The Covenant Of The Flame

ONE

Newark, New Jersey.

In his ramshackle office in a rusted corrugated-metal building on the fringe of the city's docks, Buster 'Right Hook' Buchanan scraped a wooden match across his desk and lit the remnant of a cigar he'd butted out last night before going home. No point in being wasteful. After all, this was a Cuban cigar, the last of a box that Don Vincenzo – always thoughtful – had sent to him on his birthday two weeks ago.

Good old Don Vincenzo. He knew how to make his employees happy. Especially those who worked hard for him, and Buster 'Right Hook' Buchanan was as hard a worker as he'd been a tough longshoreman in his youth and then a fierce boxer. A contender. For sure.

On impulse, reminded of his favorite profession, Buster clenched his fists, did a little fancy footwork, jabbed rapidly right and left, then delivered his famous powerful right hook.

Got you! He glared down at his phantom KO'd opponent. But at once the thought of his long-ago glory in the ring made Buster frown. The cheers of the frenzied spectators. The stroking praises of his manager. The different kind of stroking from women, so many women, gorgeous women, eager to fuck a celebrity. Buster shook his head. The cheers, the praises, the women… Some nights it seemed as if… They haunted him.

Buster tried a little more footwork, a little more jabbing, but he was overweight now, twenty years older, and let a fact be a fact, his doctor had warned him to take it easy.

Not that Buster was afraid. Hell, he'd never been afraid. He could still drop three guys in a bar-fight. Any time. Hadn't he done so last night in his neighborhood tavern on the way home from work? Damned right. Nonetheless his impulsive footwork and jabbing, combined with the smoke from the cigar stub in his mouth, made him wheeze. He felt like that one time he'd taken a vacation to Colorado and had never been able to catch his breath in the mountains.

Maybe I ought to give up these cigars. After all, that's what the doctor said.

Shit, no. Life's too short. Hey, what does that frigging doctor know? Was he a contender? Sure, it's easy enough for him to give advice. He looks like a kid, for Christ's sake. And that Rolex he wears. He must have been born with a silver spoon in his asshole. He doesn't understand.

Too bad – too damned bad – about those last three bouts. Buster had always regretted being forced to take a dive – no, three dives – because Don Vincenzo had a cousin who was a fighter and who'd been chosen to be the contender that Buster was supposed to be.

Well, that cousin's glass jaw had put the kabash on his career, Buster thought with bitter delight. But my career had gone in the toilet, and…

Never mind. Waving smoke from his face, puffing on the final remnant of his Cuban cigar – at least, Don Vincenzo remembered the guys he owed favors – Buster told himself he had work to do. Or else Don Vincenzo would be pissed.

Buster savored the final puff from Castro's tobacco and crunched the last of the butt in an overflowing ashtray. Got to get this frigging place cleaned up some time, he thought.

But there was work to do, and as Buster scowled at the scratch mark that his match had left on his battered wooden desk, straight across a circular stain made by a beer can, he told himself that a working man needed rewards now and then. Not just cigars, but…

Yeah.

Buster groped beneath his desk and grabbed the last can of beer in a hollow-sounding twelve-pack. He popped the tab and took several deep swallows.

Vitamins.

Yeah.

He licked his lips, then reminded himself. Work to do. Any minute, Big Joe and his brother were due to arrive at this warehouse with the truck. The three of them would unload the red plastic containers that, except for their color and what they were made of, resembled the canister of natural gas attached to Buster's outdoor barbecue grill.

Not that Buster liked to barbecue. Although his nagging wife did. What a pain in the ass.

When he, Big Joe, and Big Joe's brother emptied the containers into several large metal bins, they'd close the hatches on the bins to conceal their contents and use a forklift truck to place the bins in a sling, which would hoist them onto a barge. Tonight, the three of them would take a cruise down the Hudson River and across to the tip of Long Island.

And dump the shit they were carrying.

Because their cargo – Buster sipped more beer and shivered -was medical waste.

Used needles.

Contaminated bandages.

Infected blood.

Rotting human tissue.

Well, Buster thought and guzzled more beer, it's a dirty job -

– he forced himself to chortle -

– but some poor bastard has to do it. Especially for Don Vincenzo.

Despite the beer that cleared his head from this morning's hangover, Buster sobered.

Yeah, especially for Don Vincenzo. Because if you refuse the Don, you make him unhappy, and when the Don's unhappy, you get your knees broken. And that's only for starters. Fuck the Cuban cigars. When the Don's unhappy, he doesn't just have your knees broken. He butchers you.

And anyway, what's the harm in dumping the needles and the bandages into the ocean? Buster asked himself, wishing he'd thought to buy more beer. There's a land-fill crisis. That's what I read in the frigging papers. Too much garbage. Not enough space to get rid of all that shit. Too many frigging condominiums. Not enough holes in the ground. And nobody wants – what do they call them? – incinerators to get rid of medical waste. The damned yuppies think they'll get a disease if they breathe the smoke. But Don Vincenzo's got the biggest garbage-disposal outfit in eastern New Jersey. So where's he supposed to put all the junk, especially the crap from the hospitals?

The answer was simple.

There's plenty of ocean.

You bet. More than half the world, maybe three-quarters, is frigging water, isn't it? Plenty. I mean plenty of room for a few barges of needles and bandages.

Okay, all right, the tide sometimes works against us, Buster thought. Sometimes the shit drifts back toward land. Sometimes the needles and bandages float up on the beaches.

Give me a break. Is that my fault? I do my job. I dump the stuff. If the ocean works against me, I'm not to blame.

Yeah, he thought.

Sure.

So a few yuppies don't get to swim in the ocean for a couple of days while the junk's cleaned up.

So what?

Let the cleanup squad do its job while I do mine.

A buzzer sounded. Buster set down his beer and straightened. The buzzer was the signal that Big Joe and his brother had backed the truck toward the warehouse and were waiting for Buster to raise the door.

About time. Buster pressed a button. A rumble shook the rickety warehouse as its door rose. Big Joe's truck backed into the warehouse toward the barge containers. Its engine burping, the truck stopped.

Buster jabbed the button that lowered the rumbling door and stalked from his office. 'You're late,' he growled as the driver's door swung open.

But Big Joe didn't step down.

In his place, a man whom Buster had never met jumped lithely onto the concrete floor.

'Hi.' The man, in his thirties, in great shape, grinned.

'Who the hell are you?'

'I hate to say it, but Big Joe had an accident. Tragic. Terrible.'

'Accident? What kind of…?'

'Horrible. A fire. His trailer. Died in his sleep.'

'My God.' Buster wheezed. 'But Big Joe's brother…! Where is he? Does he know?'

'In a way.'

That doesn't make sense! Either he does, or he doesn't!'

'Well, he did, that's for sure,' the handsome, robust stranger said. 'But he doesn't anymore. See, he's dead. Another fire. Awful. His house burned down last night.'

'What are you telling me?'

'You're next.'

With a bang, the truck's passenger door jolted open, two men leaping down.

Buster rubbed his eyes. The other men resembled the first man.

Trim.

Lithe.

Handsome.

Tawny skin.

Early thirties.

As they neared him, Buster realized that they resembled each other in a further way. It had to be a trick of the light. They all seemed to have gray eyes.

'So, Buster, we've got a problem,' the first man said.

'Oh, yeah?' Buster stepped backward and raised his famous right fist. 'What problem?'

'The needles. The bandages. The contaminated blood. You're poisoning the ocean.'

'Hey, all I'm doing is what Don Vincenzo tells me.'

'Sure. Well, you don't need to take his orders anymore. Don Vincenzo's dead.'

'What?

'Would you believe it? Amazing. Really. No kidding. Yet another fire.'

Buster stumbled farther backward. 'What the fuck? Hey, don't come any closer! I'm warning you!'

'Yeah, yeah, yeah.' With unbelievable agility, the first man ducked under Buster's jabbing fists, avoided the former contender's famous right hook, and slammed his nose so hard that Buster fell to the floor, seeing double, spewing blood.

'Listen carefully,' the man said. 'We're not going to burn you.'

Sickened by his pain and his doubled vision, Buster wheezed in relief. He had to admit that any of these three men were in better condition than any opponent he'd faced. If they were willing to bargain, maybe he had a chance.

'So you'll let me go?' Buster wished that he'd never met, had never surrendered to Don Vincenzo.

'Afraid not,' the man said. 'Actions have consequences. But flames aren't always the best deterrent. Sometimes the punishment has to fit the crime. A different example is often required. Just a moment before I show you.'

The three men put on surgical facemasks, gowns, and rubber gloves.

'Jesus!' Buster said.

'If that's your preference. My companions will now hold you down.'

'No!'

'Don't resist. Your death will be more painful.'

As Buster squirmed and struggled and screamed, while two men held him down, the other man shoved a handkerchief into Buster's mouth to silence him. Then the man adjusted his rubber gloves and proceeded to unscrew various red plastic containers on the truck, pull out numerous contaminated hypodermic needles, and plunge each of them into various portions of Buster's body.

His arms.

His legs.

His throat.

His groin.

His eyes.

Wherever.

When the three men were finished, after they left the warehouse and the body was finally discovered, the newspapers described the corpse as a pincushion.

Inaccurate. Buster 'Right Hook' Buchanan was really a needle-cushion, and if the thousands of points shoved into every portion of his body hadn't killed him, at least one of the diseases from those many infected needles would have eventually led to his death, that is if his lung cancer from his years of smoking cigars hadn't killed him first.

TWO

Lieutenant Craig's apartment was a one-room efficiency in the cramped basement of a converted townhouse on Bleecker Street in lower Manhattan. Once he'd owned a house in Queens, or at least the bank had, but four years ago, his former wife had gained title to the property during their divorce agreement.

Craig dearly wished he was back there. Not because of the house. He'd never liked mowing the lawn, shoveling snow, or doing any of the other chores that a house required, although the truth was that his work had kept him so busy he'd seldom been home to do those chores – or to pay enough attention to his wife and two children.

That's what he really missed, not the damned house but his family. Some nights, his heart ached so fiercely that he couldn't sleep and he lay on his back on his fold-out bed, staring at the ceiling. How he wished to God that he'd tried harder.

But Craig had discovered that marriage and police work seldom mixed. Because being a cop was like having a second marriage, and a cop's wife could get as jealous about his work as she could about another woman. So many other guys in his department were divorced as well. The only good thing was that at least Craig's former wife had been generous about his visitation privileges. He did his best to spend time with his son and daughter on weekends, probably more time than when he'd been married, but the trouble was that his children were in their teens now, and being with their father didn't excite them as it had when they were toddlers.

I sure made a mess of things, Craig thought as he entered his shower, closed the door, and turned on the faucets. Hot water stung him. So what am I thinking! How come I want to get involved with a woman who's ten years younger than me? Am I nuts? The only reason Tess and I are connected is the trouble she's having. When that gets settled -

– you mean, if -

– no, when -

– hey, don't get pessimistic -

– she'll want nothing to do with me. She certainly didn't sound enthusiastic about the idea of a friendship, a close friendship, when I talked to her on the phone last night.

Craig increased the lancing pulse of hot water, rinsed shampoo from his hair, and shook his head. Hey, what do you expect? She's in mourning. Never mind that she met her friend, whoever Joseph Martin really was, only three times. There's a good chance somebody's following her. She's preoccupied, not to mention scared. Your timing was lousy.

He shut off the water, stepped from the narrow shower stall (there wasn't a bathtub), and toweled himself dry. With the meticulousness of a divorced man who'd come to realize the tremendous amount of maintenance that his former wife had done and he'd never noticed, he used a squeegee to wipe water off the shower stall so there wouldn't be lime stains. He'd already shaved. All he needed to do was comb his hair, slap on some aftershave, dab on a little deodorant (the maintenance never ended), get dressed, and make himself eat breakfast.

In his bedroom – which was also his living room and his kitchen – Craig started to boil water for coffee. By habit, he turned on his radio to catch the news, and on impulse, he picked up the phone. It might not be a smart idea. He'd probably be repeating his mistake. All the same, he felt a compulsion to talk to Tess, to explain that he was sorry for putting pressure on her. He read the note he'd made last night when she'd told him her mother's phone number, and as he pressed buttons on the phone, he vaguely heard the radio announcer describe a new round of mortar battles that had broken out between the Christians and Moslems in Beirut. Why don't they get their shit together? Craig thought and listened to the long-distance static.

He heard a buzz.

Another buzz.

And then a female voice, not Tess's, in fact not even a human voice but one of those robot-sounding computer simulations.

'The number you have called is not in service.'

Not in service? Craig frowned. I must have pressed the wrong buttons.

He studied the note he'd made, wondering if he'd written down the wrong numbers, and tried to phone again.

'The number you have called is not in service.'

Jesus, I did write down the wrong numbers.

Boiling water made the kettle shriek. Craig turned off the stove, frowned harder as he spooned instant coffee into a cup, then stiffened when the radio announcer said,

'… completely destroyed a mansion in an exclusive district of Alexandria, Virginia.'

Alexandria ?

A premonition made Craig lunge toward the radio to increase the volume.

'Three people trying to escape the blaze were shot and killed. Two servants and Melinda Drake,' the announcer said.

Craig's throat constricted.

'Widow of Remington Drake, former State Department envoy who was tortured to death by Moslem extremists six years ago in Beirut. Authorities have not been able to identify the assailants or determine their motive for the slayings, but fire investigators have concluded that the blaze was due to arson.'

Arson? Two servants? Tess's mother?

But what about-?

Craig grabbed the phone, jabbed the numbers for information, got other numbers, jabbed them, got through to Alexandria information, and finally reached the Alexandria…

'Police department,' a gruff man said.

'Homicide.' Craig struggled to control his breathing.

Click. Buzz. Silence.

Come on! Come…!

'Homicide,' a husky-throated woman said.

'My name is William Craig.' Another struggle to control his trembling voice. 'I'm a lieutenant in the Missing Persons division of the New York City police department. My badge number is… My superior's name is… His office phone number is… I'm calling from my home. If you want, I'll give you that number while you verify who I am.'

'Before we get complicated, Lieutenant, why don't you catch your breath and tell me what you need?'

'The arson at Melinda Drake's house. The gunshot victims. Did you find another victim? The daughter. Tess Drake.'

'No. Only the servants and the… What do you know about a daughter, Lieutenant? Why would you think she was at the house? What's your interest in this matter?'

'I… It's too complicated. I need to think. I'll call you back.' Craig slammed down the phone.

Tess was safe!

No.

A sudden fierce thought made him grip the kitchen counter. What if she didn't escape the fire? What if she died in the house? What if the investigators hadn't found her body yet?

Trembling, Craig yanked open a cupboard and grabbed for the Yellow Pages, desperate to make a reservation on the soonest flight to Washington National Airport. He'd rent a car there and drive to…

His hands faltered. Abruptly he shut the directory.

What the hell good would I do in Alexandria? I'd be useless. All I'd do is end up pacing, watching the investigators search the mansion's wreckage.

But I've got to do something.

Think! Hope! All you know for sure is that two servants and Tess's mother were shot while they tried to escape the flames.

But that doesn't mean Tess didn't manage to escape.

Please. Oh, Jesus, please, let her be all right.

If she escaped…

What would she do? Obviously she'd be frightened. She'd hide from whoever had tried to kill her.

And then?

Maybe…

Just maybe she'd call me.

Who else can she turn to? Who else does she know she can trust and depend on? I might be the only hope she's got.

THREE

Afraid, Tess felt naked. Shivering despite the morning's humidity, she rang the mansion's doorbell again. She kept glancing nervously beyond the trees and shrubs in the large front yard toward the hedge-flanked entrance to the driveway. So far she'd been lucky. Since she'd lunged to the porch, no cars had passed along the narrow quiet street, but if any did, and if the drivers noticed her, and if one of those cars belonged to the men who'd tried to kill her…!

Hurry. The next time she pressed the doorbell, Tess didn't take her thumb from the button. Another fear made her tremble. What if the mansion wasn't occupied? What if the Caudills had gone to their summer place in Maine? Desperate, she wondered if she ought to break in. No! There'll be burglar alarms!

Her childhood friend had long since moved away, first to college and then with her husband to San Francisco, but the parents still owned this mansion, and during the night, while Tess had hidden in the damp, black, constricting alcove behind the boulders in the back yard fountain, she'd ignored the increasing pain in her cramped muscles and struggled to focus her grief-filled, terror-racked thoughts in an effort to decide what to do next. Although the answer had been obvious, her confusion had been so great that it had taken her until the morning to remember that the people who owned this mansion had once been like a second set of parents to her.

As the skin beneath her thumbnail whitened from the force with which she pressed the doorbell, Tess's hope dwindled, her fear increasing. Please!

Abruptly she breathed as the door was jerked open. A rigid butler scowled, surveying her grimy jeans, torn pullover, soot-covered face, and grungy, spider-web-tangled hair.

'Mrs Caudill?' Tess said. 'Please! Is she here?'

'Mrs Caudill donates to shelters for the homeless. There are several downtown.' The butler began to shut the door.

Tess shoved her hand against the door. 'You don't understand!'

'Mrs Caudill can not be disturbed.' The butler straightened and grimaced, his nostrils twitching. Tess realized that her clothes must reek from smoke, sweat, and fear. 'I'll be forced to call the police if you don't leave.'

'No! Listen to me!' Tess said. She pushed at the door.

The butler resisted.

'My name's Tess Drake! Mrs Caudill knows me!' Heart pounding, she heard a car approach along the street and squirmed urgently to get through the narrow opening.

The butler struggled to block her way.

'I'm a friend of Mrs Caudill's daughter!' Tess said and fought to shoulder the butler aside. 'I used to come here often! Mrs Caudill knows me! Tell her it's-'

'Tess?' a puzzled woman said in the background. 'Tess? Is that you?'

'Mrs Caudill! Please! Let me in!'

On the street, the car sounded nearer.

'That's fine, Thomas. Open the door,' the unseen woman said.

'Very well, Madame.' The butler glared at Tess. 'As you wish.'

The car was close to the mansion's driveway as Tess darted through the door. The butler shut it, muffling the sound of the car.

Tess paused and breathed deeply. She clutched her purse – it felt heavy with its added burden of the photographs, the book, and the handgun – and gazed in relief at Mrs Caudill, who stood in the foyer, near the entrance to the mansion's dining room.

Mrs Caudill was fifty-five, short, somewhat stout, with pudgy cheeks that were emphasized by the circular rims of her glasses. She wore a brilliantly colored, Oriental housecoat, and blinked in surprise, apparently not only because of Tess's unexpected arrival but as well because of her disheveled appearance. 'Good Lord, Tess! Are you all right?'

'Now I am.'

'The fire! Last night, I could see the flames from my bedroom window. The sirens wakened me. Where have you been! What happened to you?'

Although her legs were stiff, Tess managed to hurry toward her. 'Thank God, you're home. Mrs Caudill, I need help. I'm sorry for barging in like this, but-'

'Help? Why, of course, dear. You know you're always welcome. I remember when you used to come to play with…' Mrs Caudill almost reached to hug Tess but restrained herself when she got a closer look at Tess's filthy clothes and smelled the smoke wafting off her. 'Your arms! Look at those bruises! And your hands! They're blistered. You've been burned. You need a doctor!'

'No!'

'What?'

'Not a doctor! Not yet! I don't think the burns are serious, Mrs Caudill. They sting, though. If you've got a first-aid kit…'

'Yes. Exactly. And we need to get you cleaned up! Quickly! Upstairs! Thomas!' Mrs Caudill spun toward the butler. 'I don't recall where… The first-aid kit! Where do we keep it? Bring it as fast as you can!'

'By all means, Madam,' the butler said dourly.

'This is my daughter's friend! Tess Drake! The fire last night!'

'Yes, Madam?'

'That was her mother's house!'

'Now I understand, Madam,' the butler said, more dour. 'Tess Drake. However, I regret… It's no doubt my fault, but Madam, she spoke so quickly… I apologize. In the haste of the moment, I failed to catch her last name.'

'Thomas, stop bowing. And for the love of the Lord, stop scraping. As my daughter used to say, get with it.'

'Of course, Madam.'

Mrs Caudill grasped the long hem on her colorful, Oriental housecoat. With unexpected agility, given the combination of her age and weight, she hurried with Tess up the mansion's front staircase. 'But you still haven't told me. Where have you been? What happened to you? Why didn't the police...? Or the firemen…? Why didn't they take you to a hospital?'

'It's all a…' Tess rubbed her knotted brow and tried to sound convincing. 'All a blur. The smoke alarms woke me. The flames. I remember being trapped. I remember jumping out my bedroom window.'

'Jumping?' Mrs Caudill looked aghast.

'But after that…? I don't know. I seem to recall hitting my head. I guess I ran. Evidently I collapsed. The next thing, I woke up in your back yard.'

'How on earth did you-?'

'I have no idea, Mrs Caudill. I must have been hysterical.'

'No wonder. In your place, I'd have fainted. It must have been horrifying. You've been through a… Tess, your mother… I hate to… Do you realize what happened to your mother?'

Tess halted on the upper landing as grief cramped her throat and sorrow squeezed her chest. Tears blurred her vision and scalded her cheeks. 'Yes. God help me, that part isn't a blur.'

'I'm sorry, Tess. I can't express how much I… Your mother was a fine, noble woman. The strength she mustered when she learned that your father had been killed. She was remarkable. And now I can't believe that someone shot her. It's all been so shocking. What's this world coming to? I truly can't imagine. I tossed and turned most of the night. You must be devastated.'

'Yes, Mrs Caudill. I feel so… "Devastated" doesn't begin to describe it. Really, thank you. I appreciate your sympathy.' Tess pawed at her tears, feeling grit on her cheeks. The tears streaked the soot on her hands.

'No need to thank me. In fact, I'm flattered that you thought to come here. Regina 's been away so long. It's been too many years since I've had a chance to mother anybody.'

The sound of footsteps made Tess spin.

With a stiff-backed stride, the butler came up the stairs, hands cradling a plastic container with a red cross on its white lid.

'Good. The first-aid kit. Finally,' Mrs Caudill said. 'Come on, Tess. Your burns need attention. We're wasting time.' The portly woman guided her hurriedly toward a door halfway along the upper hallway. 'You remember that this bathroom belonged to Regina?'

'How could I forget? I used it often enough.'

Mrs Caudill smiled. 'Yes, the old days.' In contrast with her smile, she sounded melancholy. The good days.' She opened the door.

Tess faced a huge, white bathroom with spotless countertops and tiles. The same as she remembered. Reassuringly familiar. In back, a door on the right led to Regina 's bedroom. Also in back, on the left, a steam room stood next to a shower stall.

But what Tess noticed most, anticipating, barely able to restrain her eagerness, was the deep, wide tub.

Mrs Caudill took the first-aid kit from the butler, set it on the marble counter between two sinks, and retreated toward the hallway. 'Soak, Tess.'

'Don't worry, Mrs Caudill. I intend to.'

'And take as long as you want. In the meantime, I'll sort through some clothes that Regina left behind. As I recall, you and she were almost the same size.'

Tess nodded, nostalgic. 'Yes, we used to borrow from each other. But Mrs Caudill, please, nothing fancy. Jeans, if possible. A shirt or a pullover. I'd like to stay casual.'

'Still a tomboy?' Mrs Caudill's eyes twinkled.

'I guess. In a way. Dresses make me uncomfortable.'

'As long as I've known you, they always did. Well, I'll do what I can. Now get in that tub and soak. And while I think of it, I'd better phone the police. They'll want to-'

'No, Mrs Caudill!' Surprised by her outburst, Tess felt as if snakes writhed in her stomach.

'I beg your pardon?' Mrs Caudill's brow furrowed. 'I don't understand. What's the matter? The police must be told. They need to talk with you. You might know something that will help them find the monsters who set fire to your mother's house and killed-'

'No! Not yet!' Tess tried to restrain her panic.

'I still don't understand.' Mrs Caudill deepened the wrinkles on her forehead. 'You're confusing me.'

'I'm not ready. I feel so… If you call the police, they'll hurry to get here. But I don't think I'm strong enough to answer their questions right away. I need to clear my head. I need to… My mother. I doubt I can talk about what happened just yet. I'd probably…' Tears trickled down her cheeks. 'I wouldn't be able to control myself.'

Mrs Caudill debated, allowing her brow to slacken. 'Of course. How foolish of me. I wasn't thinking. You're still in shock. But you realize you'll have to talk to the police eventually. It'll be a strain, but it has to be done.'

'I know, Mrs Caudill. Later, after I get cleaned up and feel rested, I'll call them myself. Soon. I promise.'

'By all means. First thing's first. And the first thing is, get into that tub while I try to find you some clothes.' Despite her reassurance, Mrs Caudill continued to look confused as she backed toward the hallway and shut the bathroom door.

Or maybe her expression was one of pity. Tess couldn't tell as she found herself alone in the bathroom.

Reflexively, she locked the door. Her emotions in a turmoil, she quickly undressed and threw her torn, dirty, smoke-reeking clothes into a corner. Even_her socks and underwear stank of smoke. At once she opened the hot-water faucet on the tub, shut the drain, and poured in fragrant bath salts. As soon as steam began to rise, she adjusted the cold-water faucet, used a finger to judge the temperature of the water, and climbed into its wonderfully soothing warmth.

Briefly the blisters on her arms and hands stung. Then the pain went away, and she settled back, enjoying the heat rising deliciously past her hips, her groin, her stomach, her breasts. Only when the water came close to the overflow drain did she reluctantly grope forward to shut off the taps. Her cramped muscles gradually relaxed.

But she didn't feel contented. As she stared at the soot that clung to the soap bubbles bobbing on the water, she asked herself, frowning, Why was I so insistent? Why didn't I want Mrs Caudill to phone the police?

Dear God, my mother was killed. Two servants were killed, I was almost killed. For sure, whoever set fire to the house won't give up. They'll keep hunting me. Whatever their reason, it's serious enough that they're prepared to go to any lengths to get at me.

Jesus, why!

Is it something to do with the photographs that man tried to steal from me? What did I see in Joseph's apartment that they don't want me to know about and presumably anyone else to know about?

Tess shuddered at the memory of the bas-relief statue on Joseph's bookcase. Grotesque. Repulsive.

What did that statue mean? What kind of sick mind could possibly have designed it? And why was Joseph attracted to it?

What did it say about his mind? Clearly he hadn't been the good-natured, gentle man that he seemed, not if he had a habit of whipping himself until he bled and then going to sleep with that thing brooding down at him from the bookcase. And now, Tess reminded herself, Joseph's apartment had been burned, the sculpture had been stolen, and the only evidence of its existence was the photograph in her bulging purse.

She trembled so forcefully that the soot-filmed bubbles on the water rippled. The first thing I should have done when I got inside this house was call the police. I need help!

So why don't I want Mrs Caudill to phone them?

The answer came with startling urgency. Because I don't want anyone to know where I am. Whoever's hunting me will make the assumption that I'll get in touch with the police.

So they're probably monitoring police communications. If I phone the police, word will get out. The killers will scramble to get here before the police. And this time…

Tess shuddered.

They're so determined I don't think they'd fail. They'd kill all of us.

The butler.

Mrs Caudill.

Me.

Tess imagined Mrs Caudill screaming as blood spurted from bullet holes in her body.

No! I can't have their deaths on my conscience! And I can't depend on the police to protect me! I need time to think! I have to keep hiding! Until I'm absolutely sure I'm safe! Lord, help me! What am I going to do?

FOUR

With greater anxiety, Craig paced his one-room apartment. In the background, he barely heard the swelling voices of an opera, Puccini's Turandot, that by habit he played when he was nervous. Phone, Tess! Please! If you're all right, for the love of God, phone!

But the longer he waited, the more despondent he became. Something was very wrong.

He frowned at his watch and realized that he should have been at the office an hour ago. Immediately, in mid-stride he froze, struck by a sudden thought. The office? Maybe Tess figures that's where I am. Maybe that's where she'll try to get in touch with me.

If she tries to get in touch with me.

If she wasn't killed in the fire and her body hasn't been found yet.

No, don't think like that! She's all right! She's got to be all right!

Craig grabbed the phone and pressed the numbers for his office. Impatient, he heard a buzz.

Another buzz.

'Missing Persons,' a raspy voice said.

Tony, it's Bill. I-'

'Jesus and Joseph. Finally. Miracles never fail. Where the hell have you been? The phones keep ringing. We've got eight new cases, and the captain's grumbling about everybody goofing off.'

'I promise, Tony. I'll be there soon. Listen, have I had any messages?'

'Plenty.'

Craig's heartbeat sped. 'Is there anything from Tess Drake?'

'Just a minute. I'll check. But… Who's that woman shrieking in the background? Opera? Since when did you become Italian?'

'The messages, Tony. Check the messages.'

'Yeah, okay, here, I've got them. Give me a chance to… Bailey. Hopkins. Nope. Nothing from any Tess Drake.'

Craig slumped against the kitchen counter.

'Speaking of messages, the captain got a call a while ago from the police in Alexandria, Virginia. They claim you phoned them. Something about a fire. They say you sounded a little strange. What's going on?'

'I'll explain when I get to the office. Tony, this is important. If Tess Drake calls for me, make sure you get a number where I can reach her.'

Craig hung up the phone. While Pavarotti's rich voice soared toward the peak of an aria, Craig stared at the kitchen counter. With a curse, he roused himself into motion, turned on the answering machine, and shut off the stereo. Compelled, he snapped his holstered revolver to his belt, put on his suitcoat, and hurried from his apartment, locking its two deadbolts behind him.

As Craig rushed up the ten steps from his basement apartment and emerged on the noisy street, the morning smog irritated his throat and made him cough again. Near a row of garbage cans, he stopped at the curb, didn't see a taxi, hunched his shoulders in frustration, and broke into an awkward jog toward Seventh Avenue. The sudden effort made him breathe heavily.

Tess is right, he thought. I let myself get out of shape. I need to start exercising.

Tess. The urgent thought of her triggered a flood of adrenaline into his stomach. Sweating, he jogged faster, desperate to find a taxi.

FIVE

Behind him, near Craig's apartment on Bleecker Street, two nondescript men bent down from the curb to examine the engine of a disabled car. When they noticed Craig start to jog toward Seventh Avenue, they slammed down the engine's hood, scrambled into the small Japanese vehicle, made a tight U-turn, and hurried to follow him.

Farther down the street, inside a van the sides of which were marked with perfect copies of telephone-company insignia, a somber man picked up a cellular phone while his equally somber partner adjusted dials on a monitor and continued to listen to earphones.

The first man, aware that cellular broadcasts were capable of being monitored, spoke indirectly.

'Our friend has left the ballpark. A few teammates are going with him. The opposite team? It seems they're not ready to play. At least, we haven't seen them. But our catcher is worried about his girl friend's health. He hoped she'd phone him at the clubhouse. She didn't. He believes she might call him at his office. Meanwhile we've got some time, provided the opposite team doesn't arrive. So we'll do our catcher a favor and hang around the clubhouse, just in case his girl friend finally does call and wants to leave a message. I take for granted that someone will be at his office? Good. After all, if his girl friend needs help, I'd hate for our catcher to be alone.'

SIX

Appallingly, the water in the tub was so filmed with soot that Tess had to drain it, rinse the tub, and refill it. Even after her second bath, she still didn't feel clean and finally had to use the shower, washing her tangled hair three times.

She couldn't find a blow dryer, so she simply combed her hair, which thank God was short and easy to manage, and which now was finally blond again, not blackened with ashes.

She used the first-aid kit to put antibiotic cream on her burns. They didn't seem deep, although clear liquid seeped from them and they'd begun stinging again. She was tempted to bandage them, but she'd read somewhere that it was important for air to get at burns as long as they weren't serious, and she hoped these weren't. At the moment, though, her burns and bruises were the least of her problems.

Mrs Caudill had knocked on the bathroom door and explained that she'd laid out some clothes in the adjoining bedroom. Tess wrapped a towel around her breasts and hips, then stepped through the door to the right, finding socks, underwear, jeans, and a short-sleeved, burgundy blouse on the bed. She hurried to dress, discarding the bra. It felt good to have clean clothes against clean skin. They fit her almost perfectly. But the tennis shoes that Mrs Caudill had found were another matter – a half-size too small. Tess had to use the grimy sneakers she'd hoped to discard. Grabbing her burlap purse, which was grimy as well, gave off smoke fumes, and would have to be replaced, she decided she'd better get downstairs before Mrs Caudill changed her mind about calling the police.

In the foyer, she heard noises from the dining room and entered to find a maid placing a silver tray of toast, jam, bacon, scrambled eggs, and orange juice at the end of the long, oak table. Steam rose from a coffee pot.

Mrs Caudill had changed from her housecoat to a dress and sat near the end of the table, the Washington Post before her. Seeing Tess come in, she smiled, although her eyes were dim with melancholy. 'Well, you certainly do look better.' With effort, Mrs Caudill straightened. 'I hope you don't mind. I don't know your tastes, but I took the liberty of having Rose-Marie prepare you a breakfast. You must be famished.'

The aroma of the food made Tess's stomach growl. She hadn't realized until now how weak she felt from hunger. In place of supper last night, all she'd had to eat was the liver pate her mother liked.

Her mother. With renewed force, grief swept through her, chilling, numbing. She resisted the tears that came to her eyes, knowing that, given the stress ahead of her, she didn't dare lose control. It seemed impossible… She still wasn't able to adjust to… Had trouble believing… Refused to admit that her mother was dead.

It couldn't be!

Needing all her discipline, Tess somehow managed to return Mrs Caudill's smile. 'Thank you. You've been too kind.'

'Spare me the compliments, Tess. You can thank me by eating everything on your plate. Today will be, excuse my French, an s.o.b. You're going to need all your strength.'

'I'm afraid you're right.' Tess sat at the table, unfolded her napkin, and with a trembling hand picked up a gleaming silver fork. She amazed herself by how quickly she devoured the meal, even though this was far from her usual breakfast. She'd long ago restricted eggs (too much cholesterol) and bacon (carcinogenic nitrates) from her diet.

As she finished the last of her orange juice, gaining energy from the enormous amount that she'd eaten, Tess impulsively thought to ask, 'Where's your husband? At the Justice Department? Up at your summer place in Maine?'

'My husband?' Mrs Caudill's face turned pale. 'You mean you don't know?'

'Know?' Tess set down her glass. 'Know what? I'm not sure…'

'My husband died three years ago.'

'Oh.' Tess's voice dropped. Shock rippled through her. She felt paralyzed, uncertain what to do or say next.

Then she was certain, and she reached to touch Mrs Caudill's hand, gently squeezing it. 'I'm truly, painfully sorry. I liked him. Very much. He always made me feel welcome.'

Mrs Caudill bit her lip. 'Yes.' She restrained a sniffle. 'He was a decent, loving man.'

'If you don't mind…'

'What?'

'Talking about it.'

'Mind?' Mrs Caudill shook her head. 'Not at all. In fact, in an odd way, it helps me. Go right ahead. I'm a tough old lady.'

'What happened?'

'A heart attack.' Mrs Caudill sighed. 'As much as I did my best, I could never convince him to cut back on his work load. I kept telling him to take more vacations or at least stay away from the office on weekends.' Her lips trembled. 'Well, I guess he died where he wanted to be. Not at home but the office.'

Death, Tess thought. I'm surrounded by death.

'So I know how you feel, Tess. Lord, I wish I didn't, but I do. My husband. Your mother. We'll miss them. Our lives are less without them.' Mrs Caudill braced her shoulders as if she didn't want to pursue the topic. She nodded glumly toward the Washington Post in front of her. The fire at your house… the killings… apparently they happened too late last night to be reported in this morning's paper. But perhaps we should turn on the radio. There might be some new information, some further developments you should know about.'

With a cringe, Tess recalled the nightmare, the flames, her mother being shot. The thought of hearing it described on the radio appalled her. Nonetheless she was desperate to know if the police had managed to catch the men who'd shot her mother. 'Yes. That's a good idea.'

'And then of course, now that you're rested, you'll have to phone the police.'

'Exactly,' Tess lied. 'I was just about to do that.'

But her attention was directed toward the newspaper in front of Mrs Caudill. The headline faced away from her. Even so, she managed to decipher what it said and turned cold, stiffening. She gasped, leaned forward to grab the newspaper, and twisted it so the headline glared up at her.

BRIAN HAMILTON DIES IN FREEWAY ACCIDENT

'Oh, my God.' Bile from her breakfast burned into Tess's throat. 'Brian Hamilton's dead?' She frantically read the article.

'A van forced his car off the road.' Mrs Caudill sounded depressed. 'Either a maniac or a drunken driver.'

Tess kept scanning the article. 'Then Brian's car hit an electrical pole? His car exploded?'

'If he wasn't killed in the crash, the flames would have… To think he survived all those years in combat in Vietnam, only to die in a pointless car accident.'

'But I just saw him last night!' Tess jerked upright from her chair. 'I spoke to him at my mother's house!'

'Yes, I forgot. He and your mother were friends. Because of your father.'

'It's not just that. I asked him to do me a favor. I…'

'A favor?' Mrs Caudill asked.

A welter of frightening thoughts collided in Tess's mind. The fire at the mansion. The accident on the freeway. She couldn't believe that the two were coincidental. Whoever had killed her mother had also killed Brian Hamilton! They'd somehow found out that Tess had summoned him! They feared the information that Tess had given him!

They're killing everybody who knows what I know! They're killing everyone I come in contact with!

No! Mrs Caudill! If I don't get out of here, she'll be next!

'I have to use your phone.' Tess tried desperately not to sound terrified.

'To call the police?'

'Right,' Tess said. The police. It's time. I need to talk to them.'

'There's a phone in the hallway. Another one in the kitchen.'

Hallway? Kitchen? Which would be more private? A maid was in the kitchen.

'The hallway,' Tess blurted and hurried from the dining room.

Her fierce thoughts multiplied. She'd hated Brian Hamilton because he'd sent her father to Beirut where he'd been murdered.

But last night she'd made a bargain with the man she hated, and now the man she hated was dead. Because he'd set out to cancel the debt he owed by trying to use all his power to learn everything he could about Joseph Martin.

Death. Everyone I speak to…!

Not me, though! I'm still alive.

And I'll get even!

She reached the phone in the hallway, groped into her purse, fumbled past the handgun, and yanked out the card that Craig had given her.

Craig! He was the only person who'd understand. The two of them had been through this nightmare together almost from the start.

But Craig knew what she knew. Maybe he was in danger. She had to warn him.

Glancing urgently toward his card, she pressed numbers on the phone.

'This is Bill Craig. I'm not home right now, but if you'll leave your name and…'

Shit! She'd forgotten the time. He'd be in the office now. She jabbed the disconnect lever and pressed more buttons, this time for…

'Missing Persons,' a raspy voice said.

'Lieutenant Craig.' Tess struggled not to hyperventilate.

'He's out of the office. But if I can be of help, I'm sure-'

Tess slammed down the phone.

No! I need Craig! The only man I can trust is Craig!

'Tess?'

Spinning, Tess faced Mrs Caudill, who'd nervously emerged from the dining room.

'Did you talk to the-?

'Police? You bet! They want me downtown right now. I hate to impose, Mrs Caudill, but if you've got a car I can…'

'My home and my cars are yours. Use my husband's car. I've kept it licensed and maintained. On the slim chance that I'd ever be brave enough to resist my memories and drive it.'

'What kind of car did he…?'

'A Porsche nine-eleven. It's got plenty of… what do the kids say?… guts.'

'Just like your husband, Mrs Caudill.'

'Believe it, Tess. Take the car. Use it. My husband would have liked that. Plenty of guts. Because I've got a feeling that your problems are worse than I imagine. And terrible problems need…'

'Guts?' Tess raised her arms. 'Your intuition's on target, Mrs Caudill. I do have problems. Beyond belief. I don't have much time. Not to be rude, but quickly, the keys. Where are the keys?'

SEVEN

Maintaining his composure but braced for a confrontation, Vice President Alan Gerrard stepped past the metal detector and the Secret Service guards in the White House corridor, their features remaining stolid as he entered the Oval Office. Since Gerrard had been chosen – to the nation's astonishment – as the president's running mate in the election three years ago, Gerrard had been invited to the Oval Office only eight times. His few visits accounted for his renewed surprise that the office was so much smaller than it looked on TV.

Outsiders might have been puzzled by the vice president's lack of access to the president. But Gerrard understood too well. After all, he'd been chosen as a running mate not because of any skills but merely because of three coincidental, pragmatic, political reasons.

One, he'd been a senator from Florida, and that southern connection balanced the president's northern connection as a former senator from Illinois.

Two, Gerrard was forty – fifteen years younger than the president – and Gerrard's handsome, movie-star features made him appealing (so the president's demographic advisers claimed) to young voters, especially women.

Three, and probably most important, Gerrard had a reputation for being compliant, not causing trouble, following the Republican party line, and hence he wouldn't be a rival to the president, who already anticipated the next election and didn't want anyone upstaging his take-charge personality.

But no matter how much the campaigning president's logic had made sense in theory, its practical effects had almost been disastrous. The public, the media, and political analysts had not merely been surprised by the president's choice; they'd been appalled.

'Gerrard knows more about tennis than he does about politics. He's more at home at a country club than he is in the Senate. He's got so much money he thinks everyone drives a Mercedes. He's never made a decision about anything without asking advice from all of his contacts, including his gardener. God gave him great looks, then went for a walk, and forgot to add brains.'

And on, and on.

Republican leaders had begged the future president to reconsider his choice for a running mate. Fearful, Gerrard had heard strong rumors that the president had almost relented but had finally concluded that to change his mind would make him look indecisive, a poor way to start an election campaign. So the president had kept Gerrard on the ticket but had distanced himself as much as diplomatically possible from his running mate, sending Gerrard to make speeches in the least important, least populated districts, exiling Gerrard to the boonies, in effect making him disappear from the voters' minds.

Due to several factors – the weak Democratic opposition and the president's strong connection with the previous revered administration – Gerrard's side had won the election, and the president had immediately distanced himself even more from Gerrard, using him as the token White House representative at the blandest of social functions, then sending him on innocuous goodwill missions around the globe. Lately, columnists had taken to calling Gerrard 'the invisible man'.

At least until four days ago.

Oh, yes, indeed.

Four days ago.

That was when Gerrard had become very visible and exercised his limited authority, shocking every political theorist in the country.

As Gerrard shut the door behind him, he noticed that the Oval Office was empty except for the president, Clifford Garth, who sat behind his wide polished desk in his high-backed bulletproof chair in front of a bulletproof window that overlooked the White House lawn.

The president was fifty-five, taller than he looked on TV, trim from the two miles he swam every day in the pool in the White House basement. He was narrow-faced, which sometimes gave his mouth an unfortunate pinched expression. He had authoritative dark eyebrows that contrasted effectively with a distinguished touch of gray in his neatly cut, short hair. His skin was normally tanned, from daily exposure to a sun lamp, but today the president's cheeks were vividly scarlet. His eyes – which as a rule displayed a calm, controlled, reassuring thoughtfulness – bulged and blazed with fierce emotion.

'Yes, Mr President? You wanted to see me?' Gerrard asked.

'See you? Damned right I want to see you.' The president stood with force. 'I waited as long as… I'd have told you to get here four days ago, but I needed that much time to control myself! Never mind the political liability. I didn't want to get arrested.'

Gerrard shook his head. 'I don't understand. Arrested, sir?'

'For murder.' Garth raised a rigid arm and gestured in a frenzy toward the ceiling, moving his index finger from left to right. 'Imagine the headline. Imagine my satisfaction. "President loses his mind, attacks vice president, throws the bastard across the desk in the Oval Office, and strangles the son of a bitch, making his tongue stick out." You dumb…! What the hell did you think you were doing? Just for fun, did you decide to pretend you had power? You stupid…!'

'Yes, I understand. I assume you're referring to the vote on the Senate's clean-air bill,' Gerrard said.

'My God, I'm stunned! I didn't know you had it in you! You've suddenly become a genius! You read my mind, Gerrard! You're right that's what I'm referring to! The Senate's clean-air bill!'

'Mr President, if we can discuss this calmly.'

'Calmly? This is as calm as I get when I'm… You dimwit asshole. In case you've had a memory lapse, I'll remind you! I'm the president. Not you! Now I haven't found out – yet! – how the opposition managed to sway enough of our senators to vote against us, but I guarantee – you can bet your future and your children's future – I will! But what gives me a shrieking headache…' The president shuddered. 'What I haven't found out… and what keeps me awake all night… and what makes me want to drive a pen through your heart… is why you turned against me! I almost dumped you three years ago! You ought to be grateful! I gave you a cushy job! No responsibilities! Just coast and go to banquets, try not to get too drunk, and when your Barbie-doll wife's not around, you've got the chance to screw any Republican groupie who's got big enough tits and knows how to keep her mouth shut, except when it's around your dick! So why didn't you know enough to keep your mouth shut? For God's sake, Gerrard, the vote on the clean-air bill was tied! Since you've gone simple on me, I'll remind you! The vice president's job is to break the tie, which means he votes for administration policy! But you voted against me! You broke the tie in the opposition's favor!'

'If you'll just listen for a moment, Mr President.'

'Listen?" Garth shuddered to the point of apoplexy. 'Listen? Idiot, I don't listen. You do. You're the assistant. I'm the boss. And what I say goes. Except that you don't seem to get the message!'

'The clean-air bill's a good one,' Gerrard said calmly. 'The atmosphere's polluted. It's poisoning our lungs. The latest report gives us forty years before the planet's doomed.'

'Hey, I'll be dead by then! What do I care? You want to talk about doomed? You're doomed. Come election time, you're out, pal! I need a V.P. who's smart enough to cooperate, which God help me I thought you were. But all of a sudden… and I don't understand this… you've got a mind of your own.'

'I voted according to my conscience,' Gerrard said.

'Conscience? Give me a break.'

'In my opinion, the bill ought to go further. This year, every day, in New York harbor alone, we've had an oil spill. Not to mention along every coast. Alaska. Oregon. California. New Jersey. Texas. My home state of Florida. Never mind the oil spills. Never mind the raw sewage in the rivers and harbors. Never mind the herbicides and pesticides in the drinking water or the leaks from nuclear plants. Let's just concentrate on the air. It's terrible. Government has to take control.'

'Gerrard, pay attention to realities. Our administration has to protect the industries that employ our voters, keep our economy stable, and pay taxes – admittedly not as much as they could, but hell, let's not forget those industries contribute to our dwindling balance of trade with foreign nations. The bottom line is, Gerrard…'

'Let me guess. When the crisis gets bad enough, we'll somehow deal with it.'

The president raised his jaw. 'Well, what a surprise. You finally got the idea.'

'The problem is…' Gerrard said. 'What you don't seem to grasp…'

'Hey, I grasp everything.'

'The crisis is now. If we wait any longer, we can't…'

'You've forgotten American knowhow. You've forgotten World War Two. American enterprise has shown, repeatedly, that it can solve every problem.'

'Yes, but…'

'What?'

'That was then. This is now. And we're not as enterprising as the Japanese.'

'Good Lord, I hope you haven't told that to the press.'

'And reunited Germany will be even more enterprising,' Gerrard said. 'But I don't believe that they'll save the planet anymore than we will. Greed, Mr President. Greed's always the answer. It always wins out. Until we all tremble and wheeze to death.'

'You sound like a damned radical from Berkeley in the sixties.'

'Okay,' Gerrard said, 'I admit that stringent controls on air Pollution will affect virtually every American industry. The costs to contain the pollution – sulphur dioxide, chlorofluorocarbons, cancer-causing industrial emissions, carbon dioxide from automobile exhaust – I could go on, but I don't want to bore you – the expenses will be enormous.'

'Finally. Gerrard, I'm really surprised. You've grasped the point. Sulphur dioxide, which causes acid rain, comes from coal-burning power plants. So if we outlaw coal in those plants, we put hundreds of thousands of miners out of work. Chlorofluorocarbons, which deplete the ozone layer, are a by- product of the cooling systems in refrigerators and air conditioners. But there's no alternative technology. So what do we do? Put those industries out of work? Do you honestly believe that any American would agree to do without an air conditioner? Automobile emissions contribute to global warming. Right. But if we force the car companies to reduce those emissions, it'll cost them billions to improve their engines. They'll have to charge more for the cars. People won't be able to afford them, and Detroit'll go out of business. Don't get me wrong, Gerrard. I worry about the lousy air. Believe me. After all, I have to breathe the damned stuff. So does my wife. My children. My grandchildren. But you want to know what also worries me, really worries me? The faltering economy… the negative balance of trade… the growing national debt… they give me panic attacks! So I don't care about forty years from now. I have to concentrate on controlling this month! This year! And you're not with the program, Gerrard! So let me inform you of what's going to happen. If the House agrees with the Senate and the clean-air bill shows up on my desk, I'm going to veto it.'

'Veto?'

'Good for you. You're paying attention. Now do your best to stay alert. When the Senate reconsiders the bill, this time you'll urge them to vote against it. Open your ears and listen. Against. Is that clear enough?'

'Very clear.'

'Then don't screw up again!'

Gerrard seethed, although outwardly he tried to seem humble. 'Of course, Mr President. Your logic is clear. And indeed I understand your motives. After all, business is what this government considers most important.'

'You bet your ass. Business is what keeps this country going. Never forget it.'

'Believe me, Mr President. I don't intend to.'

EIGHT

Three minutes later, after the president finished cursing Gerrard, his parents, his wife, his movie-star good looks, and even his tennis abilities, Gerrard was finally allowed to leave the Oval Office.

Again, the Secret Service guards kept a stolid expression, not simply because of professional detachment but as well because they sensed the political weather and realized that Gerrard now had even less importance than when he'd entered the president's office.

Or so Gerrard concluded as he pulled a handkerchief from his suitcoat pocket and wiped his apparently clammy brow, walking with equally apparent uncertain steps along the White House corridor.

Presidential aides turned away, attempting to conceal their embarrassment for him but clearly showing their relief that they weren't considered expendable.

Gerrard didn't care. He had no pride. What he did have was a mission, and it struck him as ironic that the president's last insult – about his tennis abilities – related directly to Gerrard's next appointment, a tennis match at an extremely private Washington club. He took an elevator down to the White House garage and was driven in his limousine – with two cars containing Secret Service agents, one before and one behind him – to a fashionable suburb. There, he entered a low, sprawling, glass-and-glinting-metal building that had won an architectural award three years ago. Even from the front, the pock-pock-pock of volleyed tennis balls was audible. Gerrard's driver and his Secret Service guards remained outside, as he instructed. They kept a discreet watch on the parking lot and the entrance to the building, although they didn't maintain a maximum level of vigilance. After all, who'd consider Gerrard a sufficiently important target to want to harm him?

In the tennis club's luxurious locker room, he changed from his suit to a fashionable athletic top and designer shorts. His four-hundred-dollar tennis shoes were Italian, their leather hand-stitched, a gift from a diplomat on one of Gerrard's so frequent good-will missions. His custom-made racket, constructed from space-age materials and worth two thousand dollars, had been a present from his wife. He grabbed a monogrammed towel, checked a mirror to make sure his movie-star hair was perfectly in place, then strolled from the rear of the club and squinted in the smoggy sunlight, facing eight chain-link-fenced courts, seven of which were occupied. In the eighth, a lean, tanned, distinguished-looking man of forty, dressed in tennis clothes, was waiting for him.

Gerrard stepped through the court's open gate, closed it, and shook hands with the man. 'How are you, Ken?'

'Troubled. And you, Alan?'

The same. I just had what the columnists would call a chewing-out from the president.' Gerrard massaged his right eye.

'Anything you couldn't handle?'

'As far as my ego goes, no big deal. But strategically…? I'll tell you about it later. I mean, we're supposed to be here to play tennis, after all, and to tell the truth, I need to get rid of some stress.' Again, Gerrard massaged his right eye.

'What's wrong with-?'

'Nothing important. The smog's so gritty it irritates my eyes. If the itch gets any worse, I'll have a doctor give me some ointment.'

'But you're sure it won't interfere with your game? I've been looking forward to beating you today. The thing is, I'd prefer to do it on even terms,' Ken said.

'No matter. On even terms or not, you'd still have trouble beating me.'

'Okay, then, challenge accepted. Serve.' With a smile, Ken walked to the opposite end of the court.

Ken's last name was Madden, and he was the Deputy Director of Covert Operations for the Central Intelligence Agency. He and Gerrard had gone to Yale together, had both belonged to its influential, secret society of Skull and Bones as well as Yale's tennis club, and had kept in touch over the years. Their friendship was long and well-established. No political commentators gave it much attention. Once a week, since the present administration had come into power, the two former fraternity members had made a habit of this game, at least when Gerrard was in town and not exiled by the president on yet another international good-will mission. The critical factor was that playing tennis was exactly what the media and the public expected Gerrard to be doing, and in so exclusive a setting where reporters and minor diplomats were refused admission, the weekly game – like so much about Gerrard – had become invisible.

As a rule, Gerrard's and Madden's skills were equal, their matches won by a very close margin. If Madden was victorious one week, Gerrard would be victorious the next. But today, despite Gerrard's confident challenge, the irritation in his right eye did impair his ability. He lost the first set, managed with difficulty to win the second, but didn't have a chance in the third. That was all they had time for.

Gerrard bent over, breathing heavily, surprised by his exhaustion. The smog, he thought. The damned smog. 'Sorry.' He reached the net, shook hands with Madden, and toweled his sweaty face. 'I apologize for the clumsy match. I'll try hard to be more challenging next week.' As he had repeatedly, he rubbed his right, weeping eye.

'Yeah, since we started, that eye's gotten worse. It's red now. You'd better do something about it.'

'Maybe if I rinsed it with water.'

'Why not?' Madden shrugged. 'Give it a try. At least the club's got a reverse-osmosis purification system. Otherwise the chemicals in the water would make your eye even worse.'

They walked toward the side of the court while in the background other players continued their matches.

'So tell me,' Madden said. They stood with their backs to the clubhouse, taking care to block their conversation in case they were being monitored by directional microphones. Tell me about the president.'

'He plans to veto the clean-air bill.'

Madden shook his head. 'Dear Lord. The stubborn fool.'

'I guarantee I gave him my best arguments,' Gerrard said. 'But he just wouldn't budge. According to him, when the problem gets bad enough, American businesses will suddenly come up with a miracle cure.'

'What a joke. I didn't realize the president had a sense of humor, even if it is unintentional,' Madden said. 'When the problem gets bad enough? Doesn't he realize that the problem's bad enough already?'

'To him, it's like the mounting budget deficit. Let the next generation take care of it. Right now, he says his primary obligation is to hold the country together.' Gerrard toweled more sweat from his face.

Madden sighed. 'Well, it's not as if we didn't expect him to react that way. But we had to do the right thing. We had to give him the chance.'

Despondent, Gerrard draped his towel around his neck. 'However, it gets worse.'

'Oh?'

'The president feels betrayed. He's confused. In a panic. He can't comprehend how the opposition swayed so many Republican senators to switch party allegiance and vote for the bill. He's so furious about their defection that he claims he's doing his damnedest, using all his investigators, to find out what made them do it.'

'We expected that as well. Political reflex,' Madden said. 'But I can't imagine many senators confessing they were blackmailed. Because, after all, the next obvious question would be why were they being blackmailed, and I don't believe a senator would be stupid enough to destroy his or her career by confessing bribes, kickbacks, cocaine addiction, adultery, and a few other, even more serious matters our people discovered. Insider stock trading. Hit-and-run manslaughter while intoxicated. One case of incest. No, those senators will keep their mouths shut. They're experienced. Better yet, God bless them… at the same time damn them… they're practical. It's a pity we couldn't find more senators with something to hide. But on balance, it kind of gives me faith in the system. Not everybody's got a deep dark secret. Even so, if we had been able to scare just a few more senators, the vote would have been in our favor. And you wouldn't have had to compromise your position and break the tie by voting against the administration.'

Gerrard shrugged. 'No problem. I can tolerate the president's contempt. What is a problem is that after he vetoes the bill, and after he sends it back to the Senate, we'll have to put pressure on more senators to gain the two-thirds vote we need to override his veto.'

'Well…'Madden glanced around, assessing the security of their position. 'We've got the power. We've got the influence. All the same, the vote'll be close. In the meantime, when you continue not to cooperate with the president's policy…'

'Yes, that worries me,' Gerrard said. 'The president might restrict my activities even more. He might put me on ice until he can choose another vice president when the next election comes up. But it's vital that I keep going on those good-will missions. I have to keep coordinating our efforts.'

Madden stared down at the concrete surface of the tennis court.

'Yes, it's vital.' He straightened. 'Regrettably, he leaves us no choice. But the group knew – and they agreed - that we'd have to do it sooner or later.'

'And now,' Gerrard said, 'it'll have to be sooner.'

'Without question. The president showed the nation… not to mention the world… how brave he was when he went to that antidrug conference in Colombia last year. Cynical journalists were taking bets on when and how the cocaine lords would have him assassinated. But the president survived… I consider it miraculous… and now he's overconfident. Next week, he's flying to Peru for yet another drug-control conference. I'm not clairvoyant, but I think that this one time I can definitely predict the future. The president won't be coming back. Alive, at least. A week from tomorrow, we'll have a new president. A more enlightened one.'

'I hope I'm worthy of the responsibility,' Gerrard said.

'Well, as you're aware from your frequent good-will trips, you'll have a great deal of help from our counterparts.'

'Yes, by sending me on those trips, the president was his own worst enemy.'

Madden stared again toward the concrete surface of the tennis court.

'Something else?'

'Unfortunately.' Madden frowned.

'What's wrong?'

'We may have a security breach,' Madden said.

Despite his tan, Gerrard paled. 'What kind? How serious? Why didn't you tell me before? We might have to postpone-'

'I don't think that'll be necessary. Not yet, although if we have to, we will postpone next week's plan, of course. I didn't want to trouble you until now, because I thought the matter had been taken care of. However, it wasn't. You need to be informed in case you can use your authority to help us.'

'What kind of security breach?' Gerrard insisted.

'I told you last week that our search team had finally found the defector.'

'I remember,' Gerrard said impatiently. 'And I also remember that you assured me he'd been eliminated in the appropriate manner.'

'He was.'

'Then-?'

'The defector met a woman,' Madden said. 'The friendship was brief and recent, to all appearance casual. Our search team didn't consider it important until the woman showed unusual interest in the defector after his death. She went to the police and somehow managed to identify the charred body. With information she supplied, an NYPD Missing Persons detective was able to locate the defector's apartment and take the woman there. As soon as she left the apartment, she delivered photographs to a shop that specializes in quick development. Naturally the surveillance team wondered what was in the photos. They attempted but weren't able to obtain them. Curious, they decided to search the defector's apartment.'

'You mean they hadn't already?' Gerrard flinched.

'They admit the mistake. In their defense, the defector had assumed such deep cover that it didn't seem likely he'd risk keeping anything from his former life.'

'You're saying he did?

'In his bedroom.' Madden's jaw hardened. The surveillance team found an altar.'

Gerrard gasped.

'They destroyed it,' Madden said. 'More important, they took the statue.'

'But that still leaves the woman and the photographs.'

'Correct. Last night, a team tried to solve that problem.'

'Tried?'

They failed. In the meantime, she'd spoken with Brian Hamilton and…'

'Hamilton? What's he got to do with-? He died in a freeway accident last night!'

'His connection with the woman? I haven't told you the worst part. The woman's name. Theresa Drake.'

'Tess? Not-'

'Remington Drake's daughter. She went to Alexandria last evening to use her late father's influence with the government in an effort to learn about the defector. At her request, Brian Hamilton was on his way to the FBI director. But our team managed to stop him.'

'We killed Brian Hamilton?' Gerrard jerked his head back.

'And the team did its best to kill the woman as well. The fire at her mother's house. Perhaps you heard about it. Tess Drake escaped. We don't know where she is, but there's no doubt that she threatens us. We're using every resource to find and stop her. That's why I'm briefing you. Granted, you have plenty to be concerned about as it is, but you did know her father.'

'Yes. In fact, I knew him well.'

Then it's possible she'll try to contact you and ask for help.'

'Ah,' Gerrard said. 'Now I understand.'

'It might not come to that. We have a plan that we think might lead us to the woman.'

'How?'

'It involves the detective she went to for help. There isn't time to explain.' Madden looked around, noticing a team of players waiting to take their turn on the court. 'We've been here too long. We need to leave before we attract attention. Assuming an emergency doesn't prevent it, I'll see you here next week.'

'God bless.'

'And God bless you. By all means, let me know at once if the woman…'

Gerrard nodded somberly.

So did Madden. They left the court, assumed their public personalities, made a few pleasant comments to the waiting players, and entered the back of the clubhouse.

'Your eye looks worse,' Madden said.

'Yes, I'd better do something about it.' Gerrard stepped into the shower area, relieved to find that the room was empty. He approached a mirror, studied his bloodshot eye, and tenderly removed a contact lens, preparing to rinse the eye with water. To all appearance, his irises were a photogenic blue, but without the contact lens – which he needed not to correct his vision but because the lens's blue provided a disguise – the color of Gerrard's right iris now was gray.

NINE

'A woman phoned for me, but you didn't get her number?' Craig glared at Tony in the Missing Persons office at One Police Plaza. He was out of breath from having rushed into the building. 'I told you…!'

'Hey, she hung up before I could ask. I couldn't even get her name. For all you know, she might not be Tess Drake.'

'”Might not" isn't good enough! I have to know!'

'Do me a favor, will you? Stop shouting. It gives me a headache. And why don't you just tell me what's going on?'

A gravelly voice interrupted, 'Good idea. That's what I'd like to know.'

They swung toward the open door to a private office where Captain Mallory, a bulky man in his forties, peered angrily over glasses pushed low on his nose. He had his jacket off, his shirtsleeves rolled up. The last I heard, you worked in this department.' He stalked toward Craig. 'So I'd appreciate it, and I'm sure the chief, the mayor, and the taxpayers would appreciate it, if you showed up on time.' Mallory's voice became more crusty. 'In fact if you showed up at all. For a couple of days this week, I haven't had the faintest idea in hell what you've been doing or where you've been! What's this about the Alexandria police department? Their Homicide division called to find out if someone was impersonating a New York City detective. You! Last night, they had several murders down there. Rich. A high-society district. What do you know about them?'

Craig swallowed, stared, and slowly sank toward a chair. Despite his cough, he murmured, 'I wish I hadn't given up smoking.'

'It wouldn't matter. You can't smoke here anyhow. I'm waiting, Craig. What's going on?'

Craig hesitated. 'On Tuesday…" He struggled to order his thoughts. 'A woman came to see me…'

For the next ten minutes, Craig explained: about the morgue, Carl Schurz Park, Joseph Martin's apartment. He concluded with Tess's sudden trip to Alexandria and the news he'd heard on the radio.

Captain Mallory made a sour face. 'Correct me if I'm wrong. The sign on the door says Missing Persons, right? As soon as the corpse was identified, it wasn't our responsibility anymore. The job belonged to Homicide. So why the hell were you still involved?'

'I did turn it over to Homicide,' Craig said. 'I kept them informed.'

'You haven't answered my question! Why were you still-?

'Because of the woman.' Craig felt his cheeks turn red. His voice dropped.

'What about her?' Mallory insisted.

'She got to me.'

'What are you saying?'

'It's personal.'

'Not anymore! As far as I'm concerned, this is official!'

'I didn't want to stop seeing her.'

'You're telling me you fell in love with her?'

'I… Yeah, I guess that's what happened. That's right. Yeah, I fell in love with her.'

'And all this happened since Tuesday? Jesus, she sure must be good-looking.' Mallory raised his hands in exasperation. 'Craig, when you were at the police academy, do you remember one of the rules your instructors kept pounding into your brain? Don't get involved with the customers! It always leads to a foul-up! It causes mistakes! It gets very messy!'

'Hey, you think I had a choice? It's not like I told myself, Why don't I do something stupid and fall in love with this woman? It happened all of a sudden! I couldn't help what I was feeling!'

Mallory slumped against a desk and shook his head. 'Brother, brother, brother. Okay. So we've got a problem. Fine.' He straightened. 'So we'll fix it. The first thing is, you phone Alexandria Homicide and tell them everything you know.'

Craig stared. 'No, I don't think so.'

'What?'

'I'm not sure getting in touch with them is a good idea. Not yet, at least.'

'I gave you an order!'

'Look, if she's alive… and Tony took a call a while ago that makes me think she is… she's on the run. She's being hunted. If we tell Alexandria Homicide and they start looking for her, whoever wants to kill her will monitor the police radios. The moment they find out where she is, they'll do their damnedest to get to her before the squad cars do.'

'Stop thinking like her boy friend, Craig, and act like a cop. She needs protection, for God's sake!'

'I am thinking like a cop. You know as well as I do! No matter how hard the Alexandria policy try, they can't guarantee her safety anymore than we could! If someone wants to kill you bad enough… and what happened last night proves how determined these people are… nothing can stop them.'

'But you think you can stop them,' Mallory said.

'What I think I can do is bring her in quietly, safely.'

'John Wayne to the rescue.'

'Give me a break,' Craig said. 'Whatever's going on, it's not like anything I've ever come across. These people are vicious. They're organized. They're determined. And they love to play with fire. I don't know why they want to kill her… maybe something they're afraid she knows… but they've proven they'll take down as many people as they have to in order to get at her. The moment she comes out of hiding, if she asks the Alexandria police for help and word gets around, which it's bound to, she's dead. I think Tess has figured that much already. It explains why she decided to avoid the police.'

'You're theorizing.'

'No. Otherwise, Alexandria Homicide wouldn't have called you, wondering what I know that they don't know.'

'Okay.' Mallory debated. 'That makes sense. But you've still got to talk to them. This isn't just a matter of one department cooperating with another. You've got to explain what you think's going on. Otherwise you're concealing information about multiple felonies, and you know what happens to people who do that. You're not a bad guy, all things considered, but that doesn't mean I like you enough to visit you in prison. Pick up that phone.'

'No. Wait. Please. Just give me a few more minutes.'

'What are you hoping? That she'll call you?'

'Right. Then maybe I will have something to tell the Alexandria police. She trusts me. So maybe we can figure out a way to bring her in safely.'

The phone rang on Tony's desk. Before Craig could stand and get to it, Tony picked it up.

'Missing Persons… Just a minute.' Tony extended the phone toward Craig.

'It's her?' Craig asked.

'No. Alexandria Homicide.'

Craig froze.

At once another phone rang, and this time Captain Mallory picked it up. 'Missing Persons. Yeah, you bet. Right away.'

Craig glanced from one phone to the other in bewilderment.

'Better take it,' Mallory said. 'It's a woman, and the way she says your name, it's like she's in trouble and she needs help from God.'

Craig lunged for the phone.

TEN

'Tess, is that you?'

At the sound of Craig's voice, Tess felt her knees weaken. Jesus. At last!

After having nervously backed the sleek, black, Porsche 911 from the spacious garage next to Mrs Caudill's mansion, she'd felt naked with fear. Her right hand had trembled as she'd changed gears, driving from the secluded, expensive neighborhood.

She'd passed few cars, but that had only made those few cars more suspicious. There was too great a chance that the killers would have left a sentry in the area. Repeatedly she'd checked her rearview mirror. No one seemed to be following her. But when she left the exclusive neighborhood and increased speed onto a crowded four-lane thoroughfare next to which laundromats, quick-food restaurants, and video stores blighted the area, she realized that in the dense traffic she wouldn't be able to tell if a car pursued her.

Worse, her own car – costly and ostentatious – was a liability. In her youth, she'd overheard her father's conversations on the telephone. Just make sure, he once had said. Whatever car they use, it can't be fancy. It has to blend.

Well, this car certainly didn't blend. Passing drivers in non-luxurious vehicles assessed the Porsche with envy.

Damn, she thought and clutched the purse beside her – the pistol within it – for reassurance. When she saw the telephone booth at the edge of the crowded parking lot of a shopping mall, she braked to a stop beside the booth, hurried from the car, fumbled a credit card from her wallet, grabbed the receiver, and again phoned Craig's office.

'Yes,' she breathed. 'It's me. I tried to call you earlier.'

'I thought that might have been you. Thank God, you're alive. I was so afraid…'

'They burned… They killed my mother.'

'I know, Tess. I'm sorry. You must be… When I see you, I'll try to… I can't make the pain go away, but I'll do my best to share it. What's important now is that you weren't killed as well.'

'Not yet! But they'll keep hunting me! I'm terrified that I'm being followed. What am I going to do? Whoever's after me will watch the local police station. I can't go there, and if I phone the police, I'm afraid the killers will tune in to police broadcasts. I need help!'

'Listen. Don't panic, Tess. I promise. I'll make sure you're protected. Where are you? I hear traffic in the background.'

'I don't… I… On the outskirts of Alexandria. I'm in a phone booth near a shopping mall.'

'Christ, you can't stay there.' Craig coughed. 'Is there any place you can hide until I get to Alexandria?'

She trembled and tried to think.

Tess?'

'I can't involve my former friends. They might get killed. I thought of a movie theater, but with so many people around, in the dark, I wouldn't feel safe. Maybe the library. Maybe a museum. But they're so public I wouldn't feel safe there either.'

'Just a minute. I have to put you on hold. Don't hang up. I'll be right back.'

'No, wait!'

'Tess, it's important. Stay right there.'

She heard a click. Then the line was silent, except for the longdistance static.

Her hands shook.

Hurry! Please!

Furtive, she stared around at the crowded parking lot, at ominous strangers getting out of cars.

Two men stood next to a van and squinted in her direction.

Tess shoved her hand in her purse, grasping the pistol.

The two men rounded the van, about to flank her, but unexpectedly changed direction and walked toward the shopping mall.

Tess exhaled, realizing that they'd simply been admiring the Porsche.

Craig, hurry!

At once his voice was back on the line. 'Tess?'

'What have you been doing?' Her voice quavered.

'Look, I'm sorry. I didn't think that would take so long. I needed some information. I'll be on a Trump shuttle that's supposed to land at Washington National Airport at two-oh-seven. How did you get to that shopping mall? Have you got a car?'

'Yes.'

'What kind? I need to recognize it.'

'A Porsche nine-eleven. Black.'

'I have to give you credit. Even if you're scared, you travel in class.'

'Craig, spare me the humor.'

'I'm only trying to keep up your spirits. Okay, if it's business you want, pay attention. There's a Marriott hotel in Crystal City near the airport. As soon as I arrive, I'll grab a taxi and watch for your car at the hotel's entrance. At the latest, I ought to be there by two-thirty.'

'But that'll be three hours from now!'

'I've already figured that. Drive to Washington. Take a tour of the Capitol Building. With so many guards there, no one would dare try to get at you. Just be careful when you leave and return to your car.'

'Be careful? Since last night, being careful is all I've been trying to do.'

'Well, try even harder. And in the meantime, I'll contact the Alexandria police. I'll tell them what's going on.'

'No! If this gets on their radio…!'

'Tess, you've got to trust me. I'll talk to their chief. I'll make sure he keeps a lid on this. I won't tell him where you are or where we're going to meet. All I want is to organize a team to take you to a place that's secure.'

'There isn't such a place!'

'Believe me, there is. A house. A hotel room. A farm. Whatever, wherever, I guarantee you'll be smothered with guards. Just keep control! Please. A few more hours, and this'll be over.'

'No! You're wrong!'

'I don't…'

'They'll always be waiting. They'll never give up. This won't ever end!'

'It will if we can find out why they want to kill you. Once their secret's out – whatever it is – they won't have a reason to stop you from talking.'

'If we can find out what they're so afraid I know. If. If! If!'

'I'm telling you, keep control.'

'But it doesn't stop just with me!' Tess said. 'I'm not the only one in danger!'

'I don't understand. Nobody else is…'

'Wrong! Don't forget! Craig, you were with me. You heard me talk about Joseph! You went with me to Joseph's apartment! You saw what was in his bedroom! If the killer's followed both of us, to protect their secret they might come after you!'

Craig didn't answer for a moment. 'So let the sons of bitches try.' He coughed again. The Marriott near the airport. Two-thirty. Drive past it until you see me. I'll recognize your car.'

'You make me feel…"

'This isn't the time to be evasive.'

'Confident. I'll be as clever as my father. I'll be there.'

ELEVEN

She hung up the phone, studied the strangers in the parking lot, felt vulnerable, and hurried to get into the Porsche.

Drive to Washington, Craig had said. Take a tour of the Capitol Building. But the idea of being in so public a place, even in the presence of guards, made her nervous. There had to be a less dangerous alternative.

As she drove from the shopping mall, Tess checked her rearview mirror to see if she was being followed. Several cars left behind her. With a deep breath, she again touched her purse, feeling the reassuring bulk of the pistol inside.

Abruptly the pistol made her recall the men she'd killed last night, and the memory sickened her. But anger and fear were stronger. She hadn't counted how many times she'd fired. In this morning's confusion, she'd failed to remove the pistol's magazine to see how many rounds were left. Her father would definitely not have approved. The gun might be empty, for all she knew.

I've got to be able to defend myself!

A quick glance toward the side of the road made her notice a cluster of stores. One store in particular caught her attention.

She steered sharply toward it, parked in front, and hurriedly entered the building, slowing when she closed the door, doing her best to look calm.

'Yes, ma'am?' the muscular, sporting-goods clerk asked. Behind the counter, he cast his eyes up and down, assessing her face and figure, smiling – almost leering – with approval. 'How can I help you?'

'I need two boxes of ammunition for a SIG-Sauer nine millimeter pistol.'

'You must have plans for some heavy shooting.' He made the remark sound suggestive.

'The instructor in my target-practice course insists that we buy our own ammunition.'

'Well, I can promise, if you were in my class, I'd give you the ammunition and the lessons for free.' The clerk raised his eyebrows.

'In that case, I guess it's too bad you're not in my class,' Tess said.

The clerk was too absorbed by her braless breasts beneath her thin blouse to detect her muted irony.

While he turned his back to get the two boxes of ammunition, Tess reached in her purse to pull out her wallet, taking care that the clerk wouldn't see the handgun.

In the process, her fingers brushed the packet of photographs. As if she'd been jolted by an exposed electrical wire, she remembered that Craig had insisted last night that she have copies made and Fed-Exed to his office. But everything was different now! She didn't have time to obey Craig's orders, and for damned sure, she wouldn't feel safe waiting for the copies to be developed! She had to keep moving!

'Would you mind? Have you got an envelope?' she asked the clerk. 'Can I buy a stamp from you? I'd really appreciate it.'

'For such a pretty lady, why not?'

Thanks. I'll make a point of coming back.'

'Believe me, you'd be welcome. There's a range past that door. We could do some, what you might call, private shooting.'

Tess struggled to tolerate his banter, her mind in a turmoil. 'And I bet your aim's on target.'

'Never had complaints.'

Give me a break! Tess inwardly screamed. She managed not to cringe, paid for the ammunition, then took the envelope and the stamp. The negatives! she thought. I'll mail Craig the negatives. At least, they'll be protected.

At once the thought of the photographs – and the vivid recollection of the grotesque sculpture in Joseph's bedroom – made Tess's stomach burn with the forceful realization of where she had to go next.

It certainly wasn't the Capitol Building.

TWELVE

Craig slammed down the phone.

Captain Mallory, startled by the furious determination on Craig's face, jerked up his arms. 'Well, now I've heard everything. A lieutenant giving orders to a police chief.'

'Hey, it worked, didn't it? The Alexandria department's cooperating.'

'If you want to call it that. Even over here, I heard him shouting. When he gets his hands on you…'

'Tell me about it. What did you expect? I didn't have a choice. I couldn't… I didn't dare… give him specifics about my rendezvous with Tess. The killers are too well organized. If even one patrol car talks about the Marriott hotel on its radio and if their transmissions are being monitored, Tess'll be shot when she arrives.'

'But apparently you got the Alexandria chief to prepare a safe house. I have to admit I'm impressed. There's just one problem, Craig.'

'Only one? I see so many, I-'

'Yeah, a problem. I haven't given you permission to leave. You don't run this division. You're way beyond your authority.'

'I told you, I'm going!'

'Even if I suspend you?'

'Do what you have to! Fire me for all I care!'

'You stubborn…!'

'I don't have time to argue! All I do have time for is to grab a taxi and get to LaGuardia before that plane takes off!'

'In noon-hour traffic? Lots of luck finding a cab.'

Then I'll take a patrol car!'

'No!'

'What?'

'Wrong! You won't take a patrol car.'

'Don't get in my-!'

'Tony will. He'll drive you to the airport.'

Craig blinked in surprise. 'Did you just say…?'

'Get moving, Craig. Watch your ass. And if the Alexandria chief gives you trouble, tell him to phone me.'

'I can't believe… I don't know how to…'

'Thank me? By getting back here alive. By doing some work for a change. Tony, if traffic's really lousy, use the siren.'

THIRTEEN

As the patrol car squealed from One Police Plaza, two men watched intensely from a perfect duplicate of a telephone-company van parked down the street. Each had a ring in his pocket, a gleaming ruby overlaid with a golden insignia of an intersecting sword and cross.

In the van's front seat, the first man – a stern surveillance expert – compared the blurred, passing faces in the cruiser to a photograph in his hand. 'I think it's him!'

'You think"? We have to be sure.' In the back, the second man continued to monitor earphones.

'I am sure.'

'But you said you think, and that's not good enough. I wish we'd been able to put a tap on the phones in the Missing Persons office. Wait. I'm getting something.' The second man adjusted his earphones. 'My, my. The police dispatcher's telling all patrol cars to run interference and make sure that cruiser… its numbers match… reaches LaGuardia in time for a one o'clock Trump shuttle to Washington National Airport.'

'Is that good enough for you?'

'Yeah,' the technician said. 'Definitely good enough. Make the call.'

The man in the front seat picked up a cellular phone and pressed numbers. 'The catcher has left the plate. We think he's so upset about his girl friend's health that he needs to see her in the Washington ballpark.' He gave the details of the flight.

On the phone, the chameleon's voice responded. 'But what about the opposition?'

'So far no show. Maybe they don't want to play right now.'

'Not possible. Not when we're in the finals. You can bet their team's in the area. Keep checking for talent scouts. We'll check the Washington ballpark. But don't forget. The opposite team has a habit of showing up when we least expect them.'

FOURTEEN

Heart pounding, Tess scrambled into the Porsche outside the sporting-goods shop and peered urgently around, afraid that a car would suddenly park beside her, that men would lunge out, shooting. She yanked the handgun from her purse, maintaining sufficient presence of mind to keep the weapon low, out of sight from anyone outside the car. Frantic, she pressed the button that released the pistol's magazine and discovered that there were only two rounds left in the magazine, plus one in the firing chamber.

Jesus. Quickly she jerked the cardboard lid off one of the boxes of ammunition she'd bought and shoved fourteen more rounds into the magazine, filling it. In theory, the weapon held only sixteen rounds, but with the round that was already in the firing chamber ('one up the spout,' her father had liked to call it), the handgun's capacity now was seventeen.

The moment Tess slid the magazine back into the pistol's handle, snapping it into place, she felt as if a tight band around her chest had been relaxed. At least now she'd be able to defend herself. She hoped.

I have to get out of here.

She crammed the handgun into her purse, shoved the boxes of ammunition under the driver's seat, twisted the ignition key, stomped the accelerator, and urged the Porsche into a break in traffic on the busy thoroughfare.

The envelope! While in the sporting-goods store, Tess had printed an address on the envelope, licked the stamp that the clerk had sold her, and stuck the stamp on to the envelope. Now, as she drove, she fumbled with one hand to remove the packet of photographs from her purse, open the flap, and slide the negatives into the envelope.

Ahead, to the right. Tess felt her breathing quicken when she saw a post-office truck at a dropbox outside a mini-mall. She swerved off the road, braked quickly beside the truck, licked and sealed the envelope, then leaned out the Porsche's window, handing the envelope to the mailman as he carried a bulging bag from the dropbox toward the truck.

'Late delivery.' Tess managed a smile. 'I hope you don't mind.'

'Makes no difference to me. Love your car.'

'Thanks.'

'How does it handle?'

'Watch.' Tess rammed the gearshift into first, tromped the gas pedal, and squealed away.

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 that 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 subject 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.'

He cleared his throat.

Their conversation faltered.

Even so, Tess found that the silence was comfortable.

Soothing.

She admired the lilies.

How I wish I could stay here forever, she thought. How I wish that my world wasn't falling to pieces.

'Professor, can we talk about art for a while?'

'My pleasure. As you're aware, apart from my lilies, I've always enjoyed a discussion…'

'About a bas-relief statue? I'd like to show you a picture of it.'

Apprehensive, Tess withdrew the packet of photographs from her purse, taking care to conceal the handgun.

'But why…? You're so somber.' Professor Harding narrowed his white, sparse eyebrows. 'Have you lost your enthusiasm for the subject?'

'Not for the subject,' Tess said. 'But as far as this goes…' She showed him the photograph of the statue. 'This is another matter.'

Professor Harding scowled, creating more wrinkles on his forehead. He pushed up his glasses, then raised the photograph toward them. 'Yes, I can see why you're disturbed.'

He shifted the picture forward, then backward, and with each motion shook his head. 'Such a brutal image. And the style. So rough. So crude. It's certainly not something I care for. Certainly not Velazquez.'

'But what can you tell me about it?' Tess held her breath.

'I'm sorry, Tess. You'll have to be more specific. What exactly do you need to know? What's your interest in this? Where did you find it?'

Tess debated how much to tell him. The less the old man knew, the better. If the killers found out that she'd come here, ignorance and infirmity might be the difference that saved Professor Harding's life. 'A friend of mine had it in his bedroom.'

'That doesn't say much for his taste. His bedroom? This doesn't belong even in a tool shed.'

'I agree. But have you any idea who might have sculpted it? Or why! Or what it means! Are there any sculptors you know or you've heard of who might have done it?'

'Dear me, no. I can see why you're confused. You think this sculpture might relate to a contemporary school of… I don't know what I'd call them… neo-primitives or avant-garde classicists.'

'Professor, forgive me. I'm still not a very good student. What you just said… You've lost me.'

'I'll try to be more enlightening. This photograph. It's difficult to tell from the image, but the sculpture seems to be in perfect condition. Distinct lines. No missing sections. No chips. No cracks. No sign of weathering.'

'I still don't…'

'Pay attention. Pretend you're taking notes.'

'Believe me, I'm trying.'

'The object, its craft, its execution, are recent. Very distinct. But the image itself is…' Professor Harding hesitated. 'Old. Very old. This is a copy, Tess, of a sculpture from as long ago as… oh, I'd guess… two thousand years.'

'Two thousand years?' Tess gaped.

'An approximation. It's not my specialty, I'm sorry to say. Anything before the sixteen hundreds is outside my expertise.'

Tess slumped. 'Then there's no way you can help me understand what it means?'

'Did I say that? Please. I merely admitted my own limitations. What you need is a classical scholar with training in archaeology.'

Tess glanced at her watch. Half-past twelve. Craig would be at LaGuardia by now. He'd soon be flying to Washington. She had to meet him at two-thirty. Time. She didn't have much time!

'A classical scholar with…?' Tess breathed.' Where on earth am I going to find...?'

'Young lady, I'm disappointed. Have you forgotten the marvelous woman I'm married to? She's the brains of the family. Not me. And until five years ago, she belonged to the Classics Department at Georgetown University. Come.' Professor Harding leaned on his cane and stood from the redwood bench. He wavered for a moment. 'Priscilla's been taking a nap. But it's time I woke her. It really isn't good if she misses lunch. Her diabetes, you know. Perhaps you'd care for a bite to eat.'

'Professor, I don't mean to be rude. I'm really not hungry, and please – oh, God, I hate this – I'm in a hurry. This is important. Terribly urgent. I need to know about that statue.'

'Well.' Professor Harding studied her. 'How mysterious you make it seem. Good. I can use some stimulation.' The old man shuffled unsteadily along a path, the fragrance of his lilies tainted by smog. 'But if it's that urgent, if you don't mind the familiarity, you'd better put your arm around me so I can walk a little faster. I confess I'm curious. So let's wake Priscilla and stimulate her. Let's find out what that odious image means.'

EIGHTEEN

Kennedy International Airport.

The Pan Am 747 from Paris arrived on time at 12:25. Among the four hundred and fifty passengers, six men – who'd sat separately in business class – were careful to leave the jet at intervals, and with equal care took different taxis into New York. They were all well-built, in their thirties. Each wore a nondescript suit and carried a briefcase as well as an under seat bag. None had checked luggage. Their features were common, ordinary, average.

Their only other shared characteristic was that while they'd been pleasant to the flight attendants, their polite remarks had seemed to require effort as if each man had urgent business that preoccupied him. Their eyes communicated the gravity of their concerns: distant, pensive, cold.

In Manhattan, at diverse locations, each man got out of his taxi, walked several blocks, took a subway at random, got off a few stops later, hired another taxi, and arrived several minutes apart on avenues west of the Museum of Natural History. After assessing the traffic, parked cars, and pedestrians in the neighborhood, each approached a brownstone on West Eighty-Fifth Street and rang the doorbell.

A matronly woman opened the door, blocking the narrow entrance. 'I don't believe we've met.'

'May the Lord be with you.'

'And with your spirit.'

'Deo gratias.'

'Indeed.' The woman waited. 'However, a sign is required.'

'Absolutely. I'd feel threatened if you didn't ask.'

The last man to arrive reached into his suitcoat pocket and showed her a ring. The ring had a gleaming ruby. The impressive stone was embossed with the golden insignia of an intersecting cross and sword.

'Deo gratias,' the woman repeated.

Only then did the woman open the door all the way, stepping backward, bowing her head, respectfully allowing the visitor to enter.

In an alcove to the left of the door, a grim, intense man in a Kevlar bullet-resistant vest lowered an Uzi submachine gun equipped with a silencer.

The woman closed the door. 'Did you have a good flight?'

'It didn't crash.'

'The others arrived not long ago.'

The visitor merely nodded, then followed the woman up narrow stairs to the second floor. He entered a bedroom, where the five other members of his team had already changed into unobtrusive clothes and now were taking apart and reassembling pistols laid out on the bed.

The weapons, Austrian Clock-17 9 mm semiautomatics, were made of sturdy polymer plastic, their only metal the steel of the barrel and the firing mechanism. Lightweight, dependable, their main advantage was that metal detectors often failed to register them, and when disassembled, the pistols frequently weren't noticed on airport X-ray machines.

'Your street clothes are in the bureau,' the woman said.

'Thank you, sister.'

'Your flight was long. You must be tired.'

'Not at all.'

'Hungry?'

'Hardly. My purpose gives me energy.'

'I'll be downstairs if you need anything. You will have to hurry, however. The schedule has been increased. You have tickets for a three o'clock flight to Washington National Airport. The bait is in motion.'

'I'm pleased to hear that, sister. And the enemy? Have the vermin taken the bait?'

'Not yet.'

'They will, however.' His voice became an ominous whisper. 'I have no doubt. Thank you.' He guided her from the bedroom. 'Thank you, sister. Thank you.' He shut the door.

The matronly woman gripped the banister, proceeded hesitantly down the stairs, then paused before the guard at the entrance. 'They make me shiver.'

'Yes,' the haggard man with the Uzi said. 'Once before, I worked with enforcers. For a day afterward, my marrow still felt frozen.'

NINETEEN

Tess waited, squirming impatiently on a chair at Professor Harding's kitchen table. The spacious room, in back of the Victorian house, was clean and uncluttered, painted blue. A large window provided a magnificent panorama of the thousands of glorious, many-colored lilies, but she was too preoccupied to pay attention to them. Some time ago – too long – Professor Harding had left her here while he'd gone upstairs to wake his wife.

Tess kept glancing nervously toward her watch. It was five after one. She fidgeted. Unable to control her anxiety, she stood and paced, locked the back door, abruptly sat down again, and continued fidgeting.

Hurry! Craig's plane would be in the air by now! He expected her at the Marriott hotel near Washington National Airport in less than ninety minutes!

I won't be able to stay here much longer!

But I can't just leave.

I've got to know!

At once she exhaled, hearing muffled footsteps on a staircase at the front of the house.

The next thing, she heard murmured voices. The footsteps shuffled along a corridor, approaching the kitchen.

Tess bolted to her feet as Professor Harding escorted his wife into view.

But at the sight of the woman, Tess felt her stomach turn cold.

No!

So much time! I've wasted so much…!

Priscilla Harding looked even more infirm than her husband. She was tiny, thin, and stoop-shouldered. Her wispy white hair was mussed from her nap, her face wrinkled, pale, and slack. Like her husband, she needed a cane. They clung to each other.

'Professor,' Tess said, trying not to insult their dignity by revealing her alarm. 'If only you'd told me. I'd have been more than happy to go upstairs with you and help bring your wife downstairs.'

'No need.' The old man smiled. 'Priscilla and I have managed to get along without help for several years. You wouldn't want to spoil us, would you? However, I appreciate your consideration.'

'Here, let me…' Tess hurried around the table, gently gripped Priscilla Harding, and helped her to sit.

'Good,' the professor said, breathing with difficulty. 'Our little exercise is over. How do you feel, Priscilla?'

The woman didn't answer.

Tess was alarmed by the lack of vitality in her eyes.

My God, she isn't alert enough to…

She can't possibly answer my questions!

Professor Harding seemed to read Tess's mind. 'Don't worry. My wife's merely groggy from her nap. It takes Priscilla a while to regain her energy. But she'll be fine as soon as…'

The old man opened the refrigerator's gleaming door and took out a syringe. After swabbing his wife's arm with rubbing alcohol, he injected her with what Tess assumed was insulin, given the professor's earlier remarks about his wife's diabetes.

'There,' the professor said.

He returned to the refrigerator and removed a plate of fruit, cheese, and meat that was covered with plastic-wrap.

'I hope you're hungry, my dear.' He set the plate on the table, took off the plastic-wrap, then shifted unsteadily toward a counter to slice some French bread. 'I suggest you start with those sections of orange. You need to maintain your-'

'Blood sugar?' Priscilla Harding's voice was thick-tongued, surprisingly deep. 'I'm sick of…'

'Yes. That's right. You're sick. But in a few moments, after you've had something to eat, you'll feel much better. By the way, that navel orange is excellent. I recommend you try it.'

With a weary glance toward her husband, Priscilla Harding obeyed, her arthritis-gnarled fingers raising a slice of the orange to her mouth. As she chewed methodically, she shifted her gaze, puzzled now, toward Tess.

Again Professor Harding seemed to read thoughts. 'Forgive my rudeness, dear. This attractive young woman is a former student of mine, but of course her beauty can never compare to yours.'

'You bullshitter.'

'My dear. Tsk, tsk. And in front of company.'

Priscilla Harding scrunched her wrinkled eyes in amusement.

'Her name is Tess Drake,' the professor said, 'and she has a favor to ask. She needs to make use of your scholarly abilities.'

Priscilla Harding's eyes rose, much less vapid. 'My scholarly…?'

'Yes, it's a bit of a mystery we hope you can solve,' the professor said. 'I tried to assist my former student, but I'm afraid her questions are beyond me. They're not at all related to my field of expertise.'

Her eyes gaining brightness, Priscilla ate another section of orange.

'The sliced beef is very good. Try it,' the professor said.

'What kind of favor?" Priscilla asked and continued eating, her eyes even more alert. 'What sort of questions?'

'She'd like you to examine a photograph. The photograph shows… or so I believe… a modern reproduction of an ancient bas-relief statue. A rather brutal one, I should add. So prepare yourself. But when you feel your strength coming back, if you'd…'

'Richard, the older you get, the more you avoid the point. A photograph? A modern replica of an ancient sculpture? Sounds fascinating. By all means, I'll be happy to look at it.'

Tess felt tense from the pressure of speeding time. 'Mrs Harding, thank you.'

'Please, there's no need to be formal. I'm Priscilla.' She munched on a piece of bread, wiped her hands on a napkin, and reached toward Tess. 'The photograph?'

Tess took it from her purse and slid it across the table.

Mrs Harding pulled glasses from a pocket in her dress and put them on, peering down at the photograph.

She kept chewing the bread.

Stopped chewing.

And swallowed hard. Her jaws assumed a grim expression.

She didn't speak for several moments.

What is it? Tess thought.

Hurry!

Priscilla nodded grimly. 'I've seen something like this, a very similar image, several times before.'

Muscles rigid, Tess leaned forward. 'But why do you look so troubled? The knife, the blood, the serpent, the dog. I know they're repulsive but…'

'And the scorpion. Don't forget the scorpion,' Priscilla said. 'Attacking the testicles of the dying bull. And don't forget the flame bearers, flanking the victim, one torch pointing upward, the other down.' The old woman shook her wrinkled face. 'And the raven.'

'I thought it was an owl.'

'My God, no. An owl? Don't be absurd. It's a raven.'

'But what do they mean?' Tess feared her control was about to collapse.

Priscilla trembled. Ignoring Tess, she directed her attention toward her husband. 'Richard, do you remember our summer in Spain in seventy three?'

'Of course,' the professor said with fondness. 'Our twenty-fifth anniversary.'

'Now don't get maudlin on me, Richard. The nature of that occasion – however much I enjoyed it – is irrelevant. What is, what's important, is that while you stayed in Madrid and haunted the Prado museum…"

'Yes, Velazquez, Goya, and…'

'But not Picasso. I don't believe Picasso's Guernica was exhibited then.'

'Please,' Tess leaned farther forward, her voice urgent. 'The statue.'

'I'd seen the Prado many times,' Priscilla said. 'And I'm a classicist, not an art historian. So I sent Richard on his merry way while I went on my own way. After all, I like to believe I'm a liberated woman.'

'You are, dear. How often you've proven that.' The professor shrugged with good nature and nibbled on some cheese.

'So I went to ancient Spanish sites whose artifacts intrigued me.' Priscilla's eyes became misted with favorite memories. 'Merida. Pamplona.'

'Pamplona? Isn't that where Hemingway…?'

'With apologies, Tess, pretend you're in my husband's classroom. Be polite, and don't interrupt.'

'I'm sorry, Mrs…'

'And don't make polite noises. I told you I'm not "Mrs". Not when you're my guest.' Priscilla concentrated. 'How I loved those… In ruins outside each village, I found etchings, engravings, and in a small museum outside Pamplona, I found a statue, like this. Weathered. Broken. Not clean, with perfect engravings. Not distinct in its outline. But it was the same as this photograph. And later, in my fascinating travels, while I waited for Richard to exhaust his compulsion for Velazquez and Goya… Apparently I'm like Richard. I'm so old I fail to get to the point.'

'But what did you find?' Tess tried not to raise her voice.

'More statues.' Priscilla shrugged. 'Further engravings.'

'Of?'

'The same image as this. Not frequent. In situ, they were always hidden. Always in caves or grottoes.'

'Images of-?'

'Mithras.'

Tess jerked her head up. 'What or who the hell is…?'

'Mithras?' Priscilla mustered energy. 'Are you religious, Tess?'

'Sort of. I was raised a Roman Catholic. In my youth, I believed. In college, I lapsed. But lately…? Yes, I suppose you could say I'm religious.'

'Roman Catholic? Ah.' Priscilla bit her lip, her tone despondent. 'Then I'm afraid your religion has…'

'What?'

'Competition.'

'What are you talking about?'

'Ancient competition. Stronger than you can imagine. It comes from the start of everything, the origins of civilization, the roots of history.'

'What the hell…?'

'Yes, hell.' Priscilla's face drooped, at once haggard again. 'Heaven and hell. That's what Mithras is all about.'

'Look, I can't take much more of this,' Tess said. 'You don't know what I've been through! My mother's dead! People are dying all around me! I'm supposed to be at National Airport to meet someone in an hour! And I'm scared. No, that's an understatement! I'm terrified.'

'About Mithras? I sympathize.' Priscilla clutched Tess's hand. 'If this photograph… if this statue's related to your problems… you have reason to be terrified.'

'Why?'

'Mithras,' Priscilla said, 'is the oldest god I know of, and his counterpart's the most evil and unforgiving.'

'This is…' Tess shuddered. 'Crazy. What are you…?' She clenched her fists, her fingernails gouging her palms.

'Talking about?' Priscilla stood with difficulty. 'Stop glancing at your watch. There's a great deal to teach you… and warn you about… and prayers to be said.'