Angered by the article, her frustration intensifying, she opened her purse, removed the package of photographs, and studied them. The closeups of the titles on Joseph's bookcase immediately attracted her attention.
With equal immediacy, she noticed that the seatbelt sign was off and stood to walk up the aisle toward a row of phones mounted on the bulkhead at the front of the cabin. Using her credit card, she put a call through to New York and her favorite book store, the Strand, on lower Broadway.
'Lester? How's it going? Me? How'd you guess? Is my voice that distinctive? Well, yeah, a little fuzzy. I'm on a plane to Washington. No, just family business. Listen, can you do me a favor? I assume my credit's still good. It better be good. I drop a fortune in your store every month. So pay attention, okay? I've got a list. Are you ready?'
'Always, sweetheart. Anytime you want to…'
'Lester, will you give me a break?'
'Just trying to be friendly, my dear. Let's hear the titles.'
'The Consolation of Philosophy, The Collected Dialogues of Plato, The Millennium, Eleanor of Aquitane, The Art of Courtly Love, something in Spanish called The Circle of the Neck of the Dove.'
'Never heard of that one, dear.'
'Well, I've got plenty more.' Tess recited them.
'No authors, sweetheart?'
'From what I'm looking at, I can barely read the titles, let alone…'
'You sound in stress.'
'Stress? You don't know the half of it. Just get me those books as soon as possible.'
'Got it, sweetheart. I'll check our stacks. As you're well aware, we've got just about everything.'
'Send them to…' Tess almost said her loft in SoHo, but all at once, suspicious, remembering the incident at the photo shop, she told him the address for Earth Mother Magazine up from the Strand 's location on Broadway.
Stomach cramping, she replaced the phone and returned to her seat, ignoring the curious glance of the passenger who set down his USA Today.
Tess closed her eyes -
– in truth, squeezed them tightly, painfully shut when she anticipated -
– dreaded -
– her arrival at Washington National Airport and her eventual meeting with her mother.
Not just her mother. Her dead father's nemesis. That son of a bitch. That murderous bastard. That fucking Brian Hamilton.
THREE
Alexandria, Virginia.
Although the sun had just begun to set, every downstairs window of the colonial mansion was brilliantly lit, every outside floodlight gleaming. As the taxi steered through a tall, open, metal gate, Tess scanned the shrubs that bordered the fence, then directed her gaze toward the spacious, upwardly sloping lawn, the numerous, elaborate flower gardens, the magnificent, towering oaks (from one of which she'd fallen and broken her arm as a child; with painful fondness, she remembered her father rushing to help her), the fountain that she'd loved to wade in (what a tomboy I was, she thought and managed a smile).
At once her smile dissolved as the taxi continued along the extensive curved driveway, approaching the mansion and a silver Rolls Corniche parked below the white stone steps that led past columns to the huge double-doored entrance.
The Corniche had government plates. A chauffeur (bodyguard?) stood alertly next to it, his hands at his sides while he squinted toward the taxi.
No doubt about it. Brian Hamilton had arrived.
Tess paid the driver and got out of the taxi, staring at the chauffeur when she passed him, giving him a good look at her. Brian had presumably told the man what she looked like. With a nod, he stepped back, ignoring her, directing his attention toward the taillights of the taxi as it continued around the semicircle of the driveway and disappeared down the quiet, tree-lined street. Yes, definitely a bodyguard, Tess thought.
She carried her suitcase up the steps and hesitated beneath the portico, finally ringing the doorbell.
Ten seconds later, a butler in livery answered.
Tess hadn't been here in so long that she didn't recognize him. 'I've come to see my mother.'
'I know, Ms Drake. My name is Jonathan.' He gave her a solemn smile. 'Welcome. You're expected. If you please, let me carry your suitcase.' He shut the door when she entered and, with echoing footsteps, escorted her across the large, lofty, marble-floored vestibule toward the drawing room on the right. On the way, Tess noticed that a new Matisse had been added to the collection of paintings along the wall.
The drawing room's sliding oak door was closed. When the butler pulled it soundlessly open, Tess tried to appear calm the moment she saw her mother rise from a French Regency sofa to the left of the fireplace.
Theresa, dear, how wonderful to see you.' Her mother had never approved of her father's calling her Tess. Trim, tall, in her sixties, her mother looked ten years younger due to numerous face lifts that nonetheless gave her aristocratic features a pinched expression.
As always in the evening, she wore a formal dress, this one made of expensive amber silk that whispered when she walked, and considerable jewelry: a diamond necklace, matching earrings, a ruby brooch, a sapphire ring on one hand, her glinting, impressive engagement and wedding rings on the other (despite her husband's death six years ago, she persisted in wearing them), an emerald bracelet on one wrist, a gold Piaget watch on the other.
'Really, truly, how wonderful.' Like so many graduates of Radcliffe in the pure old days before that women's college had crassly (God help us, what's the world coming to?) been integrated with the men at Harvard, she walked as if a board had been strapped to her back, and with husky tones reminiscent of Lauren Bacall (who hadn't gone to Radcliffe), she tended to emphasize her words. 'It's been so long. You know how I miss you. You mustn't be such a stranger.'
By then, her mother had reached Tess and with the obligatory, fashionable, almost-kiss, brushed her right and then left cheek, barely touching, against Tess's.
'Yes, mother, and it's good to see you.' Tess managed to smile.
'Jonathan will take your suitcase to your room. Come in. Sit down. You must be exhausted from your travel.'
'Mother, it's only an hour's flight from New York.'
'Oh, really? Well, yes, I suppose that's true. Then why don't I see you more?'
Tess walked toward the French Regency chair placed across from and matching the sofa. 'My work keeps me awfully busy. I barely have time to do my laundry, let alone-'
'Your laundry.' Tess's mother cocked her head back. 'You do your own…? I keep forgetting. You want to be independent .'
That's right, mother.' Tess squirmed against the scrollwork on the chair while her eyes searched the room but, disturbingly, found no sign of Brian Hamilton. 'Independent.'
'And your work? How is your little magazine doing?'
'It isn't little, mother. And I think it's doing some good.'
'Well, that's what we want.' Tess's mother fidgeted on the sofa. 'It's about the environment? Something about pollution?'
Tess nodded. 'And the problem's getting worse.'
'Well, of course, at my age, I won't live long enough to – Never mind. The important thing is that you're happy.'
'Yes, mother. 'Despite her confused emotions… about Joseph's death, about the man whose description resembled him, the man who'd attempted to steal the photographs she'd taken of Joseph's bedroom… Tess managed a genuine smile. She imitated her mother's habit of emphasis. 'I am happy.'
'Well.' Her mother smoothed her dress. 'In that case.' She straightened her necklace. 'I suppose that's all that matters.' But she didn't looked convinced.
Tess felt self-conscious as her mother assessed her sneakers, jeans, and short-sleeved cotton pullover. 'I know, mother. You wish I'd dress like…'
'A lady. At the moment, you appear to have come from an athletic event. At the very least, you could have worn a brassiere.'
'I feel more comfortable this way, mother. Especially when it's so humid.'
'Humid? Precisely. Your pullover's so damp that
I can see your… I'll never forgive myself for allowing you to go to Georgetown University instead of one of the Seven Sisters.'
Tess bristled. 'It wasn't you who let me go. It was father.'
Tess's mother shook her head. 'That's an ancient topic. We've discussed it far too often. I'm sorry I raised it. Since we see each other so seldom, let's do our best to be agreeable.'
'That's all I want, mother.'
'Very well, then, it's settled. We'll be agreeable.' Tess's mother smoothed her dress again. 'I know you told me not to have dinner prepared, but I took the liberty of having Edna prepare some liver pate. You always enjoyed that, as I recall.'
'Very much,' Tess lied.
'And some tea, of course. I think we could all use some tea.'
As her mother picked up and daintily jingled a tiny silver bell, Tess peered around again. 'Speaking of all of us, I asked Brian Hamilton to meet me here.' Tess frowned. 'I think that's his Corniche in the driveway, but I don't-'
The door to the drawing room slid open. Tess swung her head sharply. A maid stepped in. She wore a uniform, complete with a bonnet, and carried a silver tray of toast and pate, placing them on a thirty-thousand-dollar antique table.
Someone else appeared, a man who wore a tuxedo and carried another silver tray upon which were tea cups and a two-hundred-year-old Japanese teapot. 'I apologize for taking so long on the phone, Melinda. I hope you don't mind. I thought I'd make myself useful and help Edna bring in the things.'
'Mind? Of course not. I'm sure Edna appreciates the courtesy, and no guest of mine can ever do anything wrong.'
The man set his tray beside the toast and pate on the table, then turned to Tess, and smiled. He was in his early sixties, but for all that, he was straight-backed, trim, solid, with thick, dark, superbly cut hair, and a rectangular, ruggedly handsome face. He photographed extremely well. In newspapers, the captions beneath the photographs usually emphasized his numerous medals from Vietnam and his legendary career as a maverick general in the Marines. His smile exaggerated the crinkles around his eyes and made him look more rugged. His voice was husky but with the smooth cadence of a TV announcer. 'How are you, Tess?' He held out his manicured, muscular hand.
Reluctantly Tess shook it. His grip was firm. 'I've been better, Brian. At the moment, I've got a problem.'
'So I gathered on the phone.' Brian turned toward the maid, then raised his eyebrows toward Tess's mother. 'But before we discuss…'
Tess's mother got the hint. That'll be fine, Edna. We can pour the tea ourselves.'
'As you like, ma'am.' Edna curtsied and left the room, pulling the door shut behind her.
'There,' Tess's mother said. 'Now I'm sure you wouldn't mind doing the honors, Brian.'
'Of course.' He picked up the teapot.
'No, wait,' Tess said. 'Before we… I'm really not…'
They frowned at her.
'… thirsty or hungry. I grabbed a pretzel in the airport.'
'Pretzel?' Tess's mother looked horrified.
'I'd like to get to the point,' Tess said. 'And Brian, since you're wearing your tuxedo, I assume that means you either just came from – or still plan to go to – the reception for the Soviet ambassador. I also assume that means you're anxious either to return or arrive there, so I won't keep you any longer than necessary. Believe me, I don't want to waste your time.' She tried not to sound sarcastic.
'Tess, you could never waste my time.' Brian set down the teapot, came around the table, and faced her. 'I told you on the phone, for the sake of old times… and your father… I want to do everything I can to help.'
'Exactly. My father.'
'We were friends,' Brian said.
'But that didn't stop you from sending him to Beirut.'
'Now honestly,' her mother said, 'if this conversation is going to be unpleasant, I don't intend to sit here and-'
'That's a good idea, mother. Why don't you leave? Brian and I have things to talk about.'
'No, Melinda, you stay right where you are. It's time we cleared the air,' Brian said. 'For all of us.' He sat beside Tess's mother and clasped her hand.
At once, for the first time, Tess had the suspicion that they might be having an affair. Her father's best friend? The man who'd sent that best friend to his death? Could that monster possibly be screwing his best friend's wife? The thought of the two of them in bed together made Tess so queasy that she wished she hadn't eaten the pretzel on the way from the airport.
'Okay, the three of us,' Tess said. 'That's fine with me. Just so long as I get what I want.'
'Your father was a committed diplomat,' Brian said. 'He went to that insanity in Beirut because he thought he could make a difference, help settle the violence among the Christians, the Moslems, and all their splinter groups. In his heart, he believed he could actually stop the killing.'
'You sound like you're making a speech,' Tess said.
Brian shrugged. 'An occupational hazard.'
'In fact, that bromide you just gave me, I think I read those same words in the Washington Post at the time of my father's death.'
'Possibly.' Brian looked despondent. 'Unfortunately, on occasion, because I'm asked so many questions, I'm forced to repeat myself.'
'But what you didn't tell the Post was that my father was sent to Beirut to negotiate an arms agreement with the side you wanted to win – the Christians. And you also didn't tell the Post that your security was so damned sloppy that the Moslems found out and kidnapped my father to stop him from completing the arms deal.'
'Now, Tess, that's all speculation.'
'Don't treat me like a fool. The Moslems wanted my father to confess about US interference on the side of the Christians. But my father wouldn't confess no matter what they did to him, no matter how much they tortured him. So they beat him, they starved him, and when he still wouldn't talk, they slit his throat and dumped him into a gutter. As an example to America not to interfere.'
'Tess, that's your interpretation. Weapons had nothing to do with it. He was there as a well-intentioned negotiator, pure and simple.'
'Nothing about what you bastards do is pure and simple.'
Tess's mother flinched. 'I refuse to tolerate vulgar language in-'
'No, let her finish, Melinda. For once and for all, we'll settle this,' Brian said.
'I know what you ordered my father to do. I know he disapproved of the assignment but wouldn't refuse an order from the White House,' Tess said. 'How do I know? Because I overheard his conversations on the phone. And when he brought documents from work, I not only secretly read them. I made copies before he shredded them.'
'If you did, Tess, that's a breach of national security. There are serious penalties for…'
'As serious as what happened to my father? What would you do to me? Put me in jail? Of course not. I'd talk. So unless you want another Iran-Contra-arms scandal, you'd have to kill me!'
'That's enough.' Tess's mother jerked upright. That's all I intend to hear. Your father was a great man, and I won't listen to you sully either his or Brian's reputation!'
'No, Melinda, wait.' Brian clasped her hand again, his voice disturbingly calm. 'I think Tess is almost finished. I believe she's leading up to something. And when she finally gets to the point, I suspect we'll finally settle the ghost that haunts us. Tess, excuse me, but if I can be allowed to be vulgar, cut to the chase. What in hell do you want?'
Tess inhaled and answered as calmly as she could. 'Whenever I see your name in the newspaper, I look away in fury. But I don't live in limbo. I hear things. Despite the change in administration, I gather you're still very much associated with the government.'
'That's correct.' Brian straightened.
'With the National Security Council, among other things,' Tess said.
'An unsubstantiated rumor.'
'Hey, Brian, we're talking about pay-off time! A favor in exchange for my silence! I won't forgive you for what you ordered my father to do, but I swear – God help me – if you
do what I want, I'll never raise the subject again!'
The rugged-faced war hero studied her. 'That's a tempting offer.'
'Then take it.'
The diplomat's eyes became more calculating. 'So what's your problem?'
Tess's cramped muscles abruptly went limp. 'I have… That is, I had… I don't know what to call him… A friend.'
Slowly, haltingly, for the next quarter-hour, Tess explained, describing her meetings with Joseph, his failure to join her at the park, her grotesque experience at the New York City morgue, her disturbing visit to Joseph's apartment. She ended her stressful account by displaying the photographs of the puzzling objects in Joseph's bedroom.
Brian studied the photographs. 'Weird. Are you sure your friend wasn't on drugs?'
'Drugs? No way. And he didn't drink either. He didn't even use aspirin. He was fanatical about his health.'
'But he acted as if he might have been followed. And…' Brian shook his head. 'I honestly… What do you want me to do?'
'Use your influence with the FBI and the CIA. I think that Joseph might have been Spanish. I know he assumed a false identity. The FBI has his fingerprints. Make copies of them and send them to Interpol. Get in touch with… Whatever it is you do, do it. Pretend the country's been threatened, if that gives you motivation. I want to know Joseph's real identity! I want to find out who killed him! And who tried to steal these photographs! And who might be following me! And-'
'Wait,' Brian interrupted. 'You believe… You're telling me you think you've been followed!'
'I'm so confused I don't know what to think.'
'All right. Calm down. Let me… All right, those photographs. Can I borrow them and make copies?'
The Covenant Of The Flame Page 13