Covenant Of The Flame

by David Morrell

  'It's what my father called my mother.'

  'In that case, it sounds wonderful.'

  Click.

  'Chief Farley here. Where the hell have you been? I expected you to phone.'

  'I know. A couple of hours ago. The trouble is, I haven't been able to find."

  'Theresa Drake. She's not my problem anymore. My men are still trying to make sense of what happened at her mother's house last night. The Washington police had a similar attack in their jurisdiction this afternoon. They want to know if the two are connected. But what I want to know is how the hell did the FBI get involved?'

  'What?'

  'They weren't invited, and I can't think of a reason why Melinda Drake's murder should be their business.'

  At the mention of her mother, Tess winced.

  'The FBI?' Craig said.

  'Eric Chatham - the Bureau's director himself - got in touch with me shortly after noon. He wants to talk to Theresa Drake. National security. Top priority. Confidential. Blah, blah, blah. Hey, I'm good at my job, and when an outsider tries to tell me how to. Never mind. I explained my arrangement with you. Now it's out of my hands. I have orders - high level government orders - to instruct you to forget about banging Theresa Drake to me and instead to phone Chatham. Three times this afternoon, he called to find out if I'd heard from you, to remind me to tell you to contact him at once. Immediately. Craig, what in Christ's name is going on?'

  'Chief, I swear I wish I knew.'

  Then, you'd damned well better find out. As Chatham says, now. The last thing I need is trouble from the FBI.'

  'I hear you.'

  'Well, while you're at it, hear this, Craig. Some day, you and I will meet, and you'd better be prepared to explain. Take my word, you don't want me pissed off at you. Because I'm a vindictive son of a bitch, and I'll make sure your captain's pissed off at you as well.'

  'I repeat, I hear you.'

  'What a holy hell surprise. Someone's actually taking orders from me instead of giving them to me. Phone Chatham. Here's his private number.'

  Craig wrote it down.

  'Get that bureaucrat off my tail,' Farley said. 'So I can do my job. So I can find out who murdered Melinda Drake!'

  'I promise. It'll be taken care of.' Troubled, Craig set down the phone.

  'So,' Father Baldwin said, 'it's already started.'

  Tess frowned in amazement. 'You think Eric Chatham's part of the group that's trying to kill me?'

  'Possibly. I told you they'd risen to top positions. But this might be coincidental,' Father Baldwin said. 'Did Chatham know your father?'

  'Very well.'

  Then he might be acting out of loyalty, to try to protect you.'

  Tess raised her hands, intensely frustrated. 'There's just one problem with that logic.'

  'Oh?' Father Baldwin waited.

  'Only the enemy knew I was at my mother's house last night.'

  'Not true. There was Brian Hamilton, and of course, my associates.'

  'But Brian Hamilton's dead!' Tess said. 'My point hasn't changed. The Alexandria police chief learned I was being hunted because Craig told him. But how did Chatham find out?'

  Father Baldwin's eyes blazed. 'You're suggesting he received his information from the men who attacked your mother's house and failed to capture you?'

  'It certainly makes sense to me,' Craig said.

  'Perhaps.' Father Baldwin shook his head. 'But what troubles me is that the connection's so obvious. Since twelve forty-four and the vermins' escape from Montsegur, the heretics have survived because of their talent for hiding. Over the centuries, they've greatly improved their ability to deceive. If Chatham is an enemy, would he take the risk, would he violate his training and draw suspicion to himself by acting so directly?'

  'If he and his group felt desperate enough.' Tess pivoted toward a religious painting, then whirled back toward Father Baldwin. 'By calling Chief Farley and insisting that the FBI take over, Chatham has already accomplished part of their goal. They want to kill me because of the photographs and what I know. But this way, I still haven't been able to tell the authorities.'

  Father Baldwin didn't answer for a moment. 'You may be right. But there's only one way to learn.'

  Tess breathed. 'Yes. To call him.' Apprehensive, she reached for the sheet of paper upon which Craig had written Chatham's phone number.

  'Wait,' Father Baldwin said.

  'A minute ago, you were urging me to.'

  'The situation's changed. Now that we've isolated a possible target, I need to teach you how to react to what Chatham tells you. Meanwhile, other arrangements have to be made. They're mundane but necessary.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'It's after seven.'

  'So what?'

  'You have to eat.'

  'Forget it. Food's the last thing I'm interested in. I probably couldn't keep it down.'

  'But you're useless to me if you're exhausted. My informants tell me you don't eat meat. Would fish be acceptable?"

  Tess felt intimidated by Father Baldwin's intimate knowledge of her habits. At the same time, she felt indignant. But the priest's forceful tone had its effect.

  'If you're that determined,' Tess said, 'go ahead, although I don't know why my permission matters. You'll do it anyhow. Sure. Yeah, fish will be fine.'

  'And Lieutenant, what about you?'

  'A week ago, I'd have ordered steak and fries,' Craig said. 'But now, after having met Tess. Whatever she recommends to eat is good enough for me.'

  'I'll also need your clothing sizes,' Father Baldwin said. 'What you're wearing is torn and reeks of smoke. Since you'll soon be out in public, to avoid attracting attention, you'll have to put on fresh clothes.'

  'For the second time today,' Tess murmured and discovered she was trembling.

  TWO

  Eric Chatham stood at the bottom of the steps that led to the Lincoln Memorial, its massive statue and white marble columns glowing eerily in the darkness. This section of the circular street around the memorial was closed to traffic, but to his right, headlights of vehicles approached along Daniel French Drive to stop at a parking lot, visitors getting out to stroll around and enter the memorial. Chatham studied those cars and visitors, waiting for a man to walk toward him and mention that he'd come from Tess Drake.

  The night was warm. All the same, Chatham's stomach felt crammed with jagged chunks of ice. He brooded, unable to subdue his misgivings. It wasn't just that he'd agreed, against all his instincts, to meet in this unorthodox, potentially dangerous way. It was also that this was the second such unorthodox meeting he'd had today, the first during noon hour at Arlington National Cemetery with Kenneth Madden, the CIA's Deputy Director of Covert Operations. The meetings were related, and Chatham was more convinced that something disastrous was about to happen. He thought of Melinda Drake's murder and corrected himself. No, not about to happen. Now. His years of experience as the Bureau's director told him that whatever was wrong had already begun and might even be out of control.

  Tess was frightened, that much was certain. When she'd called him two hours ago, he'd been alarmed by her trembling voice, her desperate tone. Before he had a chance to explain why he needed to talk to her, she'd interrupted, claiming that she knew who'd killed her mother, that she had important information about the murder, but that she couldn't reveal it over the phone. She had to tell him about - to let him see - the evidence in person.

  Then come to my office. No,' Chatham had said, 'it's more private at my home.'

  'But I can't trust either place!'

  'Forgive me, Tess, but don't you think you're taking precautions to an extreme?'

  'After everything I've been through? Eric, you have no idea. In my position, you'd be.!'

  'Okay. Calm down. If you believe you're in that much danger, I'll arrange for special agents to guard my house.'

  'No! The meeting has to be on my conditions! If you were truly a friend of my father, you'll do your best to help me stay aliv
e!'

  Chatham had hesitated. 'Yes. For your father. Anything.'

  'Some friends of mine will pick you up and bring you to where I feel safe.'

  'Agreed.'

  'You'll come alone,' Tess had said.

  'I don't like that, but again, all right.' Chatham's forehead had suddenly throbbed.

  'It has to be that way, so my friends can make sure you're not followed. The people who want to kill me might be watching you.'

  'Again, you're being extreme.'

  'No, Eric, practical! If I'm not careful, they'll use you to find me. It doesn't matter who you are. The heretics have proven how determined they are to stop me.'

  'Heretics?' The word had frozen Chatham's spine. 'What are you talking about?'

  'You mean you pretend. You're claiming you really don't know?

  'If I did, would I.?'

  'Be there. I'm begging you! Please!' Tess had named the specifics of the rendezvous. 'I'll be waiting for my friends to bring you to where I'm hiding.'

  Now, in the darkness, Chatham glanced nervously at the luminous dial on his watch. Eleven-ten. Amid tourists at the base of the dramatically lit columns and statue of the Lincoln Memorial, he felt chilled in his short-sleeved cotton sweater, despite the night's warmth. After all, the rendezvous was supposed to have occurred ten minutes ago, and although the man who'd been sent to take him to Tess was probably scouting the area to make sure that Chatham had come alone and hadn't been followed by Tess's enemies, the FBI director couldn't help feeling exposed among the numerous passing tourists, any one of whom might be a threat.

  Keep control, he told himself. You'll soon be as paranoid as Tess sounded.

  Soon be? I already am! I wish I hadn't-

  A man stopped beside him and took a photograph of the memorial. He had an average build, nondescript face, and neutral clothes. 'It probably won't turn out.' The man shook his head. 'I brought the wrong speed of film.'

  'You never know. You might get lucky,' Chatham said, tensing, completing the identification code.

  'Tess Drake,' the man said, taking another picture up the stairs toward Lincoln's statue beyond the spotlit looming pillars. 'You came alone?'

  'As I promised.'

  'Not to doubt your word, but I checked to make sure.'

  Chatham shrugged. 'I assumed.'

  'In that case, are you ready to take a ride?'

  'Anything to find out what's going on. Let's do it.' Chatham.urned impatiently to the right toward the murky, tree-enclosed Parkmg lot at the end of Daniel French Drive.

  'No, we go this way.' The neutral-faced man with the camera jerked his head in the opposite direction. 'On your left.'

  Chatham scowled. 'Left? But.' Turning his nervous eyes in that direction, he saw a waist-high metal barricade that prevented cars from driving completely around the memorial.

  Beyond the barricade, numerous headlights flashed by. Chatham heard the din of speeding cars swarming loudly across Arlington Memorial Bridge to veer farther left, away from the Lincoln Memorial onto Twenty-third Street.

  'Yeah, I know,' the man with the camera said. There's no parking lot over there. Not to worry. Everything's been taken care of.' He reached inside a leather camera case strapped to his waist and removed a cellular telephone.

  Quickly tapping numbers, he listened, then spoke as quickly. 'All clear. We're ready. Two minutes? Good. That's about how long it'll take us.'

  The man placed the telephone back in his camera case. 'Would you care for a stroll, Mr Chatham?' Not waiting for an answer, the man touched Chatham's arm and guided him toward the left, toward the metal barricade.

  They skirted it, passing trees whose lush boughs obscured the stars and whose thick trunks flanked an unused, weed-grown section of road.

  'If you're wondering,' the man said, I'm not alone. My companions are watching in case anyone's foolish enough to try to come after us.'

  Nervous, Chatham managed to say, 'The Bureau's training team at Quantico might benefit by taking lessons from you.'

  The man with the camera - which wasn't a camera at all but somehow a weapon, perhaps a hidden gun, Chatham suspected -merely gestured with his free hand. 'We'd never agree to do it, but a compliment is always appreciated.'

  'What I'd appreciate is to know what on earth is-'

  'Soon, Mr Chatham. Soon.'

  They approached the lights and the noise of the off-bridge traffic on the busy thoroughfare. Beyond the trees, on the gravel shoulder, the average- looking man paused, blocking Chatham's way, and in the glare of passing headlights, Chatham realized that the man's ordinary-seeming build was actually sinewy and lithe. Feeling the exhaust-laden wind from the rushing traffic, Chatham concluded that this man was probably more in condition than even the best of his bodyguards.

  'So now.?' Chatham asked.

  'We wait. But not for long. You heard me say "two minutes". I misjudged, however. We're ahead of schedule.' The escort pointed.

  A van sped off the Arlington Memorial Bridge, veered from the myriad glinting headlights, and stopped at the gravel shoulder. A side hatch slid quickly open.

  'After you,' the neutral-faced man indicated.

  Chatham clambered in, uneasy.

  Other neutral-faced men nodded in greeting, their attempt at reassurance negated by their weapons.

  As Chatham sat between two of them - no choice, the only place available - his escort followed, hunkered on the floor, and slammed the hatch shut. The van's engine roared. The vehicle skidded from the shoulder, gaining traction, squealing back into traffic.

  In the passenger seat in front, a man spoke into a cellular phone. 'He wasn't followed? Good. You know where to meet us.' He set down the phone and turned. 'Welcome, Mr Chatham. Thanks for cooperating.'

  'But was all of this really necessary?'

  The stranger merely stared at him, as if the answer was self-evident.

  'Who are you?' Chatham asked.

  'Tess explained that earlier. We're friends.'

  'I'll believe that when I see her. How soon will it be until we get to where she is?'

  The man in front looked amused. 'Sooner than you think.'

  Chatham frowned, not understanding.

  At once, surprised, he did understand when he heard a familiar voice.

  'I'm right behind you, Eric.'

  Chatham spun, his surprise increasing.

  Tess, who'd been crouched out of sight in the rear compartment, rose to sit on a wooden crate. A burly, rugged-faced man in a dark blue sportshirt, its cuffs folded up, appeared beside her.

  Tess grinned, although to Chatham the expression seemed forced, and that made him nervous.

  'It's been a long time. Good to see you, Eric.'

  Chatham scowled, ignoring the pleasantry. 'But I thought. on the Phone, you said that these men would take me to where you were hiding.'

  'I'm sorry I had to mislead you. In case your phone was tapped and you were under surveillance at the memorial. The way we arranged your pickup, we don't think this van can be followed. But if it is, the enemy will think it's leading them to me. They won't suspect I'm inside. They won't attack it.'

  'Attack it? And you thought my phone might be tapped?' Chatham shook his head, baffled. 'My phone's checked every morning. Who could possibly tap it, or for that matter, who'd dare to take the risk of attacking this van while I was in it?'

  'The heretics.'

  Again, that disturbing word.

  'They didn't hesitate to kill Brian Hamilton,' Tess said.

  Chatham was too shocked to answer.

  'He was important. So why would they hesitate to kill the director of the FBI? To get at me,' Tess said, 'to achieve their goal, to stop me from revealing their secret, they'll do anything.'

  'What are you talking about? Secrets? Heretics?'

  Tess handed him several photographs and a penlight.

  More baffled, Chatham used the light to examine the photographs, all the while conscious that the neutral-faced men watched
him intensely.

  One of the images made Chatham grimace. 'A man on a bull, slicing its throat?'

  'A sculpture.'

  'Where did-?'

  'You've never seen anything like it before?' Tess asked.

  'No! Of course, not! My God, I'd certainly remember something this grotesque.'