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?'
'Not a chance. I won't let them out of my sight.'
'In other words, you don't trust me to keep them safe.'
'I'll have copies made myself and send them to you.'
'Very well,' Brian said. 'Clear enough. I have one more question.'
'I've got nothing to hide. Ask it.'
'You met this man three times, and only three times, and yet you feel this obligated to find out who killed him. Does that mean you fell in love with him?'
Tess glared defensively. 'It's more complicated than that. He was different. Special. Let's say I cared for him. So what?'
'Just so I know your motive.'
'My motive is justice, Brian. The same motive you're supposed to have. As long as it doesn't involve selling weapons in Beirut.'
'All right.' Brian stood, military straight. 'You'll hear from me.'
'The sooner, the.'
'Speed isn't always a virtue,' Brian said. 'But thoroughness? In that, I'm an expert.'
'Then prove it,' Tess said.
'One day, I hope you won't hate me.'
'I don't know why you would care. No.' Tess shook her head. 'That's wrong. I've got a suspicion, so Brian, if I'm right. for my father. and your relationship with my mother. bust your ass.'
'Theresa,' her mother objected.
'Mother, if you don't mind, keep out of this.'
'Oh, my.' Her mother clasped her mouth.
Brian extended his hand. 'A deal, Tess?'
'If you deliver? Yes, it's a deal.' She shook his hand. It was no longer firm.
'As soon as I can.'
'Knowing you and your skills.' Tess paused.
'You should have been a diplomat.'
'Far too ugly, Brian.'
'Perhaps you're right. Excuse me, Melinda. I've got some work to do.'
'Don't forget the reception for the Soviet ambassador,' Tess said bitterly.
'I haven't. But I've decided not to go. As you put it on the phone, fuck him. But by all means, with respect.'
'Yes, by all means.'
Brian Hamilton strode toward the oak door, slid it open, and disappeared.
'Really,' Tess's mother said, 'did he have to say.?'
' "Fuck"! Mother, for heaven's sakes, he's a war hero. If you're attracted to him, you'd better get used to hearing him use foul language on occasion.'
'Good gracious, I hope not.'
'Mother, didn't father ever say "fuck"?'
'Well, yes, but I ignored it.'
'Then you've got a problem. I've changed my mind. Hand me some of that toast. Pour me a cup of tea.'
'I'll ring for Edna.'
'No, mother. You'll pour the tea. And incidentally, I hate liver pate.'
FOUR
Parked down the shadowy street from the mansion in this elite district of Alexandria, Virginia, the chameleon's surrogate - his height, weight, and features equally unremarkable, except that his hair was sandy, not brown - sipped stale coffee from a plastic cup, his empty thermos on the seat beside him, next to his Browning 9 mm semiautomatic pistol concealed beneath his oversized metal briefcase.
The briefcase was open, a cord from an audio scanner plugged into the car's cigarette-lighter receptacle to use energy from the vehicle's battery. The scanner could not detect broadcasts from two-way radios, such as those used by the police and taxi drivers, which operated on a UHF frequency in the range of four-hundred megahertz. Instead the scanner was intended to intercept conversations from cellular telephones, such as those used in cars, which broadcast on a much higher frequency, the eight-hundred megahertz band.
While it was legal to possess equipment to eavesdrop on police transmissions, it was a punishable offense to own a receiver that intercepted broadcasts from car phones. Not that the chameleon's surrogate cared. He'd broken many laws in his career. This was the least of them.
Indeed he was prepared to break many more laws, and it didn't matter to him how serious they were. After all, he had his orders, a mission to complete, and so far this mission had gone smoothly. He'd had no difficulty in following the tall, blond, attractive, athletic-looking woman from Washington National Airport to here. At the moment, with an equal lack of difficulty, another member of his team was arranging to put a tap on the mansion's telephone system. Eventually the mansion itself would be bugged. Meanwhile this limited electronic surveillance would have to do.
Periodically the man, who wore an ordinary, medium-priced, business suit and had a talent for making himself virtually invisible in a crowd, heard a dim conversation from this-or-that frequency on his scanner. After listening carefully, he decided that their topics did not concern him.
Periodically as well, he turned on his car's engine so that the scanner wouldn't drain the vehicle's battery. Although he directed his stern attention toward the mansion and in particular toward the entrance and the exit from the semicircular driveway, he repeatedly darted his eyes both ahead and upward, in the latter case toward his rearview mirror.
What troubled him were headlights. If he saw any approaching him, he'd immediately shut off the car's engine, disengage the plug from the cigarette-lighter receptacle, place the cord in the briefcase, and close the lid. After all, this exclusive area was likely to be patrolled by police cars, the officers in which might be tempted to stop to ask him why he was out here at this hour.
That was the trouble with trying to establish an automobile surveillance site in an upper-class suburban neighborhood. Few people, if any, parked on the street. This night, however, the watcher had gotten lucky. A half-block down from the mansion, someone was having a party - or what in so exclusive a district was probably called a reception - and not all the visiting cars had been able to fit in the spacious driveway. A few Cadillacs and Oldsmobiles sat out here on the street behind him, but although the watcher's dark Ford Taurus didn't blend with those expensive automobiles, the watcher doubted he'd have any problems in convincing a curious policeman that he was a hired driver who'd been forced to use this Taurus when the Cadillac he was supposed to use turned out, he would claim, to have a faulty fuel pump earlier this evening. The watcher's luck remained with him. No police cars had so far driven by.
Abruptly he straightened, seeing a silver Rolls Corniche emerge from the mansion's driveway and head in the opposite direction. After quickly removing night-vision binoculars from beneath his seat, he studied the Corniche and satisfied himself that only a chauffeur and a man in the back seat were present in the vehicle. The Corniche had a government license plate. Intriguing.
The watcher noted the plate's number on a slip of paper and would later use his contacts to determine who owned the car, but for the moment, since the woman wasn't in the Corniche, his duty was not to follow the car but instead to maintain his surveillance on the mansion.
At once he heard beeps, then buzzes that were interrupted by a voice from his audio scanner, so distinct that it had to be coming from a car phone that was near, presumably in the Corniche.
'Hello,' a man said with a formal tone. 'Mr Chatham's residence.'
'This is Brian Hamilton. I know it's late. I hate to disturb him, but is Eric home?'
'He is. However, he's about to retire for the evening.'
'Tell him who's calling, please. And tell him it's important.'
The watcher increased his concentration. Eric Chatham?
Chatham was the director of the FBI! And Brian Hamilton, evidently the passenger in the Corniche, was the former Secretary of State, currently an advisor to the President, also a member of - among other things - the National Security Council.
My, my, the watcher thought. Heavy hitters.
'By all means. Just a moment, Mr Hamilton.'
The watcher stared toward the red light on his audio scanner and the voices coming from it.
'Brian?' a sonorous voice asked, tired and puzzled. 'I was just getting into my pajamas. I've been looking forward to reading the new Stephen King, something that has nothing to do with. Never mind. What's going on? My assistant tells me this is important.'
'I apologize,' Hamilton said. 'I came across some information tonight, and I'd like to discuss it with you.'
'Now? Can't it wait until the morning? At my office? My schedule's crowded, but I can squeeze you in for fifteen minutes just before lunch.'
'I might need more than fifteen minutes,' Hamilton said. 'In private. Undistracted.' The reception became less distinct as the Corniche left the neighborhood.
'In private!' Eric Chatham sounded confused.
'Yes. This relates to a case your people were asked to work on. But in truth, it's personal. It has to do with Remington Drake, his widow, and his daughter. I need to ask a favor.'
'Remington Drake! Dear God. And this favor's important?'
'To me. Yes, very important,' Brian Hamilton said.
'A favor? Well, if you're putting it on that basis. You've certainly done enough favors for me, and Remington Drake was certainly my friend. How quickly can you be here?'
'Ten minutes.'
'I'll be waiting.'
'Thanks, Eric. I appreciate your cooperation.'
'Don't speak too soon. I haven't cooperated yet.'
'But I have every confidence that you will. Ten minutes.'
The transmission ended.
The watcher frowned, trying to interpret what he'd heard. But he'd been concentrating so hard that he'd failed to hear something else, the soft rush of rubber-soled shoes on the street, darting toward his side of the car. Because of the heat, the watcher had left his window open. After all, he couldn't keep his engine running constantly at the risk of attracting attention just so he could use the car's air conditioner.
In alarm, as the watcher - stomach burning - snapped his head toward the rushing footsteps, he gaped at a.22 pistol being shoved through the open window. Startled, he didn't have time to grab his Browning from beneath his briefcase. The.22, equipped with a silencer, made a spitting sound. The watcher groaned from the impact of the.22 bullet against his skull. The close-range wallop was forceful enough to jolt the watcher sideways. Blood spewed. He shuddered and toppled to the right across his audio scanner.
But the small bullet didn't kill him. Shocked, powerless, in excruciating pain, he retained sufficient consciousness to sense, hear, and quiver as the assassin jerked open the driver's door.
The assassin grabbed the watcher's body, twisted it, and shoved it, crammed it, onto the floor below the passenger seat. At once the assassin shut the door, started the car, and drove at a steady, unobtrusive speed from the shadowy neighborhood.
Slumped on the floor, the watcher blinked, unable to see, feeling his life drain from him as his blood soaked the carpet. His skull felt as if a nail had been driven through it. If the assassin had used a more powerful weapon, the watcher would have been killed instantly, he dimly realized. But a large- caliber pistol, even with a silencer, would have made a discernible noise, not much, more like a cough than the.22's spit, all the same perhaps just loud enough that someone leaving the party down the street might have heard and become suspicious. A silencer-equipped.22, though, especially if the ammunition had a specially calculated, reduced, so-called 'subsonic' amount of powder - was almost as quiet as a handgun could be.
In a sickening daze, the watcher felt the car turn a corner. As his blood pooled in front of his face, threatening to drown him, he was murkily amazed that he wasn't dead. Through his terrible pain, a weak thought struggled to assure him that he might have a chance of surviving.
Survive?
Hey, who are you kidding?
Give me a break.
With a head wound?
No way.
But he knows I'm still alive. He can hear me wheezing. Why didn't he shoot a second time and finish me?
An amateur?
No.
God in heaven, no, the watcher's fading mind concluded.
Thoughts spinning, the stench of his cascading blood making him gag, he blearily decided, I'm wrong! Not an amateur. When the watcher had pivoted toward the rushing footsteps, he'd noticed that the pistol had an unusual shape, a baffle attached to the top where the slide would normally jerk back and eject the empty cartridge, then snap forward to position a fresh round into the firing chamber.
But the baffle prevented the slide from moving back and forth and allowing sound to escape from the weapon. The baffle was a reinforcement of the silencer! Thus the.22 could be fired only once! That was why the assassin hadn't pulled the trigger again and made sure I was dead!
No! Not an amateur! A professional! Very professional! A well-trained, experienced killer!
The assassin was good enough to need only one shot. He's aware I don't have a chance. He knows it's only a matter of time until.
The watcher, even more weak and light-headed, began to pray in agony, with fervent desperation. It was all he could do now. He had to protect his soul. His only consolation was that he couldn't be interrogated. Nonetheless, he regretted that he wouldn't be able to prevent the assassin from searching him and taking the ring that he kept hidden in his suitcoat.
Abruptly he felt the car stop. He heard the assassin get out and heard another car stop beside the Taurus.
So they're going to leave me here - wherever this is - to die?
Hope made his weakening pulse regain some strength. Maybe I can muster the energy to crawl from the Taurus. Maybe I can find someone to help me, to drive me to a hospital.
But his hope was cruelly destroyed, for the next dim sound he heard wasn't the assassin getting into the other car. Instead he heard liquid being spattered into the Taurus. He felt it soak his clothes and retched from the sharp stench of gasoline.
No!
The last thing he heard was a match being struck and the whoosh as the gasoline ignited. Flames filled the Taurus and swooped across his body. No! Dear God! In absolute torment, he prayed more fervently. Our Father Who art in heaven.! Amazingly his will was powerful enough that he got as far as deliver us from evil before the excruciating blaze consumed him.
FIVE
In the mansion's vestibule, as Tess walked toward the huge wide staircase, her mother said, 'Despite the evening's regrettable unpleasantness, I really am glad that you came to visit. I hope a good night's sleep will put you in a better mood.'
Thanks, mother. And it's good to see you.' Tess drooped her shoulders. 'But somehow I doubt I'll sleep much. I've got too much to think about.'
'Well, perhaps if you had something to read. That always puts me to sleep. Oh, my.' Tess's mother halted abruptly on the staircase.
'What's the matter?'
'I completely forgot. You asked me to phone the director at the Library of Congress. He found that book you wanted and sent it here by messenger.' Tess's mother retreated down the stairs. 'It's in the drawing room. But he says you made a mistake about the title.'
'The Circle - or else The Ring - of the Neck of the Dove?'
'Apparently that's a literal translation from S
panish. But in English, the prepositions disappear and.' Tess's mother hurried into the drawing room and came back, removing a tattered book from a package. 'The Dove's Neck Ring. Yes, that's what it's called.'
The book smelled old. Tess quickly opened it, her spirits rising when she saw that it was in English. 'Thank you.' She hugged her mother, who blinked at so forceful a show of affection. 'I appreciate it. Honestly. Thank you.'
Her mother looked confused. 'I've never seen anyone get so excited about a book before. When I paged through it, waiting for you to arrive, it certainly didn't appear very interesting.'
David Morrell - Covenant Of The Flame Page 15