'I've got nothing to hide. Ask it.'

'You met this man three times, and only three times, and yet you feel this obligated to find out who killed him. Does that mean you fell in love with him?'

Tess glared defensively. 'It's more complicated than that. He was different. Special. Let's say I cared for him. So what?'

'Just so I know your motive.'

'My motive is justice, Brian. The same motive you're supposed to have. As long as it doesn't involve selling weapons in Beirut.'

'All right.' Brian stood, military straight. 'You'll hear from me.'

'The sooner, the…'

'Speed isn't always a virtue,' Brian said. 'But thoroughness? In that, I'm an expert.'

'Then prove it,' Tess said.

'One day, I hope you won't hate me.'

'I don't know why you would care. No.' Tess shook her head. 'That's wrong. I've got a suspicion, so Brian, if I'm right… for my father… and your relationship with my mother… bust your ass.'

'Theresa,' her mother objected.

'Mother, if you don't mind, keep out of this.'

'Oh, my.' Her mother clasped her mouth.

Brian extended his hand. 'A deal, Tess?'

'If you deliver? Yes, it's a deal.' She shook his hand. It was no longer firm.

'As soon as I can.'

'Knowing you and your skills…' Tess paused.

'You should have been a diplomat.'

'Far too ugly, Brian.'

'Perhaps you're right. Excuse me, Melinda. I've got some work to do.'

'Don't forget the reception for the Soviet ambassador,' Tess said bitterly.

'I haven't. But I've decided not to go. As you put it on the phone, fuck him. But by all means, with respect.'

'Yes, by all means.'

Brian Hamilton strode toward the oak door, slid it open, and disappeared.

'Really,' Tess's mother said, 'did he have to say…?'

' “Fuck”! Mother, for heaven's sakes, he's a war hero. If you're attracted to him, you'd better get used to hearing him use foul language on occasion.'

'Good gracious, I hope not.'

'Mother, didn't father ever say "fuck"?'

'Well, yes, but I ignored it.'

'Then you've got a problem. I've changed my mind. Hand me some of that toast. Pour me a cup of tea.'

'I'll ring for Edna.'

'No, mother. You'll pour the tea. And incidentally, I hate liver pate.'

Parked down the shadowy street from the mansion in this elite district of Alexandria, Virginia, the chameleon's surrogate – his height, weight, and features equally unremarkable, except that his hair was sandy, not brown – sipped stale coffee from a plastic cup, his empty thermos on the seat beside him, next to his Browning 9 mm semiautomatic pistol concealed beneath his oversized metal briefcase.

The briefcase was open, a cord from an audio scanner plugged into the car's cigarette-lighter receptacle to use energy from the vehicle's battery. The scanner could not detect broadcasts from two-way radios, such as those used by the police and taxi drivers, which operated on a UHF frequency in the range of four-hundred megahertz. Instead the scanner was intended to intercept conversations from cellular telephones, such as those used in cars, which broadcast on a much higher frequency, the eight-hundred megahertz band.

While it was legal to possess equipment to eavesdrop on police transmissions, it was a punishable offense to own a receiver that intercepted broadcasts from car phones. Not that the chameleon's surrogate cared. He'd broken many laws in his career. This was the least of them.

Indeed he was prepared to break many more laws, and it didn't matter to him how serious they were. After all, he had his orders, a mission to complete, and so far this mission had gone smoothly. He'd had no difficulty in following the tall, blond, attractive, athletic-looking woman from Washington National Airport to here. At the moment, with an equal lack of difficulty, another member of his team was arranging to put a tap on the mansion's telephone system. Eventually the mansion itself would be bugged. Meanwhile this limited electronic surveillance would have to do.

Periodically the man, who wore an ordinary, medium-priced, business suit and had a talent for making himself virtually invisible in a crowd, heard a dim conversation from this-or-that frequency on his scanner. After listening carefully, he decided that their topics did not concern him.

Periodically as well, he turned on his car's engine so that the scanner wouldn't drain the vehicle's battery. Although he directed his stern attention toward the mansion and in particular toward the entrance and the exit from the semicircular driveway, he repeatedly darted his eyes both ahead and upward, in the latter case toward his rearview mirror.

What troubled him were headlights. If he saw any approaching him, he'd immediately shut off the car's engine, disengage the plug from the cigarette-lighter receptacle, place the cord in the briefcase, and close the lid. After all, this exclusive area was likely to be patrolled by police cars, the officers in which might be tempted to stop to ask him why he was out here at this hour.

That was the trouble with trying to establish an automobile surveillance site in an upper-class suburban neighborhood. Few people, if any, parked on the street. This night, however, the watcher had gotten lucky. A half-block down from the mansion, someone was having a party – or what in so exclusive a district was probably called a reception – and not all the visiting cars had been able to fit in the spacious driveway. A few Cadillacs and Oldsmobiles sat out here on the street behind him, but although the watcher's dark Ford Taurus didn't blend with those expensive automobiles, the watcher doubted he'd have any problems in convincing a curious policeman that he was a hired driver who'd been forced to use this Taurus when the Cadillac he was supposed to use turned out, he would claim, to have a faulty fuel pump earlier this evening. The watcher's luck remained with him. No police cars had so far driven by.

Abruptly he straightened, seeing a silver Rolls Corniche emerge from the mansion's driveway and head in the opposite direction. After quickly removing night-vision binoculars from beneath his seat, he studied the Corniche and satisfied himself that only a chauffeur and a man in the back seat were present in the vehicle. The Corniche had a government license plate. Intriguing.

The watcher noted the plate's number on a slip of paper and would later use his contacts to determine who owned the car, but for the moment, since the woman wasn't in the Corniche, his duty was not to follow the car but instead to maintain his surveillance on the mansion.

At once he heard beeps, then buzzes that were interrupted by a voice from his audio scanner, so distinct that it had to be coming from a car phone that was near, presumably in the Corniche.

'Hello,' a man said with a formal tone. 'Mr Chatham's residence.'

'This is Brian Hamilton. I know it's late. I hate to disturb him, but is Eric home?'

'He is. However, he's about to retire for the evening.'

'Tell him who's calling, please. And tell him it's important.'

The watcher increased his concentration. Eric Chatham?

Chatham was the director of the FBI! And Brian Hamilton, evidently the passenger in the Corniche, was the former Secretary of State, currently an advisor to the President, also a member of – among other things – the National Security Council.

My, my, the watcher thought. Heavy hitters.

'By all means. Just a moment, Mr Hamilton.'

The watcher stared toward the red light on his audio scanner and the voices coming from it.

'Brian?' a sonorous voice asked, tired and puzzled. 'I was just getting into my pajamas. I've been looking forward to reading the new Stephen King, something that has nothing to do with… Never mind. What's going on? My assistant tells me this is important.'