David Morrell - The Covenant Of The Flame

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.

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.'