'What?'
'Talking about it.'
'Mind?' Mrs Caudill shook her head. 'Not at all. In fact, in an odd way, it helps me. Go right ahead. I'm a tough old lady.'
'What happened?'
'A heart attack.' Mrs Caudill sighed. 'As much as I did my best, I could never convince him to cut back on his work load. I kept telling him to take more vacations or at least stay away from the office on weekends.' Her lips trembled. 'Well, I guess he died where he wanted to be. Not at home but the office.'
Death, Tess thought. I'm surrounded by death.
'So I know how you feel, Tess. Lord, I wish I didn't, but I do. My husband. Your mother. We'll miss them. Our lives are less without them.' Mrs Caudill braced her shoulders as if she didn't want to pursue the topic. She nodded glumly toward the Washington Post in front of her. The fire at your house… the killings… apparently they happened too late last night to be reported in this morning's paper. But perhaps we should turn on the radio. There might be some new information, some further developments you should know about.'
With a cringe, Tess recalled the nightmare, the flames, her mother being shot. The thought of hearing it described on the radio appalled her. Nonetheless she was desperate to know if the police had managed to catch the men who'd shot her mother. 'Yes. That's a good idea.'
'And then of course, now that you're rested, you'll have to phone the police.'
'Exactly,' Tess lied. 'I was just about to do that.'
But her attention was directed toward the newspaper in front of Mrs Caudill. The headline faced away from her. Even so, she managed to decipher what it said and turned cold, stiffening. She gasped, leaned forward to grab the newspaper, and twisted it so the headline glared up at her.
BRIAN HAMILTON DIES IN FREEWAY ACCIDENT
'Oh, my God.' Bile from her breakfast burned into Tess's throat. 'Brian Hamilton's dead?' She frantically read the article.
'A van forced his car off the road.' Mrs Caudill sounded depressed. 'Either a maniac or a drunken driver.'
Tess kept scanning the article. 'Then Brian's car hit an electrical pole? His car exploded?'
'If he wasn't killed in the crash, the flames would have… To think he survived all those years in combat in Vietnam, only to die in a pointless car accident.'
'But I just saw him last night!' Tess jerked upright from her chair. 'I spoke to him at my mother's house!'
'Yes, I forgot. He and your mother were friends. Because of your father.'
'It's not just that. I asked him to do me a favor. I…'
'A favor?' Mrs Caudill asked.
A welter of frightening thoughts collided in Tess's mind. The fire at the mansion. The accident on the freeway. She couldn't believe that the two were coincidental. Whoever had killed her mother had also killed Brian Hamilton! They'd somehow found out that Tess had summoned him! They feared the information that Tess had given him!
They're killing everybody who knows what I know! They're killing everyone I come in contact with!
No! Mrs Caudill! If I don't get out of here, she'll be next!
'I have to use your phone.' Tess tried desperately not to sound terrified.
'To call the police?'
'Right,' Tess said. The police. It's time. I need to talk to them.'
'There's a phone in the hallway. Another one in the kitchen.'
Hallway? Kitchen? Which would be more private? A maid was in the kitchen.
'The hallway,' Tess blurted and hurried from the dining room.
Her fierce thoughts multiplied. She'd hated Brian Hamilton because he'd sent her father to Beirut where he'd been murdered.
But last night she'd made a bargain with the man she hated, and now the man she hated was dead. Because he'd set out to cancel the debt he owed by trying to use all his power to learn everything he could about Joseph Martin.
Death. Everyone I speak to…!
Not me, though! I'm still alive.
And I'll get even!
She reached the phone in the hallway, groped into her purse, fumbled past the handgun, and yanked out the card that Craig had given her.
Craig! He was the only person who'd understand. The two of them had been through this nightmare together almost from the start.
But Craig knew what she knew. Maybe he was in danger. She had to warn him.
Glancing urgently toward his card, she pressed numbers on the phone.
'This is Bill Craig. I'm not home right now, but if you'll leave your name and…'
Shit! She'd forgotten the time. He'd be in the office now. She jabbed the disconnect lever and pressed more buttons, this time for…
'Missing Persons,' a raspy voice said.
'Lieutenant Craig.' Tess struggled not to hyperventilate.
'He's out of the office. But if I can be of help, I'm sure-'
Tess slammed down the phone.
No! I need Craig! The only man I can trust is Craig!
'Tess?'
Spinning, Tess faced Mrs Caudill, who'd nervously emerged from the dining room.
'Did you talk to the-?
'Police? You bet! They want me downtown right now. I hate to impose, Mrs Caudill, but if you've got a car I can…'
'My home and my cars are yours. Use my husband's car. I've kept it licensed and maintained. On the slim chance that I'd ever be brave enough to resist my memories and drive it.'
'What kind of car did he…?'
'A Porsche nine-eleven. It's got plenty of… what do the kids say?… guts.'
'Just like your husband, Mrs Caudill.'
'Believe it, Tess. Take the car. Use it. My husband would have liked that. Plenty of guts. Because I've got a feeling that your problems are worse than I imagine. And terrible problems need…'
'Guts?' Tess raised her arms. 'Your intuition's on target, Mrs Caudill. I do have problems. Beyond belief. I don't have much time. Not to be rude, but quickly, the keys. Where are the keys?'
SEVEN
Maintaining his composure but braced for a confrontation, Vice President Alan Gerrard stepped past the metal detector and the Secret Service guards in the White House corridor, their features remaining stolid as he entered the Oval Office. Since Gerrard had been chosen – to the nation's astonishment – as the president's running mate in the election three years ago, Gerrard had been invited to the Oval Office only eight times. His few visits accounted for his renewed surprise that the office was so much smaller than it looked on TV.
Outsiders might have been puzzled by the vice president's lack of access to the president. But Gerrard understood too well. After all, he'd been chosen as a running mate not because of any skills but merely because of three coincidental, pragmatic, political reasons.
One, he'd been a senator from Florida, and that southern connection balanced the president's northern connection as a former senator from Illinois.
Two, Gerrard was forty – fifteen years younger than the president – and Gerrard's handsome, movie-star features made him appealing (so the president's demographic advisers claimed) to young voters, especially women.
Three, and probably most important, Gerrard had a reputation for being compliant, not causing trouble, following the Republican party line, and hence he wouldn't be a rival to the president, who already anticipated the next election and didn't want anyone upstaging his take-charge personality.
But no matter how much the campaigning president's logic had made sense in theory, its practical effects had almost been disastrous. The public, the media, and political analysts had not merely been surprised by the president's choice; they'd been appalled.
'Gerrard knows more about tennis than he does about politics. He's more at home at a country club than he is in the Senate. He's got so much money he thinks everyone drives a Mercedes. He's never made a decision about anything without asking advice from all of his contacts, including his gardener. God gave him great looks, then went for a walk, and forgot to add brains.'
And on, and on.
Repu
blican leaders had begged the future president to reconsider his choice for a running mate. Fearful, Gerrard had heard strong rumors that the president had almost relented but had finally concluded that to change his mind would make him look indecisive, a poor way to start an election campaign. So the president had kept Gerrard on the ticket but had distanced himself as much as diplomatically possible from his running mate, sending Gerrard to make speeches in the least important, least populated districts, exiling Gerrard to the boonies, in effect making him disappear from the voters' minds.
Due to several factors – the weak Democratic opposition and the president's strong connection with the previous revered administration – Gerrard's side had won the election, and the president had immediately distanced himself even more from Gerrard, using him as the token White House representative at the blandest of social functions, then sending him on innocuous goodwill missions around the globe. Lately, columnists had taken to calling Gerrard 'the invisible man'.
At least until four days ago.
Oh, yes, indeed.
Four days ago.
That was when Gerrard had become very visible and exercised his limited authority, shocking every political theorist in the country.
As Gerrard shut the door behind him, he noticed that the Oval Office was empty except for the president, Clifford Garth, who sat behind his wide polished desk in his high-backed bulletproof chair in front of a bulletproof window that overlooked the White House lawn.
The president was fifty-five, taller than he looked on TV, trim from the two miles he swam every day in the pool in the White House basement. He was narrow-faced, which sometimes gave his mouth an unfortunate pinched expression. He had authoritative dark eyebrows that contrasted effectively with a distinguished touch of gray in his neatly cut, short hair. His skin was normally tanned, from daily exposure to a sun lamp, but today the president's cheeks were vividly scarlet. His eyes – which as a rule displayed a calm, controlled, reassuring thoughtfulness – bulged and blazed with fierce emotion.
'Yes, Mr President? You wanted to see me?' Gerrard asked.
'See you? Damned right I want to see you.' The president stood with force. 'I waited as long as… I'd have told you to get here four days ago, but I needed that much time to control myself! Never mind the political liability. I didn't want to get arrested.'
Gerrard shook his head. 'I don't understand. Arrested, sir?'
'For murder.' Garth raised a rigid arm and gestured in a frenzy toward the ceiling, moving his index finger from left to right. 'Imagine the headline. Imagine my satisfaction. "President loses his mind, attacks vice president, throws the bastard across the desk in the Oval Office, and strangles the son of a bitch, making his tongue stick out." You dumb…! What the hell did you think you were doing? Just for fun, did you decide to pretend you had power? You stupid…!'
'Yes, I understand. I assume you're referring to the vote on the Senate's clean-air bill,' Gerrard said.
'My God, I'm stunned! I didn't know you had it in you! You've suddenly become a genius! You read my mind, Gerrard! You're right that's what I'm referring to! The Senate's clean-air bill!'
'Mr President, if we can discuss this calmly.'
'Calmly? This is as calm as I get when I'm… You dimwit asshole. In case you've had a memory lapse, I'll remind you! I'm the president. Not you! Now I haven't found out – yet! – how the opposition managed to sway enough of our senators to vote against us, but I guarantee – you can bet your future and your children's future – I will! But what gives me a shrieking headache…' The president shuddered. 'What I haven't found out… and what keeps me awake all night… and what makes me want to drive a pen through your heart… is why you turned against me! I almost dumped you three years ago! You ought to be grateful! I gave you a cushy job! No responsibilities! Just coast and go to banquets, try not to get too drunk, and when your Barbie-doll wife's not around, you've got the chance to screw any Republican groupie who's got big enough tits and knows how to keep her mouth shut, except when it's around your dick! So why didn't you know enough to keep your mouth shut? For God's sake, Gerrard, the vote on the clean-air bill was tied! Since you've gone simple on me, I'll remind you! The vice president's job is to break the tie, which means he votes for administration policy! But you voted against me! You broke the tie in the opposition's favor!'
'If you'll just listen for a moment, Mr President.'
'Listen?" Garth shuddered to the point of apoplexy. 'Listen? Idiot, I don't listen. You do. You're the assistant. I'm the boss. And what I say goes. Except that you don't seem to get the message!'
'The clean-air bill's a good one,' Gerrard said calmly. 'The atmosphere's polluted. It's poisoning our lungs. The latest report gives us forty years before the planet's doomed.'
'Hey, I'll be dead by then! What do I care? You want to talk about doomed? You're doomed. Come election time, you're out, pal! I need a V.P. who's smart enough to cooperate, which God help me I thought you were. But all of a sudden… and I don't understand this… you've got a mind of your own.'
'I voted according to my conscience,' Gerrard said.
'Conscience? Give me a break.'
'In my opinion, the bill ought to go further. This year, every day, in New York harbor alone, we've had an oil spill. Not to mention along every coast. Alaska. Oregon. California. New Jersey. Texas. My home state of Florida. Never mind the oil spills. Never mind the raw sewage in the rivers and harbors. Never mind the herbicides and pesticides in the drinking water or the leaks from nuclear plants. Let's just concentrate on the air. It's terrible. Government has to take control.'
'Gerrard, pay attention to realities. Our administration has to protect the industries that employ our voters, keep our economy stable, and pay taxes – admittedly not as much as they could, but hell, let's not forget those industries contribute to our dwindling balance of trade with foreign nations. The bottom line is, Gerrard…'
'Let me guess. When the crisis gets bad enough, we'll somehow deal with it.'
The president raised his jaw. 'Well, what a surprise. You finally got the idea.'
'The problem is…' Gerrard said. 'What you don't seem to grasp…'
'Hey, I grasp everything.'
'The crisis is now. If we wait any longer, we can't…'
'You've forgotten American knowhow. You've forgotten World War Two. American enterprise has shown, repeatedly, that it can solve every problem.'
'Yes, but…'
'What?'
'That was then. This is now. And we're not as enterprising as the Japanese.'
'Good Lord, I hope you haven't told that to the press.'
'And reunited Germany will be even more enterprising,' Gerrard said. 'But I don't believe that they'll save the planet anymore than we will. Greed, Mr President. Greed's always the answer. It always wins out. Until we all tremble and wheeze to death.'
'You sound like a damned radical from Berkeley in the sixties.'
'Okay,' Gerrard said, 'I admit that stringent controls on air Pollution will affect virtually every American industry. The costs to contain the pollution – sulphur dioxide, chlorofluorocarbons, cancer-causing industrial emissions, carbon dioxide from automobile exhaust – I could go on, but I don't want to bore you – the expenses will be enormous.'
'Finally. Gerrard, I'm really surprised. You've grasped the point. Sulphur dioxide, which causes acid rain, comes from coal-burning power plants. So if we outlaw coal in those plants, we put hundreds of thousands of miners out of work. Chlorofluorocarbons, which deplete the ozone layer, are a by- product of the cooling systems in refrigerators and air conditioners. But there's no alternative technology. So what do we do? Put those industries out of work? Do you honestly believe that any American would agree to do without an air conditioner? Automobile emissions contribute to global warming. Right. But if we force the car companies to reduce those emissions, it'll cost them billions to improve their engines. They'll have to charge more for the cars. People won't be able to aff
ord them, and Detroit'll go out of business. Don't get me wrong, Gerrard. I worry about the lousy air. Believe me. After all, I have to breathe the damned stuff. So does my wife. My children. My grandchildren. But you want to know what also worries me, really worries me? The faltering economy… the negative balance of trade… the growing national debt… they give me panic attacks! So I don't care about forty years from now. I have to concentrate on controlling this month! This year! And you're not with the program, Gerrard! So let me inform you of what's going to happen. If the House agrees with the Senate and the clean-air bill shows up on my desk, I'm going to veto it.'
'Veto?'
'Good for you. You're paying attention. Now do your best to stay alert. When the Senate reconsiders the bill, this time you'll urge them to vote against it. Open your ears and listen. Against. Is that clear enough?'
'Very clear.'
'Then don't screw up again!'
Gerrard seethed, although outwardly he tried to seem humble. 'Of course, Mr President. Your logic is clear. And indeed I understand your motives. After all, business is what this government considers most important.'
'You bet your ass. Business is what keeps this country going. Never forget it.'
'Believe me, Mr President. I don't intend to.'
EIGHT
Three minutes later, after the president finished cursing Gerrard, his parents, his wife, his movie-star good looks, and even his tennis abilities, Gerrard was finally allowed to leave the Oval Office.
Again, the Secret Service guards kept a stolid expression, not simply because of professional detachment but as well because they sensed the political weather and realized that Gerrard now had even less importance than when he'd entered the president's office.
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.
The Covenant Of The Flame Page 23
