David Morrell - The Covenant Of The Flame

Periodically the man, who wore an ordinary, medium-priced, business suit and had a talent for making himself virtually invisible in a crowd, heard a dim conversation from this-or-that frequency on his scanner. After listening carefully, he decided that their topics did not concern him.

Periodically as well, he turned on his car's engine so that the scanner wouldn't drain the vehicle's battery. Although he directed his stern attention toward the mansion and in particular toward the entrance and the exit from the semicircular driveway, he repeatedly darted his eyes both ahead and upward, in the latter case toward his rearview mirror.

What troubled him were headlights. If he saw any approaching him, he'd immediately shut off the car's engine, disengage the plug from the cigarette-lighter receptacle, place the cord in the briefcase, and close the lid. After all, this exclusive area was likely to be patrolled by police cars, the officers in which might be tempted to stop to ask him why he was out here at this hour.

That was the trouble with trying to establish an automobile surveillance site in an upper-class suburban neighborhood. Few people, if any, parked on the street. This night, however, the watcher had gotten lucky. A half-block down from the mansion, someone was having a party – or what in so exclusive a district was probably called a reception – and not all the visiting cars had been able to fit in the spacious driveway. A few Cadillacs and Oldsmobiles sat out here on the street behind him, but although the watcher's dark Ford Taurus didn't blend with those expensive automobiles, the watcher doubted he'd have any problems in convincing a curious policeman that he was a hired driver who'd been forced to use this Taurus when the Cadillac he was supposed to use turned out, he would claim, to have a faulty fuel pump earlier this evening. The watcher's luck remained with him. No police cars had so far driven by.

Abruptly he straightened, seeing a silver Rolls Corniche emerge from the mansion's driveway and head in the opposite direction. After quickly removing night-vision binoculars from beneath his seat, he studied the Corniche and satisfied himself that only a chauffeur and a man in the back seat were present in the vehicle. The Corniche had a government license plate. Intriguing.

The watcher noted the plate's number on a slip of paper and would later use his contacts to determine who owned the car, but for the moment, since the woman wasn't in the Corniche, his duty was not to follow the car but instead to maintain his surveillance on the mansion.

At once he heard beeps, then buzzes that were interrupted by a voice from his audio scanner, so distinct that it had to be coming from a car phone that was near, presumably in the Corniche.

'Hello,' a man said with a formal tone. 'Mr Chatham's residence.'

'This is Brian Hamilton. I know it's late. I hate to disturb him, but is Eric home?'

'He is. However, he's about to retire for the evening.'

'Tell him who's calling, please. And tell him it's important.'

The watcher increased his concentration. Eric Chatham?

Chatham was the director of the FBI! And Brian Hamilton, evidently the passenger in the Corniche, was the former Secretary of State, currently an advisor to the President, also a member of – among other things – the National Security Council.

My, my, the watcher thought. Heavy hitters.

'By all means. Just a moment, Mr Hamilton.'

The watcher stared toward the red light on his audio scanner and the voices coming from it.

'Brian?' a sonorous voice asked, tired and puzzled. 'I was just getting into my pajamas. I've been looking forward to reading the new Stephen King, something that has nothing to do with… Never mind. What's going on? My assistant tells me this is important.'

'I apologize,' Hamilton said. 'I came across some information tonight, and I'd like to discuss it with you.'

'Now? Can't it wait until the morning? At my office? My schedule's crowded, but I can squeeze you in for fifteen minutes just before lunch.'

'I might need more than fifteen minutes,' Hamilton said. 'In private. Undistracted.' The reception became less distinct as the Corniche left the neighborhood.

' In private !' Eric Chatham sounded confused.

'Yes. This relates to a case your people were asked to work on. But in truth, it's personal. It has to do with Remington Drake, his widow, and his daughter. I need to ask a favor.'

'Remington Drake! Dear God. And this favor's important?'

'To me. Yes, very important,' Brian Hamilton said.

'A favor? Well, if you're putting it on that basis. You've certainly done enough favors for me, and Remington Drake was certainly my friend. How quickly can you be here?'

'Ten minutes.'

'I'll be waiting.'

'Thanks, Eric. I appreciate your cooperation.'

'Don't speak too soon. I haven't cooperated yet .'

'But I have every confidence that you will. Ten minutes.'

The transmission ended.

The watcher frowned, trying to interpret what he'd heard. But he'd been concentrating so hard that he'd failed to hear something else, the soft rush of rubber-soled shoes on the street, darting toward his side of the car. Because of the heat, the watcher had left his window open. After all, he couldn't keep his engine running constantly at the risk of attracting attention just so he could use the car's air conditioner.

In alarm, as the watcher – stomach burning – snapped his head toward the rushing footsteps, he gaped at a.22 pistol being shoved through the open window. Startled, he didn't have time to grab his Browning from beneath his briefcase. The.22, equipped with a silencer, made a spitting sound. The watcher groaned from the impact of the.22 bullet against his skull. The close-range wallop was forceful enough to jolt the watcher sideways. Blood spewed. He shuddered and toppled to the right across his audio scanner.

But the small bullet didn't kill him. Shocked, powerless, in excruciating pain, he retained sufficient consciousness to sense, hear, and quiver as the assassin jerked open the driver's door.

The assassin grabbed the watcher's body, twisted it, and shoved it, crammed it, onto the floor below the passenger seat. At once the assassin shut the door, started the car, and drove at a steady, unobtrusive speed from the shadowy neighborhood.

Slumped on the floor, the watcher blinked, unable to see, feeling his life drain from him as his blood soaked the carpet. His skull felt as if a nail had been driven through it. If the assassin had used a more powerful weapon, the watcher would have been killed instantly, he dimly realized. But a large- caliber pistol, even with a silencer, would have made a discernible noise, not much, more like a cough than the.22's spit, all the same perhaps just loud enough that someone leaving the party down the street might have heard and become suspicious. A silencer-equipped.22, though, especially if the ammunition had a specially calculated, reduced, so-called 'subsonic' amount of powder – was almost as quiet as a handgun could be.

In a sickening daze, the watcher felt the car turn a corner. As his blood pooled in front of his face, threatening to drown him, he was murkily amazed that he wasn't dead. Through his terrible pain, a weak thought struggled to assure him that he might have a chance of surviving.

Survive?

Hey, who are you kidding?

Give me a break.

With a head wound?

No way.

But he knows I'm still alive. He can hear me wheezing. Why didn't he shoot a second time and finish me?

An amateur?

No.

God in heaven, no , the watcher's fading mind concluded.

Thoughts spinning, the stench of his cascading blood making him gag, he blearily decided, I'm wrong! Not an amateur. When the watcher had pivoted toward the rushing footsteps, he'd noticed that the pistol had an unusual shape, a baffle attached to the top where the slide would normally jerk back and eject the empty cartridge, then snap forward to position a fresh round into the firing chamber.