Continuing to brood, he noticed that his bodyguard had reached the freeway and was speeding toward Falls Church, Virginia, ten miles away. In a very few minutes, Brian Hamilton would be able to describe his problem to the director of the FBI and demand that Eric Chatham use the full resources of the Bureau to find out who Joseph Martin had been and who had killed him. As much as Hamilton owed Tess, Eric Chatham owed him, and now, by God, it was payback time.

'Sir, we might have a problem,' the bodyguard-driver said.

'What problem?' Hamilton straightened.

'It's possible we're being followed.'

His stomach suddenly cramping, Hamilton pivoted to stare through the car's back window. 'The minivan behind us?'

'Yes, sir. At first, I thought it was just a coincidence. But it's been tailing us since before we left Alexandria.'

'Lose it.'

'That's what I'm trying to do, sir.'

The Corniche sped up.

But so did the minivan.

'Persistent,' the driver said.

'I told you to lose it.'

'Where, sir? We're on a freeway, if you don't mind me pointing out the obvious. I'm doing ninety. And I don't see an exit ramp.'

'Wait a minute! It's changing lanes! It looks like it wants to pass us!' Hamilton said.

'Yes, sir. It could be… possibly… maybe I'm wrong.'

The minivan, having veered into the passing lane, increased speed and came abreast of the Corniche. But as Hamilton watched, he felt his heart lurch. On the minivan's passenger side, someone was rolling down a window.

'Look out!' Hamilton's driver blurted.

Too late.

From the open window, someone threw a bottle. The bottle had a rag stuffed into its mouth.

The rag was on fire.

'Jesus!'

The bodyguard swerved toward the freeway's gravel shoulder, frantically reducing speed, but the bottle – which must have been constructed from specially designed, brittle glass – shattered on impact against the Corniche's windshield and spewed blazing gasoline over the car.

Blinded by flames -

–  on the hood! -

–  and oh, Christ, on the windshield! -

–  the driver tried desperately to control his steering. In the backseat, Hamilton gaped to the left, horrified to see the van streak sharply toward the Corniche. He felt the van slam brutally against the Corniche's side, slam it again, and again, and propel the Corniche off the freeway's shoulder.

Hamilton's stomach dropped. The Corniche, now completely engulfed with flames, crashed through a guardrail, soared through the air, and collided with…

Hamilton screamed. He never knew what the car hit. The sudden shocking force of the crash slammed him forward, catapulting him up, over, and beyond the front seat, walloping his skull against the dashboard.

But what the passengers in the minivan saw with calculated satisfaction was that the Corniche had impacted against a massive steel electrical tower. The collision burst the Corniche's fuel tank. A huge exploding fireball disintegrated the car and spewed pieces of flesh, bone, and metal for fifty yards in every direction, the flames gushing upward for a hundred feet. As the minivan sped onward, disappearing among traffic, its rear window reflected the spectacular pyre in the darkness beside the freeway.

TEN

The chameleon removed the folded front section of the New York Times from beneath a notepad on his clipboard. He held it up so the group could see the headline – FORMER SECRETARY OF STATE DIES IN FIERY FREEWAY DISASTER – then handed the newspaper to the second man. 'When you're finished, pass it around.'

'I've already read it. I didn't know the connection, but the moment you mentioned Brian Hamilton, I realized what you were getting at.'

'Well,' the third man said, 'I didn't have a chance to read the paper this morning. Let me see.'

One-by-one, the somber-faced men read the article.

'Fire,' the sixth man said with disgust. 'They're so in love with fire.' Lips curled, he set down the paper and studied the chameleon. 'You seem to have so many answers. What about this one. Why did they kill him?'

'I don't have answers exactly. What I do have are calculated assumptions,' the chameleon said. Tess Drake makes a sudden trip to see her mother. When she gets to the mansion in Alexandria, is it a coincidence that the former Secretary of State and current main adviser to the President just happens to be waiting there when she arrives? Not likely. I have to conclude that so important a man was summoned by the woman, that Hamilton – a friend of her dead father – was the person she primarily wanted to see and not her mother, that Tess Drake was using her late father's influence to enlist powerful help in discovering who Joseph Martin was and why he was killed.'

The third man shrugged. 'Assumptions, as you admit. However, I grant that they're logical.'

'And I also have to conclude that the enemy followed Tess Drake to the mansion just as our own people did,' the chameleon continued. 'When the enemy identified Hamilton's Corniche in the driveway and realized what the woman was doing, they must have decided that Hamilton's death was essential to keeping their secret. It's my belief that they wanted to prevent him from telling others what he'd learned and using his connections with the government to enlarge the scope of the investigation.'

The fifth man traced his finger along pencil engravings on the desktop of his miniature chair. 'Possibly.'

'You don't sound convinced.'

'Well, your assumptions make sense to a point, but… What I have trouble with is… If the enemy went to the trouble and took the risk of assassinating Hamilton, they still wouldn't have solved their problem, at least not completely. Their secret would not yet be fully protected. To accomplish that, they'd have to be totally, absolutely thorough, and the most important person to eliminate would be…'

The chameleon nodded. 'Precisely.'

'You're telling me…?'

'Yes.'

'Dear God!' the sixth man said.

'My thought, as well… Dear God… Last night… shortly after two…"

ELEVEN

Standing rigidly in her bedroom in the mansion in Alexandria, Tess cramped her fingers around the telephone as she listened to Craig's gravelly, urgent voice.

'I want you to promise me,' Craig said. 'Swear it. Be careful!'

'I guarantee,' Tess emphasized. 'I won't take any chances.'

'Keep your word. And promise me this as well. Swear you'll phone me tomorrow as soon as you get copies made of the photographs. Then Fed-Ex them to me as fast as possible.'

'I will. I promise,' Tess said.

'Look, I don't want to sound like a jealous lover, but I'll feel a whole lot better when you get back here.'

'Honestly,' Tess said, 'I'll be okay. Just because someone torched Joseph's apartment, it's a big leap to thinking I'm in danger.'

'Oh, yeah?' Craig raised his voice. 'Then what about the guy in the photo shop?'

Tess didn't answer. She reluctantly admitted to herself that she'd been feeling more and more uneasy.

'Okay, what's your mother's address and phone number?' Craig asked and coughed. 'I think it's a good idea… I want to be able to reach you if anything else happens that you should know about.'

Tess gave him that information.

'Good,' Craig said. 'I repeat, I wish you'd get back here.'

'Look, even if I were in Manhattan, what could you do, assuming you're right and I'm in danger? You can't stay with me all the time .'

'You never know. It might come to that.'

'Hey, don't exaggerate.' Tess quivered. 'You're scaring me.'

'Good. At last. I'm finally getting my point across.' The lieutenant's voice dropped, the long-distance static crackling. 'And anyway…' He sounded nervous. 'Would it really be so bad if I was with you all the time?'