'I promise. It'll be taken care of.' Troubled, Craig set down the phone.

'So,' Father Baldwin said, 'it's already started.'

Tess frowned in amazement. 'You think Eric Chatham's part of the group that's trying to kill me?'

'Possibly. I told you they'd risen to top positions. But this might be coincidental,' Father Baldwin said. 'Did Chatham know your father?'

'Very well.'

Then he might be acting out of loyalty, to try to protect you.'

Tess raised her hands, intensely frustrated. 'There's just one problem with that logic.'

'Oh?' Father Baldwin waited.

'Only the enemy knew I was at my mother's house last night.'

'Not true. There was Brian Hamilton, and of course, my associates.'

'But Brian Hamilton's dead!' Tess said. 'My point hasn't changed. The Alexandria police chief learned I was being hunted because Craig told him. But how did Chatham find out?'

Father Baldwin's eyes blazed. 'You're suggesting he received his information from the men who attacked your mother's house and failed to capture you?'

'It certainly makes sense to me,' Craig said.

'Perhaps.' Father Baldwin shook his head. 'But what troubles me is that the connection's so obvious. Since twelve forty-four and the vermins' escape from Montsegur, the heretics have survived because of their talent for hiding. Over the centuries, they've greatly improved their ability to deceive. If Chatham is an enemy, would he take the risk, would he violate his training and draw suspicion to himself by acting so directly?'

'If he and his group felt desperate enough.' Tess pivoted toward a religious painting, then whirled back toward Father Baldwin. 'By calling Chief Farley and insisting that the FBI take over, Chatham has already accomplished part of their goal. They want to kill me because of the photographs and what I know. But this way, I still haven't been able to tell the authorities.'

Father Baldwin didn't answer for a moment. 'You may be right. But there's only one way to learn.'

Tess breathed. 'Yes. To call him.' Apprehensive, she reached for the sheet of paper upon which Craig had written Chatham 's phone number.

'Wait,' Father Baldwin said.

'A minute ago, you were urging me to…'

'The situation's changed. Now that we've isolated a possible target, I need to teach you how to react to what Chatham tells you. Meanwhile, other arrangements have to be made. They're mundane but necessary.'

'What do you mean?'

'It's after seven.'

'So what?'

'You have to eat.'

'Forget it. Food's the last thing I'm interested in. I probably couldn't keep it down.'

'But you're useless to me if you're exhausted. My informants tell me you don't eat meat. Would fish be acceptable?"

Tess felt intimidated by Father Baldwin's intimate knowledge of her habits. At the same time, she felt indignant. But the priest's forceful tone had its effect.

'If you're that determined,' Tess said, 'go ahead, although I don't know why my permission matters. You'll do it anyhow. Sure. Yeah, fish will be fine.'

'And Lieutenant, what about you?'

'A week ago, I'd have ordered steak and fries,' Craig said. 'But now, after having met Tess… Whatever she recommends to eat is good enough for me.'

'I'll also need your clothing sizes,' Father Baldwin said. 'What you're wearing is torn and reeks of smoke. Since you'll soon be out in public, to avoid attracting attention, you'll have to put on fresh clothes.'

'For the second time today,' Tess murmured and discovered she was trembling.

TWO

Eric Chatham stood at the bottom of the steps that led to the Lincoln Memorial, its massive statue and white marble columns glowing eerily in the darkness. This section of the circular street around the memorial was closed to traffic, but to his right, headlights of vehicles approached along Daniel French Drive to stop at a parking lot, visitors getting out to stroll around and enter the memorial. Chatham studied those cars and visitors, waiting for a man to walk toward him and mention that he'd come from Tess Drake.

The night was warm. All the same, Chatham 's stomach felt crammed with jagged chunks of ice. He brooded, unable to subdue his misgivings. It wasn't just that he'd agreed, against all his instincts, to meet in this unorthodox, potentially dangerous way. It was also that this was the second such unorthodox meeting he'd had today, the first during noon hour at Arlington National Cemetery with Kenneth Madden, the CIA's Deputy Director of Covert Operations. The meetings were related, and Chatham was more convinced that something disastrous was about to happen. He thought of Melinda Drake's murder and corrected himself. No, not about to happen. Now. His years of experience as the Bureau's director told him that whatever was wrong had already begun and might even be out of control.

Tess was frightened, that much was certain. When she'd called him two hours ago, he'd been alarmed by her trembling voice, her desperate tone. Before he had a chance to explain why he needed to talk to her, she'd interrupted, claiming that she knew who'd killed her mother, that she had important information about the murder, but that she couldn't reveal it over the phone. She had to tell him about – to let him see - the evidence in person.

Then come to my office. No,' Chatham had said, 'it's more private at my home.'

'But I can't trust either place!'

'Forgive me, Tess, but don't you think you're taking precautions to an extreme?'

'After everything I've been through? Eric, you have no idea. In my position, you'd be…!'

'Okay. Calm down. If you believe you're in that much danger, I'll arrange for special agents to guard my house.'

'No! The meeting has to be on my conditions! If you were truly a friend of my father, you'll do your best to help me stay alive!'

Chatham had hesitated. 'Yes. For your father. Anything.'

'Some friends of mine will pick you up and bring you to where I feel safe.'

'Agreed.'

'You'll come alone,' Tess had said.

'I don't like that, but again, all right.' Chatham 's forehead had suddenly throbbed.

'It has to be that way, so my friends can make sure you're not followed. The people who want to kill me might be watching you.'

'Again, you're being extreme.'

'No, Eric, practical! If I'm not careful, they'll use you to find me. It doesn't matter who you are. The heretics have proven how determined they are to stop me.'

'Heretics?' The word had frozen Chatham 's spine. 'What are you talking about?'

'You mean you pretend… You're claiming you really don't know?

'If I did, would I…?'

'Be there. I'm begging you! Please!' Tess had named the specifics of the rendezvous. 'I'll be waiting for my friends to bring you to where I'm hiding.'

Now, in the darkness, Chatham glanced nervously at the luminous dial on his watch. Eleven-ten. Amid tourists at the base of the dramatically lit columns and statue of the Lincoln Memorial, he felt chilled in his short-sleeved cotton sweater, despite the night's warmth. After all, the rendezvous was supposed to have occurred ten minutes ago, and although the man who'd been sent to take him to Tess was probably scouting the area to make sure that Chatham had come alone and hadn't been followed by Tess's enemies, the FBI director couldn't help feeling exposed among the numerous passing tourists, any one of whom might be a threat.

Keep control, he told himself. You'll soon be as paranoid as Tess sounded.

Soon be? I already am! I wish I hadn't-

A man stopped beside him and took a photograph of the memorial. He had an average build, nondescript face, and neutral clothes. 'It probably won't turn out.' The man shook his head. 'I brought the wrong speed of film.'