Covenant Of The Flame

by David Morrell

  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 vi
ce 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.'