The Covenant Of The Flame

'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.