'Thanks.' Her shoulders sagged. The way things are going…' Her voice cracked in despair. 'It looks like I'll be needing these.'

JUDGMENT DAY

ONE

Two cars pulled up outside. The engines stopped. Doors were opened, then shut.

On edge, Tess warily studied the guard at the entrance to the rectory, who peered through its window, held his weapon at his side, and didn't seem concerned.

Footsteps approached. A moment later, four neutral-faced, trim, lithe men came into the vestibule. Two of the men Tess recognized, the driver and the paramedic who'd taken Priscilla and Professor Harding to the clinic.

The other two men she hadn't seen before. Presumably one had driven the UPS truck, the other the gray sedan, following, then veering from the row of vehicles as the group neared the rectory.

'You disposed of the truck and the car?' the stranger asked.

The latter two men nodded.

'In a parking lot at a shopping mall,' one of them said. 'Counterfeit license plates. Fake registration. No fingerprints. We even left the keys. With luck, both vehicles will soon be stolen.'

'Good. And surveillance? I take for granted-'

'We detected none. Our substitute car hadn't been tampered with. A clean exchange.'

'And what about…?'

'The funeral of our associates? It's being arranged. I regret, however, that we won't be able to attend.'

'As do I. But our prayers go with them.' The stranger lowered his head. After a solemn brief silence, he made the Sign of the Cross, exhaled, then turned to the driver and paramedic from the van. 'I'm sure Tess will want to know.'

'You bet I want to know. The clinic. What did the doctor say about Priscilla and Professor Harding?'

The first man made a reassuring gesture. The woman was given insulin. After she ate, she became alert.'

'And Professor Harding?'

The second man frowned. 'The diagnosis is a minor stroke. He's been given medication. Before we left, he managed to speak.'

'What did he…?'

'Three words. To his wife. With effort.'

'And what were…?'

'"I love you."'

Tess felt her throat cramp. 'My fault. It's all my…'

'No,' the stranger said. 'It's the vermin's fault.'

'You can't know how much I want to believe that. But if I hadn't gone to them for information, Professor Harding wouldn't have…' Tess glared. That's what it keeps coming down to, doesn't it? Fewer and fewer choices. Then only one. To cooperate.'

The force of circumstance,' the stranger said. 'And now, I'm afraid, it's time.' He gestured toward a phone on the dust-covered desk. 'Begin. Call your father's contacts. Demand their assistance. Tell them how helpless you are. Make them feel guilty because of their responsibility for your father's death. Among those who respond, at least one of them will be-'

The man who'd driven Priscilla to the clinic interrupted, 'This might be important. In the van coming back, we monitored the news on the radio. The fire and the corpses at the house in Washington are being linked to last night's fire, the identical tactics, the similar massacre in Alexandria. The police are…'

The stranger bristled. 'I don't care about the police. The phone, Tess. Pick up the phone. Call your-'

'Not just yet,' Craig said. 'I promised the police chief in Alexandria that I'd keep in touch.'

'That promise will have to wait.'

'Wrong. If I don't phone to reassure him, my career is finished. I could go to prison for failing to cooperate in a felony investigation. That's assuming I manage to stay alive, of course. I mean, why be optimistic? But I like my work. I'd like to keep doing it. However, there's one thing I don't like – not knowing the name of someone I talk to.'

'My name? A mere formality. It isn't important.'

'To me, it is.'

'Then call me…' The stranger hesitated. 'Yes. Call me "Father Baldwin".'

'Are you sure you don't want to make it Father Smith or Father Jones?'

'I believe "Father Baldwin" will do.'

'But it's not quite appropriate. Am I wrong, or do I sense a vague European accent? French perhaps?'

'Lieutenant, you finally asked one question too many. Pick up the phone. Reassure the Alexandria police chief, if that's what you feel is necessary for Tess to conduct her mission. Simply tell him you haven't been able to contact her yet. There's no need to worry about the call being traced. A black box routes the transmission through London and Johannesburg.'

'Thorough. I'm impressed.'

'We try. But then, after all, we've had hundreds of years of practise.'

'It shows.' Craig pulled a slip of paper from a pocket of his rumpled suitcoat. He studied a number he'd written on the paper, picked up the phone, and dialed.

At the same time, Father Baldwin pressed a button that activated a microphone, allowing everyone to monitor the call. Tess listened to static, to the click of long-distance relay switches, then a buzz as the call arrived in Alexandria.

Another buzz.

A man's voice answered. 'Chief Farley's office.'

'This is Lieutenant Craig from Missing Persons at NYPD. I believe he's expecting my call.'

'Damned right he is. Hang on.'

Click. More static.

Craig had been put on hold. He glanced at the man who called himself Father Baldwin. Then he reached to put his arm around Tess. 'I know it's tough, babe. Just stay calm.'

'If anyone else had called me that,' Tess said.

'It's what my father called my mother.'

'In that case, it sounds wonderful.'

Click.

'Chief Farley here. Where the hell have you been? I expected you to phone…'

'I know. A couple of hours ago. The trouble is, I haven't been able to find…"

'Theresa Drake. She's not my problem anymore. My men are still trying to make sense of what happened at her mother's house last night. The Washington police had a similar attack in their jurisdiction this afternoon. They want to know if the two are connected. But what I want to know is how the hell did the FBI get involved?'

'What?'

'They weren't invited, and I can't think of a reason why Melinda Drake's murder should be their business.'

At the mention of her mother, Tess winced.

'The FBI?' Craig said.

'Eric Chatham – the Bureau's director himself – got in touch with me shortly after noon. He wants to talk to Theresa Drake. National security. Top priority. Confidential. Blah, blah, blah. Hey, I'm good at my job, and when an outsider tries to tell me how to… Never mind. I explained my arrangement with you. Now it's out of my hands. I have orders – high level government orders – to instruct you to forget about banging Theresa Drake to me and instead to phone Chatham. Three times this afternoon, he called to find out if I'd heard from you, to remind me to tell you to contact him at once. Immediately. Craig, what in Christ's name is going on?'

'Chief, I swear I wish I knew.'

Then, you'd damned well better find out. As Chatham says, now. The last thing I need is trouble from the FBI.'

'I hear you.'

'Well, while you're at it, hear this, Craig. Some day, you and I will meet, and you'd better be prepared to explain. Take my word, you don't want me pissed off at you. Because I'm a vindictive son of a bitch, and I'll make sure your captain's pissed off at you as well.'

'I repeat, I hear you.'

'What a holy hell surprise. Someone's actually taking orders from me instead of giving them to me. Phone Chatham. Here's his private number.'

Craig wrote it down.

'Get that bureaucrat off my tail,' Farley said. 'So I can do my job. So I can find out who murdered Melinda Drake!'