'One moment.' The clerk took the film through a door behind him and returned a half-minute later. 'My brother is beginning to process it now.' He poised a pen above an order form. 'Your name?'
Tess gave him all the information he needed.
The clerk handed Tess a claim check. 'Is there anything else I can help you with?'
'Yes. I want more film. Three rolls. Thirty-six exposures each. ASP two hundred.' From trial-and-error, Tess had learned that, for her simple, easy-to-carry, inexpensive camera, an ASP of two hundred was a good compromise for getting clear indoor and outdoor pictures. 'I. You look. Do you speak Spanish?'
The clerk smiled. 'Si, senorita. Muy bien.'
'Then, if you don't mind, could you tell me what this means?' Tess pulled her notepad from her purse and showed him the title she'd written.
'El Circulo del Cuello de la Paloma?' The clerk shrugged. The circle. or possibly the ring. of the neck of the dove.'
Tess frowned, disappointed. She'd hoped that the title would give her an indication of what the book contained. 'Well, have you ever heard of a book with that name?'
'My apologies, senorita. No.'
'Then what about this?' She pointed toward the author's name. Abu Muhammad 'Ali ibn Hazm al-Andalusi. 'Why is the author's name so long?'
The clerk raised his shoulders. 'In Spanish, long names are common. They often include the parents' names.'
'But Muhammad isn't a Spanish name. It sounds Moslem. Arabic.'
'That's true,' the clerk said.
'And what about at the end here? Al-Andalusi?'
'That means he comes from Andalusia.'
'If I remember,' Tess said, 'that's in Spain. Right?'
'Yes. The southern-most province.'
'I don't understand. Why would someone who's Arabic come from a Spanish province?'
The clerk spread his hands and shook his head. 'My former country's history is complicated.' He glanced at a clock on the wall. 'Your pictures should be ready by five.'
'I'll be back. Thank you.'
'De nada.'
TWENTY-SIX
Tess hurried to her apartment building, ignored the elevator, and ran up the stairs to her loft. After locking the door behind her, she rushed to pick up her portable phone, tapped some numbers, and went to a closet, pulling out a suitcase.
The receptionist at Earth Mother Magazine answered.
'Betty. Tess. Is Walter free? Good. Then put me through. Walter, it's Tess. I need a favor. I can't come into work for the next few days. Can you spare me? Yes, I've been working on the article. This isn't connected. Let's call it family business. The point is, I have to leave town. What? Is this about Joseph? Okay, all right, you guessed it. Are you a mind reader now? Walter, I have to do this. Be careful? Hey, what else? I promise.'
With relief, Tess broke the connection, carried the suitcase toward her bureau, and pressed more memorized numbers on the portable phone. 'Public library? Reference department, please.' While she waited, she tossed a change of clothes into her suitcase. 'Reference department? I'm a journalist. I'm on deadline, and I'd appreciate if you checked your computer for a book I'm trying to find. It's called The Circle or The Ring of the Neck of the Dove.'
Waiting again, Tess entered her bathroom and placed an emergency kit of toothpaste, etc., into her suitcase. 'No? Thank you.'
But Tess felt hollow as she zipped her suitcase shut. She left the bathroom, reached her volume of the Yellow Pages, and finally found what she wanted.
Again she pressed numbers on the portable phone. Trump Shuttle? I need a seat on the six o'clock flight to Washington. Yes, I know you guarantee seats. But I don't want to wait if you have to bring out another plane. My Am Ex number is.'
She slumped on her sofa, tried to clear her mind, and pressed more buttons. 'Mother? I'm coming to town tonight. That's right, it's been a long time. We'll catch up. I'm fine, mother. Listen, as I recall, you had some influence with the Library of Congress director. Didn't he used to come to father's dinner parties? Good. I want you to call him. Ask him if he knows about and can get me this book.' Tess gave the title. 'Eight, mother. Maybe later. I'm trying. I just don't know exactly. Don't keep dinner waiting. Yes, I love you, too.'
She pressed the disconnect button, searched her address book, and pressed more numbers. Actually, she jabbed them. 'Brian Hamilton, please. Yes. That's what I expected. He's always unavailable. Tell him Theresa Drake is calling. Yes, that Drake.'
The name had magic. Or possibly caused fear. For whatever reason, Brian Hamilton answered quickly. 'How are you, Tess?' His voice was smooth. 'It's been a long time.'
'Not long enough. But I want to get reacquainted, Brian. In person.'
'Oh? Does that mean.?'
'You bet. I'm coming to town. Be at my mother's house at eight tonight.'
'I'm sorry, Tess. I can't. I'm scheduled to attend a reception for the Soviet ambassador.'
'With all respect to the Soviet ambassador.'
'Respect. Exactly. We're suddenly allies. I have to.'
'You're not listening, Brian. I need to see you.'
'But the Soviet ambassador."
'Fuck him,' Tess blurted. 'You promised my father you'd be there if I ever needed help. I demand you honor your promise.'
'Demand? You make that sound like a threat.'
'A threat? Brian, I don't make threats. I make guarantees. I'm a journalist, remember. I know your secrets, just as I knew about my father's. I might be tempted to write a story about them. Unless you want to put out a contract on me.'
'Hey, Tess, let's not overreact. You know we don't.'
'Just be at my mother's. Eight o'clock.'
Brian hesitated. 'If you insist. For the sake of old times and your father. I look forward to.'
Tess broke the connection.
TWENTY-SEVEN
On schedule at five o'clock, her clothes moist from urgency, Tess carried her suitcase into the QUICK PHOTO store. Again, the bell rang. Again, the middle-aged Hispanic clerk glanced up at her.
Tess eased her suitcase onto the floor and breathed out. 'My pictures? They're ready?'
'But of course, 'the clerk said. 'As we advertise, one-hour service.' He reached in a drawer. 'Here they are.'
Tess opened her wallet.
'I'm sorry your friend got angry.'
'. My friend?'
'The man you sent to pick up the photographs for you.'
'But I.'
'A month ago, we gave out some wedding pictures by mistake. In truth, it was my fault. I forgot to ask for the claim check. Since then, I don't give out any pictures unless...'
'Here's the claim check,' Tess said. Her hand shook. 'You did the right thing. I didn't send... What did he look like?'
'Tan. Early thirties. Tall. Well-built. Good-looking.' The clerk paused, then frowned. 'He became quite insistent when I wouldn't give him the photographs. He was so upset that I almost feared he'd force me to give him the photographs. I reached under the counter.' The clerk held up a baseball bat. 'For this. In case he turned violent. Perhaps he noticed my gesture. Fortunately it wasn't necessary. Just then, three customers came in. He left in a hurry.' The clerk frowned harder. 'What I noticed most about him were his eyes.'
'His eyes?' Tess gripped the counter for support. 'What about them?'
'Their color was unusual.'
'Gray?'
'Yes, senorita. How did you?'
Tess gaped. Feeling sick, she dropped money on the counter, grabbed the package of photographs, and mustered the discipline not to tremble. She rushed toward the door to find a taxi.
'You're certain I did the right thing, senorita?'
'Absolutely. From now on, you get all my business.'
The overhead bell rang as Tess lunged out. Scanning the smoggy street, she suddenly realized, her stomach burning, that she wasn't just looking for a taxi.
The man the clerk had described sounded like Joseph. But Joseph was dead!
How could?
As she h
ailed a taxi and scrambled into it, Tess surprised herself by assuming one of Joseph's habits. Nervous, she darted her eyes in every direction to see if she was being followed.
URGENT FURY
ONE
La Guardia Airport.
The grim-faced man in the taxi's back seat leaned forward rigidly, straining to keep the taxi ten cars ahead of him in sight. He was thirty-eight, of medium height and weight, with brown hair and unremarkable features, so average that no one ever remembered him. He wore a conservative, moderately priced, nondescript suit, a cotton-polyester-blend white shirt, a subdued striped tie. His briefcase looked no different from thousands of others.
'Which airline?' the taxi driver asked.
The passenger hesitated, watching the taxi he was following.
'Hey, friend, I said, which airline?'
'Just a moment. I'm checking my tickets.'
'Don't you think you should have done that a little sooner?'
Ahead, the taxi the passenger studied turned right off the busy ramp, rounded a curve, and sped past a crowded parking lot. A sign said, TRUMP SHUTTLE, DELTA, NORTHWESTERN, PAN AM SHUTTLE.
'Turn right,' the passenger said.
'You waited long enough to tell me. Which airline?' the driver repeated.
'I'm still checking my tickets.'
'Hey, if you miss your flight, pal, don't blame me.'
The passenger squinted forward, noticing that the taxi he followed steered around the parking lot, passed the signs for Pam Am, Delta, and Northwestern, and approached a large new building on which a huge red sign announced TRUMP SHUTTLE.
'Up here will do,' the passenger said.
'Well, finally.'
When the driver stopped behind a limousine in front of the terminal, the passenger had already checked the taxi's meter. He added the cost of the bridge toll and a twenty percent tip, shoved several bills toward the driver, grabbed his briefcase, and hurried out his door.
'Hey, buddy, you want a receipt?'
But the passenger was gone. As he walked toward a set of automatically opening doors in the Shuttle complex, he glanced unobtrusively to his left, seeing the woman he was following get out of her taxi, pay the driver, and carry her underseat suitcase toward another set of doors.
They entered the terminal simultaneously, moving parallel to each other, separated by a throng of arriving travelers. The brown-haired, nondescript man paused next to a group of similarly ordinary-looking businessmen and pretended to inspect his ticket while he watched the woman hurry toward a line at a counter.
The line moved quickly - Trump guaranteed promptness. Nonetheless the woman looked impatient. When she got her turn, she urgently presented a credit card, signed a voucher, grabbed a folder that presumably contained a ticket, and rushed past the counter toward where the attractive female clerk pointed.
Excellent, the chameleon thought. He veered through the crowd, following his quarry. She'd already passed through the security station by the time he arrived there. Strictly speaking, no one without a ticket was allowed beyond this point. No problem, though. The chameleon always carried a bogus ticket with him, and in his considerable experience, few security personnel actually bothered to check that ticket.
He set his briefcase on the conveyor belt that led into the X-ray machine. A uniformed attendant nodded for him to proceed through the metal detector. The chameleon, by habit, carried no metal, not even coins or a belt buckle when he was working. His watch was made of plastic. The metal detector remained silent as he stepped through and picked up his briefcase on the other side of the X-ray machine. The briefcase, of course, contained nothing that would arouse suspicion. Only innocent boring documents. Certainly no weapons. His expertise was surveillance, after all. The chameleon had no need of weapons, although on a very few occasions, emergencies had forced him to defend himself, his average height and weight deceptive, his martial-arts skills impressive.
He increased his speed, climbing a moving escalator, just another of many harried businessmen in a rush to get on a plane.
Ahead, on the spacious upper level, his quarry walked faster. Again, no problem. The chameleon didn't want to catch up to her but only keep her in sight. He glanced at his watch. Five minutes to six. Peering ahead, he saw his quarry present her boarding pass to an attendant and disappear quickly through an open door toward the tunnel to her plane.
The chameleon waited until the door to the tunnel was closed, then proceeded toward a window, and watched the plane pull away from the boarding platform. But he still wasn't satisfied. Experience had taught him that he had to wait until the plane left the ground.
Five minutes later, the chameleon had to give Trump credit. As advertised, the shuttle left on time. Turning, he walked toward a counter near the passenger door. On a board behind the counter, he noted the plane's destination.
'Excuse me,' he asked the attendant. 'What time will that flight arrive?' Hearing the answer, he smiled. Thank you.'
He had only one more thing to do. At a bank of phones, he used a credit card to contact a long-distance number. 'Peter, it's Robert.'
Both names were fake, on the slim chance that this phone would be monitored or that someone on a neighboring phone would overhear. Never take chances.
'I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, but our friend had trouble making connections. I know how much you want to meet her. She's on a Trump shuttle to Washington National Airport. She'll arrive at seven-oh-seven. Can you.? That's what I thought. Peter, you're a pal. I know she'll be glad to see you.'
His work done, the chameleon hung up the phone. Clutching his briefcase, he retraced his steps through the concourse. But on second thought, his work was not yet done. Not at all. It never ended. Never.
Not that he objected. His duty was too important. It occupied. indeed it possessed. his mind and his soul.
First, as soon as he returned to Manhattan, he would quickly arrange to have a tap put on the woman's phone. That hadn't seemed necessary until today, until her visit to the apartment on East Eighty-Second Street made it obvious that the woman continued to be obsessed with the death of her friend. If her phone had been tapped earlier, yesterday while she'd been at the morgue, for example, the chameleon might have learned that she'd made arrangements to fly to Washington, and his task of following her would have been less complicated. That oversight in his surveillance of her would now be corrected. Her trip to Washington might have nothing to do with the death of the man called Joseph Martin, but the chameleon couldn't depend on 'might have'. He needed to know everything that she knew.
Next, he would check with the members of his team to learn if they'd been successful in tracking down the man who'd tried to intercept the pictures that the woman had left to be developed at the photo shop near her apartment building. The chameleon had been one of three people who'd entered the store while the man was arguing with the clerk. As a consequence, the chameleon had gotten a good look at the man when he stormed from the shop, enough to give a thorough description to the members of his team. In particular, what had interested the chameleon - intensely so - were the man's gray eyes.
Finally, while the chameleon waited for his contacts in Washington to warn him when the woman would be returning to Manhattan, he would occupy his time by following someone else. The detective, Lieutenant Craig, was showing unusual interest in this matter. After all, the investigation now should belong to Homicide, not Missing Persons. Perhaps the lieutenant's real interest was in the woman. The chameleon didn't know. Yet. But he would know. Soon. Everything about the detective. Because anyone as persistent as Lieutenant Craig had become might learn things that were very, very useful.
TWO
On the Trump Shuttle 727 to Washington, Tess did her best to ignore the drone of the engines and concentrate on her priorities. She always felt discomfort after take-offs and now rubbed her forehead while she opened and closed her mouth, trying to relieve the aching pressure in her sinuses and behind her ears. Nonetheless the
photographs in her purse insisted. She wanted to seem casual, however. Not attract attention. Be cool. She was still disturbed that someone had tried to steal the pictures. Only after glancing at the passenger next to her did she decide to open her purse. The passenger was reading USA Today, the front-page sidebar of which said that a third of all species of North American fish were in danger of extermination. The next paragraph indicated that for every tree that was planted, four others were killed by acid rain, dried streams, or commercial development.
Angered by the article, her frustration intensifying, she opened her purse, removed the package of photographs, and studied them. The closeups of the titles on Joseph's bookcase immediately attracted her attention.