With bittersweet emotion, Tess scanned the room, her complex layers of memory making her see it as if transparent photographs had been placed in front of one another, all the different stages of her youth: her childhood bed, her doll house (which her father had made), her stuffed play animals, then the larger bed and her baseball glove on the bureau, her bat and ball beside it, the posters of baseball and football stars that had given way to posters of rock stars and her stack of records beside her stereo, the books she'd studied in college (she'd refused to live in a dorm at Georgetown University, prefering to stay at home so she could be near her father).
All gone now. All lost and gone.
With a shudder of regret, she subdued her nostalgia, peered down at the book in her hand, and forced herself to pay attention to why she'd come here.
The Dove's Neck Ring. The title page indicated that the book by Ibn Hazm had been translated from Spanish by A. R. Nykl in 1931. Leafing through the introduction as she walked toward the bed, she learned that Ibn Hazm had been an Arab who'd emigrated from northern Africa to southern Spain in the early eleventh century and had written this book, a treatise on platonic love, in 1022.
Plato.
Tess suddenly remembered The Collected Dialogues of Plato that she'd seen on the bookcase in Joseph's bedroom. And she painfully remembered something else: Joseph's insistence that his relationship with her could never be physical, only platonic. That way is better,' he'd said. 'Because it's eternal.'
Dejected, she turned on the bedside lamp, reached for the switch that extinguished the overhead light, and slumped on the bed, propping pillows behind her, continuing to scan the book.
She could understand why her mother had found it boring. The book was an elaborate essay, not a narrative, and its stilted English translation tried to recreate the feel of medieval Spanish. It was crammed with homilies and abstractions.
According to the introduction, The Dove's Neck Ring had been extremely popular in its day, often copied by hand; the printing press had not yet been invented. Eventually the book had made its way upward through Spain to southern France, where in the mid-twelfth century it had been one of the texts that formed the basis for an idealized view of the relationship between men and women, known as courtly love.
The expression caught Tess's attention. She suddenly remembered another book that she'd seen in Joseph's bedroom: The Art of Courtly Love . But why had Joseph been fascinated by that subject?
Reading with greater curiosity, Tess learned that the notion of courtly love had appealed to and been sponsored by the then Queen of France, Eleanor of Aquitaine (the title of another book in Joseph's bedroom!), and later by Eleanor's daughter, Marie de France, both of whom had gathered poets and minstrels around them, directing them to compose verses and songs that celebrated a ritualized, highly polite and refined set of rules that dictated how men and women should behave toward one another.
Tess scrunched her forehead in confusion. She didn't know how these puzzling details fit together, but Joseph had obviously acted toward her in keeping with the strictest of the codes of courtly love.
While one branch of this ancient tradition treated courtly love as a type of foreplay, a prelude to sex, the other branch of the tradition had maintained that sex was an impure, imperfect form of love. According to the author of The Dove's Neck Ring, true love wasn't based on physical attraction but rather on an attraction between kindred spirits, compatible souls. These souls had once existed in harmony, during a pre-life that reminded Tess of heaven. When born into the physical world, the souls had been separated and thereafter felt incomplete, compelled to keep looking for one another, never to be satisfied until they met. Just as their original relationship had been pure, in the sense of non-physical, non-sexual, so their relationship in this world should be the same, uncontaminated by the vulgarities of the flesh. This idea of a heaven-like pre-life evidently came from Plato's dialogues (Tess again remembered the book by Plato in Joseph's bedroom), and the notion of non-sexual, highly spiritual affection between men and women was thus known as platonic love.
Tess scrunched her forehead harder, a deep corner of her sub-consciousness straining to understand. For certain, she'd felt an instant identification with Joseph the moment he'd entered the elevator when she'd first met him last Wednesday.
Had it been only a week ago?
But her reaction to Joseph had not been merely an identification.
Much more! An attraction. Powerful. What romantics liked to describe as love at first sight, but what the long-dead author of The Dove's Neck Ring would have called love at second sight.
All theory. Speculation. Surely it didn't explain Tess's overwhelming determination.
Courtly love? Plato? Why in God's name had Joseph been so obsessed with these ideas?
Her chest ached. On impulse, she glanced at her watch, surprised to discover that it was almost two a.m.
Although she'd told her mother that she was so disturbed she doubted she'd be able to sleep, she abruptly felt exhausted and decided to get out of her clothes, change into her shorts and T-shirt, and try to sleep.
But as she stood and removed her cotton pullover, she noticed the phone on the bedside table.
The mansion's air conditioning made her breasts cold, nipples rising.
Still, she hesitated, staring at the phone. I ought to call my loft and check if I've got any messages on my answering machine, she told herself.
No. It can wait till morning.
Sure.
But so much has…
I ought to make sure that nothing else has happened.
So she tapped buttons on the phone, listened to the static on the long-distance line, heard a buzz, then another buzz, and finally her voice on the answering machine. 'This is Tess. I can't answer the phone right now. Please leave a message at the tone.'
Immediately she tapped two more numbers, 24, her birthdate, the security code that she'd programmed into her answering machine and would prevent anyone else from calling her home, pressing two numbers at random, and gaining access to her messages.
A man's gravelly voice was instantly recognizable. 'Tess, it's Lieutenant Craig. The time is' – garbled voices in the background - 'quarter-after-five. Call me at the office as soon as you can.'
A beep signalled the end of the message.
Curious – shivering because of it – Tess waited to hear if she had any other messages.
'It's Lieutenant Craig again. Half-past six. Call me at once.'
Another beep.
The urgency in the lieutenant's voice made Tess even more anxious to hang up and phone him, but she resisted the impulse, still needing to know if she had other messages.
'It's Lieutenant Craig. It's almost eleven. Where the hell are you? Call me.'
This time, there were three beeps, the signal that all the messages had been replayed. Tess broke the connection, removed her wallet from her purse, found the card that Craig had given her, and decided that even though his first message had told her to call him at the office, he wouldn't be there now at two in the morning.
Quickly tapping numbers, she called his home.
Again she heard long-distance static, then a buzz, another buzz, and another.
By the fifth buzz, she began to suspect that Craig was at the office. By the sixth, she became certain and lowered her hand toward the disconnect lever so she could try his office. When her hand was an inch from the lever, a crusty voice said, 'Hello?' and coughed.
She pressed the phone hard against her ear. 'It's Tess. I'm sorry if I woke you, but your messages-'
'Where have you been! My God, you had me worried.'
'I'm in Alexandria, Virginia.' In the background, Tess heard soaring music, an orchestra, a chorus, a soprano hitting impossibly high notes.
' Alexandria? What are you doing there?' The soprano's voice swooped, then rose again.
'My mother lives here. I caught the six o'clock shuttle.'
'But you haven't a
nswered my question. What are you-?'
'Trying to explain what we saw in Joseph's apartment. My mother has contacts with the Library of Congress and…' Tess hesitated, not wanting to tell the lieutenant about her mother's powerful connections with the government because of her father. 'Is that opera I hear in the background?'
'Puccini's Madame Butterfly. Just a second. I'll turn it off.'
A moment later, the music stopped.
'I didn't know you liked opera,' Tess said. 'Somehow you don't seem the type to-'
'Listen to me,' Craig said. 'Don't ever leave town like that again! Not without telling me! You have to let me know where I can reach you. When I kept calling and you didn't answer your phone, I got worried that something had happened to you.'
'Well, in a way, something almost did.'
'What?'
Those pictures I took at Joseph's apartment. I left them at a one-hour photo shop while I packed. When I went back to the shop, the clerk told me that a man who claimed I'd sent him tried to get the photographs.'
'Jesus.'
The only way the man could have known about those pictures is if he'd followed us when we left Joseph's apartment and he saw me go into the photo shop,' Tess said with urgency.
That sure as hell sounds logical to me. Jesus,' the lieutenant said again and coughed. That's what I mean. You can't stay out of touch. You've got to let me know where you are and what you're doing. This might be dangerous for you.'
'There's more. I don't understand it, but when the clerk described the man, it sounded like Joseph. The man even had gray eyes. Could I have been wrong at the morgue? Could Joseph be alive! Could-?'
'No, Tess, you weren't wrong. That much I can guarantee. Whoever the man was, he very definitely wasn't Joseph.'
'But how can you be sure? How do you explain the gray eyes?'
'Coincidence maybe,' Craig said. 'I don't know, but-'
'You yourself said that the scar on the corpse's wrist wasn't enough for an absolute identification. Maybe that scar's a coincidence, too. Since the FBI hasn't been able to match the corpse's fingerprints with anyone in their files, maybe-'. 'No, Tess, we do have a match. That's one of the things I tried to call you about.'
'From the FBI?' Tess asked quickly. They know Joseph's real identity?'
'Not from the FBI. From our own lab. They dusted Joseph's apartment and matched the prints they found there with those from the unburned left hand on the corpse in the morgue. Tess, the fingerprints match. Point by point, they match and they also match fingerprints on Joseph's desk at Truth Video. Your identification's been verified. Joseph died in Carl Schurz Park.'
Tess's knees abruptly weakened. She sank toward the bed and shivered so much that she wrapped a sheet around her. Since the incident in the photo shop, her fear that someone might be following her had been tempered by the hope that whoever it was would be Joseph, that Joseph might somehow still be alive.
But now she suffered a renewed aching surge of grief, her stomach sinking, her chest hollow, her mind off-balance.
'Tess?'
She tried to answer.
'Tess?' Craig emphasized her name, sounding worried.
'I'm here. I'm… Yes, I'm all right.'
'For a moment, I thought… Look, I'm sorry. I guess I could have been more delicate.'
'I felt… Never mind. I'll be okay,' Tess said.
'You're sure?'
'All that matters now is getting even, finding out who killed Joseph and why.' Tess shook her head, bitter. 'You said the matching fingerprints were one of the reasons you tried to call. What else-?'
'It's about the photographs.' Craig paused.
'And?' Tess frowned. 'You're going to make me ask? What about them?'
'It's a good thing you took them, and a damned good thing the clerk didn't give them to the guy who claimed you'd sent him.'
'What's wrong?'
'Someone broke into Joseph's apartment. They torched his bedroom.'
Tess jerked upright, the sheet falling off her shoulders. 'Torched it?'
'Almost burned the whole top floor before the fire department put it out. It's a miracle no one was hurt.'
'Christ, when did this happen?'
'Four o'clock.'
'About the same time the guy was trying to steal my pictures.'
'Which are the only record of what we found in Joseph's apartment,' Craig said.
'But I thought you said Homicide got there before we did and took photographs.'
'I was wrong,' Craig said. 'What they sent was a fingerprint team. When they saw the bedroom, they decided they wanted pictures. The photographer was scheduled to show up in the afternoon.'
'But he didn't?'
'Not in time. After all, the apartment wasn't a crime scene. There didn't seem any urgency.'
'Oh, shit.'
'Just make sure those photographs are safe. Hide them. Have copies made from the negatives,' Craig said.
'First thing tomorrow morning.'
'Several copies. Keep another set. Are you coming back to Manhattan tomorrow?'
'I don't know yet,' Tess said. 'I still have things to check.'
Then send the other copies to me. Federal Express.' Craig gave his office address at One Police Plaza. 'There's one other problem.'
'I'm not sure I want to hear it.'
'After the Fire Department put out the blaze, when they thought it was safe, they let me search the torched apartment. That building has concrete floors. There wasn't any risk of my falling through or of anything else having fallen through.'
'I don't know what you're getting at,' Tess said nervously.
'I had to use a pole to move sections of the toppled ceiling and walls. But I knew where to look, so it didn't take me long to clear the spot I wanted.'
'What spot? What are you-?'
'Where the bookcase was,' Craig said. 'Where the statue stood on the bookcase. The books were destroyed, as you'd expect. So was the bookcase. Just ashes. But the statue was made of marble, and marble doesn't burn. It might crack from heat, but… I kept looking. The statue couldn't have fallen through the concrete floor, and when it toppled from the bookcase, it couldn't have rolled very far. It's gone, Tess. The statue's gone! Whoever torched the apartment must have taken it when they left. I don't know what the hell's happening, but I want you to promise me. Swear it. Be careful!'
SEVEN
East of Maine. The North Atlantic.
The United States Coast Guard cutter Sea Wolf, out of Portland, continued its speedy mission through a moderately choppy sea.
Clouds obscured the moon and stars, intensifying the night, although even in daylight the Sea Wolfs destination was still too far away to have allowed for a visual identification. On the cutter's bridge, Captain Peter O'Malley could see his objective as a blip on the radar, however, and its implications made him frown.
'Distance: fourteen thousand yards,' a crewman said. 'Looks like air reconnaissance was right, Captain. Its course is erratic. Minimal speed.'
O'Malley nodded. Six hours earlier, a group of Air Force F-15 fighter pilots practising night maneuvers in a military corridor off the New England coast had noticed the blip on their radar screens. Its unusual behavior had prompted the flight group's leader to radio his commander at Loring Air Force Base near Limestone, Maine, and request permission to contact the vessel. Permission was granted, but all attempts to communicate with the vessel had failed.
'Identify yourself.'
No response.
'Do you need assistance?'
No response.
After repeated efforts, the group's leader had requested further permission to change course and descend for a visual inspection. Again, permission was granted. After all, the vessel's radio silence combined with its puzzling, slow, random course and its proximity to United States waters justified concern. At a cautious distance, using intense-magnification night-vision apparatus, the flight group's leader determined that the vessel was a massive fishing traw
ler. English lettering on the stern indicated that the trawler's name was the Bronze Bell, its home port Pusan, South Korea. The English lettering wasn't unusual – many Oriental commercial ships used English identification symbols when operating in Western waters.
What was unusual, indeed disturbing, however, was that in addition to its erratic sluggish approach toward US waters, the trawler displayed no lights, not even the mandatory signal lights that maritime law required during night voyages to prevent converging vessels from failing to see each other and colliding.
The troubled commander at Loring Air Force Base insisted on confirmation. The equally troubled flight group leader repeated that the trawler was totally – 'I mean, absolutely'-dark. The situation became delicate, the potential for an international incident disturbing. A misjudgment could destroy careers.
If the approaching foreign vessel had been military in nature, the United States military would have gone on alert. But since the vessel was civilian, it required a less severe response. The Air Force immediately contacted the Coast Guard, and since O'Malley's cutter was the nearest government vessel in the area, the Sea Wolf was at once dispatched to investigate.
Now, five hours after having received his orders, O'Malley – a red-haired, twenty-year veteran with a home in Portland and a wife and daughter whom he loved very much – continued to frown at the blip on the radar screen.
'That's it, Captain,' a crewman said. 'She just crossed the two-hundred mile boundary. She's in our waters.'
'And drifting.' O'Malley sounded as if his best friend had died.
'That's what it looks like, Captain.'
'And still no response to our radio messages.'
'Affirmative, Captain.'
O'Malley sighed. 'Battle stations.'
The crewman pressed the alarm. 'Aye, aye, Captain.' Through the cutter's hull, the alarm sounded muffled but effectively shrill. Below, it would be excruciating, the rest of the crew snapping into action. 'You think there'll be trouble?'
The Covenant Of The Flame Page 15