going to make him even harder to handle. We no sooner got in the car than he demanded to see the Nal-toon. With all of the thousands of sights, sounds, and smells that he was experiencing for the first time, the only thing that interested him was seeing his god—immediately. And he wouldn't be put off until the morning. He wanted to see it at once, and when I said that we couldn't, he opened the car door and started to get out. We were on the Van Wyck Expressway, going fifty-five, at the time. The only way I could control him was to agree to take him to see the Nal-toon."

"Did you explain to him that the Nal-toon had to stay where it was?"

"Of course. I even lied to him—something I'd never done—and told him that we might be able to get the Nal-toon the next day. I was in a no-win situation, and I decided that the only way to keep him from hurting himself, or someone else, was to take him to the gallery so he could see for himself that his god was safe. It was a terrible mistake, obviously, and one I'll pay for, for the rest of my life. Because of me, a man is dead."

"No, not because of you. A properly trained guard never . would have fired his gun in that situation. It seems clear that all your friend wanted was the idol; he threw the spear only after he was attacked."

"Still . . ."

"It's not difficult to understand why you felt you had to do what you did. I can also understand Toby's feelings, if not his behavior. Doped-up or not, he must have had some realization of how futile it would be to try to steal the statue and run away like he did. He got incredibly lucky twice; he wasn't squashed on Fifth Avenue, and Central

Park happened to be across the street. What on earth did he think he was going to accomplish?"

Reyna was silent for some time. When she did speak, it was not to respond to Veil's question. "There are no villains in this, only victims."

"Reyna, I know that you're physically and emotionally exhausted. I don't want to butt into your business, but I'd think that you'd want to be around when they bring your friend out of the park. I know the police would certainly appreciate it. Toby will be terrified and terribly alone without you; you, at least, can talk to him. Indeed, you're the
only
person in the city who can talk to him."

"There's no need, Veil," Reyna said distantly. "Not tonight."

"I don't understand."

Reyna put the keys in the ignition and turned it on. Then she turned on the radio. It took a few minutes for the news sequence about the stolen idol to be repeated, but when it was, there was nothing new to report: The K'ung warrior-prince had not yet been captured.

"Nobody goes to ground like a K'ung," Reyna said simply as she turned off the radio, removed the keys from the ignition, and put them in her purse. Then she got out of the car.

Veil got out, walked around the car, and started up the sidewalk after the woman. Reyna turned and waited for him. She was trembling slightly, but her voice was steady.

"Thank you again, Veil—for the ride, and for your understanding."

"Are you sure you're all right?"

Reyna nodded, then dropped her gaze and suddenly began to tremble. "Veil, there's something I have to say to you."

Veil reached out to grip Reyna's shoulders, but the woman shook her head and moved back a step.

"What is it, Reyna?"

"That . . . man . . ."

"What man? The detective? Nagle?"

Reyna nodded. "I don't know what you did to him, or how you did it. I've never seen anyone . . ."

"You know this creep, don't you? What happened between you and him?"

"He'll never forget what you did," Reyna said quickly, still refusing to meet Veil's gaze. "You have to watch out for him. He's more dangerous than you can ever know. He'll kill you if you get in his way, Veil; he may decide to kill you, anyway. You may not believe that a policeman would do that—or that he could do it and get away with it. Carl Nagle can. Nobody can stop him. I'm telling you this because I know you're a kind man, and I don't want that man to hurt you."

"Reyna, I want you to tell me about Carl Nagle."

But Reyna had already spun around and was running up the sidewalk toward the three-story, wood-framed dormitory. Veil waited until she was safely inside, then turned and walked back the way he had come. A light rain had begun to fall.

* * *

Veil found Victor Raskolnikov's black, chauffeured limousine outside the brick building where his loft was located. Veil opened the back door and slid into the luxurious, leather-scented interior.

"You're wet." The Russian's voice was steady, but his face was still ashen.

"Yeah."

Raskolnikov used the ivory handle of his walking cane to press a button on the ceiling; a bar revolved out of the seat back. "Scotch, of course."

"A big one, Victor. No ice. Thanks."

The art dealer poured the drink, handed the tumbler to Veil. "How's the girl?"

"Upset, of course, but she'll be all right."

"Well, she's not the only one who's upset. How do you feel about the possibility of crossing that detective's path again?"

"Why?"

"I'd like you to do some work for me. Nobody in the city has the range of contacts and sources of information that you do. I've been slandered by the United Nations, jerked around by the courts and police, and generally hassled since the beginning of this damn idol business. Because the freedom to make my own decisions was taken away from me, I find I am responsible for a young man's death."

"Victor—"

"I'm sorry, Veil, but I do feel responsible. Now I am thinking that I want to do something about it, although I'm not sure what. I do know that I would like to be kept informed of what is happening."

"You'll be able to read about it in the papers."

"Not everything gets into the papers. In any case, I have a strong feeling about this idol and the young man who stole it."

"The idol was originally stolen from his tribe, Victor," Veil said quietly. "He was just trying to get it back."

"You are right, of course, and that is why I have a strong feeling. I just want you to keep your ear to the ground. If you hear nothing special, so be it."

"I was going to keep an eye on things, anyway, Victor, and I'll certainly keep you informed. I have a strong feeling too."

"Well, now you'll be paid for your trouble."

"Victor, I can never repay you for what you've done for
me."

"Nonsense. I make money off your talents. You are a fine artist and getting better. The Raskolnikov Galleries are not exactly a philanthropic organization. I have done very well with your dream-paintings, and I will do even better in the future as you become better known. In fact, I take great pride in the fact that I discovered you. Now I am asking you to use your, uh, darker skills on my behalf. Do you need money?"

"No. I'm still living off what you got for me on my last two paintings."

"Then I will at least pay you for the painting that was stolen. After all, it was stolen while you were trying to get back the idol."

"No."

"All right, my friend," Raskolnikov said resignedly, tapping his cane on the floor. "I know better than to argue with you. We will decide later what payment you will take. Cash or barter—either is fine with me."

Veil drained his glass, then set it down on the mahogany bar shelf. "Thanks again for the drink, Victor," he said as he opened the door and got out.

"You will be careful!"

"Sure. I'll be in touch. Right now I'm going to get some sleep."

"Veil! You watch out for this Nagle fellow, huh? I have a very strong feeling about him, too, and it's a bad one. I know that you'd eat him for breakfast one-on-one, but he's a cop and he has friends. They have guns."

"Good night, Victor."

V
eil dreams.

Floating in a bodiless dream state through the Kalahari night, he watches as a tall Bantu crawls slowly and silently, like some great black desert lizard, to the crest of a steep star dune and peers over its spine. Below, in the dune's trough, the huge fire that had painted the sky an hour before is dying, reduced to a broad grid of glowing embers that pulse like a breathing creature in the desert wind just beginning to rise from the north.

The man can tell from the layout of this camp that it is K'ung, not Bantu, and he knows that not even the presence of Christian missionaries—indicated by the Land-Rover parked on the lee side of a smaller dune to the west—will guarantee him a welcome. Missionaries or no, the man knows that he may be killed if he hails the camp; at the least he will probably be beaten, then stripped of the precious medicinal herbs he has spent the last six days gathering in the open desert.

The man inches backward, then abruptly freezes as a strong puff of wind causes the bed of coals below him to flare briefly. In that instant the man glimpses something a short distance from the fire that causes him to grunt softly with surprise and intense interest.

A wooden statue, perhaps half-a-man high, rests on a flat, hard-packed bed of sand.

This is not just any K'ung tribe, the Bantu thinks as darkness once again washes over the statue in the wake of the passing wind. It has to be the small band of which stories are told, the Lonely Ones of the deep desert with their strange, unshakable beliefs—and strange missionaries that other missionaries make jokes about. The statue must be the Nal-toon, the idol this tribe believes to be the Maker and Protector of all things.

Theirs is a silly faith, the man thinks. For almost three years he has been a Christian, a believer in the Jesus-God, Who is invisible. Unlike the Nal-toon, the Jesus-God cannot be stolen, burned, or harmed in any way. The Jesus-God is the mightiest warrior of all and does not have to be guarded by anyone who might fall asleep—as the K'ung warrior the man has glimpsed sprawled on the sand near the idol has done.

The man's lips draw back in a sly smile. Obviously, he thinks, the sleeping man is not the legendary Tobal'ak, about whom so many fantastic stories are told. Tobal'ak, it is said, does not require sleep like ordinary men, and he is never far from the Nal-toon.

The Bantu rests his forehead on the night-cool sand, breathing deeply and regularly as he tries to weigh the risks and consequences of a failed attempt to steal the idol against the certain rewards that success will bring. He knows he will be killed if he is caught. But who will catch him? Tobal'ak? The man does not believe all the stories that are told about the K'ung warrior—indeed, he is not even sure he believes there is such a warrior as Tobal'ak, any more than he believes that the Nal-toon is anything but an ugly piece of carved wood.

On the other hand, the man knows that the idol will be worth a great deal to the white hunters who regularly pass through the Bantu camps at the edge of the jungle looking for such objects, which, it is said, are sold to other tribes in faraway places. An object as large as the Nal-toon should be worth many steel knives, the man thinks, as well as a large pouch of matches. He may even ask for the most precious gift of all—a radio like the missionaries carry.

The Bantu makes his decision. He rises, picks up his bundle of herbs, and moves stealthily along the spine of the dune until he is directly above the Nal-toon and its sleeping guard, upwind of any dogs that may be in the camp. He puts his bundle down, then slides silently down the inner face of one of the radiating arms of the dune. He puts his hands out to his sides and brakes to a stop as he comes abreast of the idol. He waits for a time, pressing back against the sand and listening in the darkness. However, there are no sounds of alarm, and the guard continues to sleep.

Then, in an unbroken series of smooth and silent movements, the man reaches over the spine of the radiating arm, seizes the idol with both hands, then starts back up the face of the dune. The Nal-toon is much heavier than the man thought it would be, and he finds himself clumsily plowing in the sand, driving with his legs and gasping for breath. But he makes it back to the top of the dune safely.