'I'll ring for Edna.'
'No, mother. You'll pour the tea. And incidentally, I hate liver pate.'
FOUR
Parked down the shadowy street from the mansion in this elite district of Alexandria, Virginia, the chameleon's surrogate – his height, weight, and features equally unremarkable, except that his hair was sandy, not brown – sipped stale coffee from a plastic cup, his empty thermos on the seat beside him, next to his Browning 9 mm semiautomatic pistol concealed beneath his oversized metal briefcase.
The briefcase was open, a cord from an audio scanner plugged into the car's cigarette-lighter receptacle to use energy from the vehicle's battery. The scanner could not detect broadcasts from two-way radios, such as those used by the police and taxi drivers, which operated on a UHF frequency in the range of four-hundred megahertz. Instead the scanner was intended to intercept conversations from cellular telephones, such as those used in cars, which broadcast on a much higher frequency, the eight-hundred megahertz band.
While it was legal to possess equipment to eavesdrop on police transmissions, it was a punishable offense to own a receiver that intercepted broadcasts from car phones. Not that the chameleon's surrogate cared. He'd broken many laws in his career. This was the least of them.
Indeed he was prepared to break many more laws, and it didn't matter to him how serious they were. After all, he had his orders, a mission to complete, and so far this mission had gone smoothly. He'd had no difficulty in following the tall, blond, attractive, athletic-looking woman from Washington National Airport to here. At the moment, with an equal lack of difficulty, another member of his team was arranging to put a tap on the mansion's telephone system. Eventually the mansion itself would be bugged. Meanwhile this limited electronic surveillance would have to do.
Periodically the man, who wore an ordinary, medium-priced, business suit and had a talent for making himself virtually invisible in a crowd, heard a dim conversation from this-or-that frequency on his scanner. After listening carefully, he decided that their topics did not concern him.
Periodically as well, he turned on his car's engine so that the scanner wouldn't drain the vehicle's battery. Although he directed his stern attention toward the mansion and in particular toward the entrance and the exit from the semicircular driveway, he repeatedly darted his eyes both ahead and upward, in the latter case toward his rearview mirror.
What troubled him were headlights. If he saw any approaching him, he'd immediately shut off the car's engine, disengage the plug from the cigarette-lighter receptacle, place the cord in the briefcase, and close the lid. After all, this exclusive area was likely to be patrolled by police cars, the officers in which might be tempted to stop to ask him why he was out here at this hour.
That was the trouble with trying to establish an automobile surveillance site in an upper-class suburban neighborhood. Few people, if any, parked on the street. This night, however, the watcher had gotten lucky. A half-block down from the mansion, someone was having a party – or what in so exclusive a district was probably called a reception – and not all the visiting cars had been able to fit in the spacious driveway. A few Cadillacs and Oldsmobiles sat out here on the street behind him, but although the watcher's dark Ford Taurus didn't blend with those expensive automobiles, the watcher doubted he'd have any problems in convincing a curious policeman that he was a hired driver who'd been forced to use this Taurus when the Cadillac he was supposed to use turned out, he would claim, to have a faulty fuel pump earlier this evening. The watcher's luck remained with him. No police cars had so far driven by.
Abruptly he straightened, seeing a silver Rolls Corniche emerge from the mansion's driveway and head in the opposite direction. After quickly removing night-vision binoculars from beneath his seat, he studied the Corniche and satisfied himself that only a chauffeur and a man in the back seat were present in the vehicle. The Corniche had a government license plate. Intriguing.
The watcher noted the plate's number on a slip of paper and would later use his contacts to determine who owned the car, but for the moment, since the woman wasn't in the Corniche, his duty was not to follow the car but instead to maintain his surveillance on the mansion.
At once he heard beeps, then buzzes that were interrupted by a voice from his audio scanner, so distinct that it had to be coming from a car phone that was near, presumably in the Corniche.
'Hello,' a man said with a formal tone. 'Mr Chatham's residence.'
'This is Brian Hamilton. I know it's late. I hate to disturb him, but is Eric home?'
'He is. However, he's about to retire for the evening.'
'Tell him who's calling, please. And tell him it's important.'
The watcher increased his concentration. Eric Chatham?
Chatham was the director of the FBI! And Brian Hamilton, evidently the passenger in the Corniche, was the former Secretary of State, currently an advisor to the President, also a member of – among other things – the National Security Council.
My, my, the watcher thought. Heavy hitters.
'By all means. Just a moment, Mr Hamilton.'
The watcher stared toward the red light on his audio scanner and the voices coming from it.
'Brian?' a sonorous voice asked, tired and puzzled. 'I was just getting into my pajamas. I've been looking forward to reading the new Stephen King, something that has nothing to do with… Never mind. What's going on? My assistant tells me this is important.'
'I apologize,' Hamilton said. 'I came across some information tonight, and I'd like to discuss it with you.'
'Now? Can't it wait until the morning? At my office? My schedule's crowded, but I can squeeze you in for fifteen minutes just before lunch.'
'I might need more than fifteen minutes,' Hamilton said. 'In private. Undistracted.' The reception became less distinct as the Corniche left the neighborhood.
'In private!' Eric Chatham sounded confused.
'Yes. This relates to a case your people were asked to work on. But in truth, it's personal. It has to do with Remington Drake, his widow, and his daughter. I need to ask a favor.'
'Remington Drake! Dear God. And this favor's important?'
'To me. Yes, very important,' Brian Hamilton said.
'A favor? Well, if you're putting it on that basis. You've certainly done enough favors for me, and Remington Drake was certainly my friend. How quickly can you be here?'
'Ten minutes.'
'I'll be waiting.'
'Thanks, Eric. I appreciate your cooperation.'
'Don't speak too soon. I haven't cooperated yet.'
'But I have every confidence that you will. Ten minutes.'
The transmission ended.
The watcher frowned, trying to interpret what he'd heard. But he'd been concentrating so hard that he'd failed to hear something else, the soft rush of rubber-soled shoes on the street, darting toward his side of the car. Because of the heat, the watcher had left his window open. After all, he couldn't keep his engine running constantly at the risk of attracting attention just so he could use the car's air conditioner.
In alarm, as the watcher – stomach burning – snapped his head toward the rushing footsteps, he gaped at a.22 pistol being shoved through the open window. Startled, he didn't have time to grab his Browning from beneath his briefcase. The.22, equipped with a silencer, made a spitting sound. The watcher groaned from the impact of the.22 bullet against his skull. The close-range wallop was forceful enough to jolt the watcher sideways. Blood spewed. He shuddered and toppled to the right across his audio scanner.
But the small bullet didn't kill him. Shocked, powerless, in excruciating pain, he retained sufficient consciousness to sense, hear, and quiver as the assassin jerked open the driver's door.