The Covenant Of The Flame

by David Morrell

  But she wasn't showing off. If anyone was following her, she wanted to get away from the postman as fast as possible. She hoped desperately that no one had seen her hand over the envelope. Too many deaths already. Too much grief. She prayed that she hadn't put the postman's life in danger as well.

  Back on the road, veering in and out of traffic, trying to make it difficult for anyone to keep up with her, Tess drove as quickly as she dared without the risk of being stopped by the police for violating the speed limit.

  Her destination was Washington, as Craig had advised.

  But not the Capitol Building.

  No way! Not anymore!

  She had a better idea.

  Not a safer one.

  But it was definitely more important.

  More critical.

  The statue. That grotesque, repulsive statue. Her life was threatened because she knew about the damned thing. She had to find out what it meant, and there was only one person she could think of who might be able to tell her.

  FIFTEEN

  Slumped in the back seat of his limousine, en route from the tennis club to his office, the vice president brooded about the woman that the deputy director for CIA covert operations had warned him about.

  Tess Drake?

  Why did it have to be her who threatened him?

  During his friendship with her late father, Alan Gerrard had frequently met Tess when she was a teenaged, gangly, sensuous tomboy. Her lean, athletic body, combined with her trim, perky breasts and short, blond, saucy hair, had appealed to him.

  Not in a sexual way, of course. Not at all. Despite the president's assumption that Gerrard, like many politicians, took advantage of fund raisers to have sex with politically important groupies, the truth was that Gerrard, through stern discipline, had trained himself to repress his sexual urges.

  Gerrard was married. Yes. And his wife was beautiful, photogenic, often featured in the top magazines. But his wife upheld his pure, rigid values, and during their twenty-year marriage, in the thousands of nights that they'd shared the same bed – as companions, as helpmates, as soul mates – they'd engaged in sex a total of only three times, and during those three ritualistic occasions, they'd permitted themselves to experience the base pleasures of the flesh strictly for the purpose of producing children.

  No, Gerrard's attraction to Tess had not at all been carnal. On the contrary, he'd merely admired her as a fine example of a blossoming, healthy, young woman, a perfect example of the human species, and now it deeply troubled him that she, of all people, given her biological perfection, had become a threat and would have to be killed. His distress did not prevent him, however, from dearly hoping that Tess would be silenced as immediately as could be arranged.

  In the back seat, the phone buzzed. Gerrard straightened and hurriedly picked up the phone. Only a few people had this number, and no one called it unless the matter was important.

  Perhaps the message related to Tess. Perhaps she'd already been found and silenced.

  'One moment, sir,' a woman's voice said. The president is calling.'

  Gerrard subdued his disappointment.

  With amazing promptness, Clifford Garth's voice growled, 'Pack your bags. You're taking another trip.'

  Gerrard made a pretense of sighing as he replied to the man whose funeral he'd attend as the newly appointed president ten days from now. 'What is it this time? A fund raiser in Idaho? Any excuse to get me out of town?'

  'No. Overseas. Spain's president just died from a heart attack. I've already sent my condolences. You'll be our official representative at the funeral.'

  Funerals, Gerrard thought. Apparently I'll be going to a lot of them. He regretted the deaths, no matter how much they were necessary.

  'If that's what you want.'

  'Right. You just keep thinking like that,' Garth growled. 'You do everything I want, and we might even get along. I doubt it, though.'

  With an expletive, the president broke the connection.

  Pensive, Gerrard set down the cellular phone. He wasn't totally surprised by the news of the Spanish president's death. The media had reported that the man's health had not been good lately. However, to be sure, the Spanish president's dwindling condition had been encouraged, and in that respect, the only true surprise was that the politician's death had occurred much sooner than the schedule Gerrard had been told about indicated.

  Spain. The country was fascinating. Like England, it had a parliamentary monarchy. If the king died, his oldest child would take his place, and his next oldest child after that, or perhaps his wife, or his nearest cousin, or… There was no way to control the succession. But the Spanish parliament was another matter. Its president, chosen by the Congress of Deputies, could be eliminated and replaced by another official. And that official, carefully placed, elected by the pressure of blackmailing various members of the Spanish Congress of Deputies, would be sympathetic to Gerrard's concerns. After all, they were relatives, admittedly distant, but neither time nor separation could mute their bond. Each of them, and many others who shared Gerrard's spirit and mission, would soon fulfill their common destiny.

  Spain. How appropriate, Gerrard thought.

  SIXTEEN

  Eric Chatham, Director of the FBI, walked somberly up a slope past brilliant white tombstones in Arlington National Cemetery. Trim, in his forties, his face lined with weariness from the responsibilities of his profession, he turned to study the cluster of smog-veiled trees at the bottom of the hill. In the distance, even more veiled with smog, the white marble obelisk of the Washington Monument towered. Chatham tried to remember the last time he'd seen the Monument totally unobscured. With concern, he watched a car stop on a lane a distance from where his own was parked. Kenneth Madden, Deputy Director of Covert Operations for the CIA, got out of the car's back seat, left his bodyguards, and proceeded up the hill to join him.

  The two men assessed each other. Although in theory the FBI and the CIA had different mandates and jurisdictions, in practice those mandates and jurisdictions often blurred, sometimes making the two organizations rivals. For Madden to visit Chatham at his office, or vice versa, would have been sufficiently unusual that reporters might have taken notice. Similarly they couldn't have met at a restaurant or a comparable public place, where their joint presence would not only have attracted attention but their conversation could easily have been overheard. A phone call was the simplest solution, and indeed Madden had called but only to explain that he had something delicate to discuss and they ought to do it in person. Arlington Cemetery had been acceptable. Few people would notice them here.

  'Thanks for agreeing to meet me on such short notice,' Madden said. 'Especially during lunch hour.'

  Chatham shrugged. 'It's hardly a sacrifice. I don't have much of an appetite today.'

  'I know what you mean. My own stomach's sour.'

  'Because of what happened to Brian Hamilton?'

  Madden nodded mournfully. 'It was quite a shock.' He surveyed the grave stones. 'I realized only after we agreed to meet here that we'll be back on Monday for the funeral.'

  'I wasn't aware that you and Brian were close,' Chatham said.

  'Not as close as the two of you, but I thought of him as a friend. At least as much as most people in this town can be a friend to anyone else. We sometimes worked together in matters related to the National Security Council.'

  The Deputy Director of CIA covert operations didn't elaborate, and the FBI Director knew that it would be a breach of professional ethics for him to do so.

  'What did you want to see me about?' Chatham asked.

  Madden hesitated. 'Another tragedy occurred last night. The fire and the deaths at Melinda Drake's house.'

  Chatham inwardly stiffened but showed no reaction. 'Yes. The widow of Remington Drake. I agree. Another tragedy.'

  'I tried to phone Melinda Drake's daughter in New York. To express my condolences. I couldn't reach her. But the editor at the magazine where she works told me tha
t Theresa – Tess – decided to fly down and visit her mother in Alexandria last night. I'm afraid that whoever set fire to the house and killed her mother – I can't imagine why – may have tried to kill Tess as well. But so far, the fire investigators haven't found her body in the wreckage. That makes me suspect that Tess escaped. If so, she's apparently in hiding, too afraid to surface.'

  'Perhaps,' the FBI Director said. The assumption's reasonable. But what's your interest in this matter? Do you know Tess? Did you know her father?'

  Madden shook his head. 'Tess? Not at all. But her father? By all means. In the old days, I often briefed him on hazardous conditions in various countries where he was going to negotiate for the State Department. And when he died… the way he died… the way those bastards tortured him… well, I wish he'd been one of my operatives. I despise what happened to him, but God bless him, he didn't talk. He was a hero, and his daughter – for his sake -deserves the full protection of the government.'

  The FBI Director squinted. 'Protection of…? Be specific.'

  'I got a call this morning.' Madden gestured. 'From Alan Gerrard. Hey, whatever your opinion of the vice president, I listen – and you would, too – when he gives an order. He and Remington Drake were as close as you are – were - to Brian Hamilton. Gerrard wants every pertinent government agency to do what they can to help her. That means you and me. The Bureau and the Agency.'

  'I have trouble with… This is a domestic issue,' Chatham said. 'It doesn't come under your jurisdiction.'

  'No argument. I'm just telling you what the vice president said, and in fact, that's why I'm here. Because this is a domestic issue. At least so far as I can tell, although the Agency's checking further. I don't want to cause more rivalry between us. The ball's in your court. What the vice president would appreciate is for you to make a call to the Alexandria police. If Tess Drake surfaces and gets in touch with them, the V.P. would be grateful – he emphasized that word – grateful - if you instructed the local police to turn the matter over to you and then to contact the vice- president's office as well as mine, just in case in the meantime we do discover that this is more than a domestic matter.'

  Chatham scowled, assessing the Deputy Director from the CIA. He wasn't used to sharing information with the Agency.

  At the same time, his friendship with Brian Hamilton insisted. He was sorely determined to find out if the death of his friend had truly been an accident.

  'He phoned me last night,' Chatham said.

  'Who?'

  'Brian. He insisted on coming to my home. I expected him around eleven o'clock. He told me he needed a personal favor. He said it related to Remington Drake, his widow, and his daughter.'

  Madden, who seemed to have a perpetual tan, turned gray. 'You're telling me that Brian's death and what happened at Melinda Drake's house…!'

  'Might be related? I don't know. But I certainly intend to find out. Tell the vice president I'll cooperate. I'll talk to the Alexandria police chief. I'll make arrangements to take over and relay information.'

  'I guarantee the vice president will appreciate-'

  'Appreciate? Fuck him. I don't care what he appreciates! All I care about is Brian, Remington Drake's widow, and his daughter.'

  'So do I, Eric. So do I. But since Brian's dead… and Remington Drake's wife… we have to concentrate on the living. On Tess. For our friends, we need to do our best to protect her.'

  Chatham grimaced. 'Lord help me.'

  'What's wrong?'

  'You have my word,' Chatham said. 'But I have to tell you, I don't like working this close with the Agency.'

  'Relax. It's one time only. And the goal's worth the compromise.'

  That's exactly what we've got. A compromise. One time only.'

  'For now. This time,' Madden said, extending his hand.

  Chatham hesitated. Reluctantly, he shook with him. 'I'll be in touch.'

  'And I know you'll do your usual best.'

  Tense, they separated, each passing brilliant white grave stones down the slope toward his car.

  After Madden nodded to his bodyguards and his chauffeur, he paused, turned, and stared back toward the cemetery. Although his group had a primary plan for finding Tess Drake, Madden's experience in CIA covert operations had taught him always to have a backup plan, and now that plan too was in motion.

  He came close to smiling.

  But triumph fought with melancholy. Madden regretted that Brian Hamilton would be buried here on Monday. A necessary sacrifice.

  Even so, he didn't regret at all that ten days from now there'd be another funeral here – for the president.

  And that Alan Gerrard would assume control.

  SEVENTEEN

  Trembling, Tess braked the Porsche to a stop outside a well-maintained Victorian house near Georgetown, grabbed her purse with its reassuring pistol, and hurried up the steps to the wide porch, pressing the doorbell.

  No one answered.

  She rang the bell again.

  Still no answer.

  Nervous, she wasn't surprised. At least, not exactly. The man who lived here, her former art professor at Georgetown University, was renowned for spending his summer vacation in his back yard, tending, caring for, whispering to his magnificent collection of lilies.

  But that had been in the old days, Tess remembered with painful nostalgia. After all, she hadn't seen her beloved professor since she'd graduated six years ago.

  Professor Harding had been old even then. Perhaps he'd retired. Or perhaps he'd gone to Europe to study the art he so worshipped and the enthusiasm for which he so ably communicated in his courses.

  All Tess knew was that he'd treated his students as if they were part of his family. He'd welcomed them to his home. At sunset, amid the glorious lilies in his garden, he'd offered them sherry but not too much – he didn't want to cloud their judgment – and described the glories of Velazquez, Goya, and Picasso.

  Spanish. Professor Harding had always been partial to the genius of Spanish art. The only competition for Harding's admiration had been…

  Tess stepped from the porch and rounded the side of the house, proceeding toward the back yard. After so many years, she hadn't remembered Professor Harding's phone number, and in any case, she'd felt too panicked, too exposed, too threatened, to stop at a phone booth and get his number from information. Needing somewhere to go, she'd decided to come here directly and take the chance he was home. There was no alternative. She had to know.

  But as she reached the back yard, her immediate fears were subdued. She felt a warm flush of love surge through her chest at the sight of Professor Harding – much older - distressingly infirm – as he straightened painfully from examining a waist-high lily stalk.

  The back yard was glorious with the flowers. Everywhere, except for a maze of narrow paths that allowed visitors to stroll in admiration, the garden was filled with abundant, myriad, trumpet-shaped, resplendent, many-colored tributes to God's generosity.

  Tess faltered amid the beauty. She clutched her purse and the weight of its pistol, reminding herself of how far she'd come, not necessarily forward, since leaving Georgetown University. How she wished she was back there.

  Professor Harding turned and noticed her. 'Yes?' Trembling, he fought to maintain his balance. 'You've come to see my…?'

  'Flowers. As usual, they're wonderful!'

  'You're very kind.' Professor Harding used a cane and hobbled toward her. To my regret, there once was a time…'

  'Your regret?'

  'The poisonous air. The equally poisonous rain. Eight years ago…'

  'I was here,' Tess said. 'I remember.'

  'The lilies were…' Professor Harding, wrinkled, alarmingly aged, sank toward a redwood bench. His white hair was thin and wispy, his skin slack, dark with liver spots. 'What you see is nothing. A mockery. There once was a time, when nature was in control… The lilies used to be so…'He stared toward his cane and trembled. 'Next year…' He trembled increasingly. 'I won't subjec
t them to this poison. Next year, I'll let them rest in peace. But their bulbs will be safely stored. And perhaps one day grow flowers again. If the planet is ever purified.'

  Tess glanced defensively backward, clutching the outline of her handgun in her purse, then approaching.

  'But do I know you?' Professor Harding asked. He steadied his wire-rimmed glasses and squinted in concentration. 'Why, it's Tess. Can it actually be you? Of course. Tess Drake.'

  Tess smiled, her tear ducts aching. 'I'm so pleased you haven't forgotten.'

  'How could I possibly forget? Your beauty filled my classroom.'

  Tess blushed. 'Now you're the one who's being kind.' She sat beside him on the redwood bench and gently hugged him.

  'In fact, if I'm not mistaken, you were in many of my classes. Each year, you took a course.' The professor's voice sounded like wind through dead leaves.

  'I loved hearing you talk about art.'

  'Ah, but more important, you loved the art itself. It showed in your eyes.' Professor Harding squinted harder, as if at something far away. 'Mind you, in honesty, you weren't my best student…'

  'Mostly B's, I'm afraid.'

  'But by all means, you were certainly my most enthusiastic student.' The professor's thin, wrinkled lips formed a smile of affection. 'And it's so good of you to come back. You know, many students promised they would – after they graduated and all.' His smile faded. 'But as I learned to expect…'

  'Yes?'

  'They never did.'

  Tess felt a tightness in her throat. 'Well, here I am. Late, I regret.'

  'As you always came late for class.' The old man chuckled. 'Just a few minutes. I wasn't distracted. But it seems you couldn't resist a grand entrance.'

  Tess echoed the old man's chuckle. 'Really, I wasn't trying to make a grand entrance. It's just that I couldn't manage to get out of bed on time.'

  'Well, my dear, when you're my age, you'll find that you wake up at dawn.' The professor's frail voice faded. 'And often earlier. Much earlier.'