'I apologize,' Hamilton said. 'I came across some information tonight, and I'd like to discuss it with you.'

'Now? Can't it wait until the morning? At my office? My schedule's crowded, but I can squeeze you in for fifteen minutes just before lunch.'

'I might need more than fifteen minutes,' Hamilton said. 'In private. Undistracted.' The reception became less distinct as the Corniche left the neighborhood.

'In private!' Eric Chatham sounded confused.

'Yes. This relates to a case your people were asked to work on. But in truth, it's personal. It has to do with Remington Drake, his widow, and his daughter. I need to ask a favor.'

'Remington Drake! Dear God. And this favor's important?'

'To me. Yes, very important,' Brian Hamilton said.

'A favor? Well, if you're putting it on that basis. You've certainly done enough favors for me, and Remington Drake was certainly my friend. How quickly can you be here?'

'Ten minutes.'

'I'll be waiting.'

'Thanks, Eric. I appreciate your cooperation.'

'Don't speak too soon. I haven't cooperated yet.'

'But I have every confidence that you will. Ten minutes.'

The transmission ended.

The watcher frowned, trying to interpret what he'd heard. But he'd been concentrating so hard that he'd failed to hear something else, the soft rush of rubber-soled shoes on the street, darting toward his side of the car. Because of the heat, the watcher had left his window open. After all, he couldn't keep his engine running constantly at the risk of attracting attention just so he could use the car's air conditioner.

In alarm, as the watcher – stomach burning – snapped his head toward the rushing footsteps, he gaped at a.22 pistol being shoved through the open window. Startled, he didn't have time to grab his Browning from beneath his briefcase. The.22, equipped with a silencer, made a spitting sound. The watcher groaned from the impact of the.22 bullet against his skull. The close-range wallop was forceful enough to jolt the watcher sideways. Blood spewed. He shuddered and toppled to the right across his audio scanner.

But the small bullet didn't kill him. Shocked, powerless, in excruciating pain, he retained sufficient consciousness to sense, hear, and quiver as the assassin jerked open the driver's door.

The assassin grabbed the watcher's body, twisted it, and shoved it, crammed it, onto the floor below the passenger seat. At once the assassin shut the door, started the car, and drove at a steady, unobtrusive speed from the shadowy neighborhood.

Slumped on the floor, the watcher blinked, unable to see, feeling his life drain from him as his blood soaked the carpet. His skull felt as if a nail had been driven through it. If the assassin had used a more powerful weapon, the watcher would have been killed instantly, he dimly realized. But a large- caliber pistol, even with a silencer, would have made a discernible noise, not much, more like a cough than the.22's spit, all the same perhaps just loud enough that someone leaving the party down the street might have heard and become suspicious. A silencer-equipped.22, though, especially if the ammunition had a specially calculated, reduced, so-called 'subsonic' amount of powder – was almost as quiet as a handgun could be.

In a sickening daze, the watcher felt the car turn a corner. As his blood pooled in front of his face, threatening to drown him, he was murkily amazed that he wasn't dead. Through his terrible pain, a weak thought struggled to assure him that he might have a chance of surviving.

Survive?

Hey, who are you kidding?

Give me a break.

With a head wound?

No way.

But he knows I'm still alive. He can hear me wheezing. Why didn't he shoot a second time and finish me?

An amateur?

No.

God in heaven, no, the watcher's fading mind concluded.

Thoughts spinning, the stench of his cascading blood making him gag, he blearily decided, I'm wrong! Not an amateur. When the watcher had pivoted toward the rushing footsteps, he'd noticed that the pistol had an unusual shape, a baffle attached to the top where the slide would normally jerk back and eject the empty cartridge, then snap forward to position a fresh round into the firing chamber.

But the baffle prevented the slide from moving back and forth and allowing sound to escape from the weapon. The baffle was a reinforcement of the silencer! Thus the.22 could be fired only once! That was why the assassin hadn't pulled the trigger again and made sure I was dead!

No! Not an amateur! A professional! Very professional! A well-trained, experienced killer!

The assassin was good enough to need only one shot. He's aware I don't have a chance. He knows it's only a matter of time until…

The watcher, even more weak and light-headed, began to pray in agony, with fervent desperation. It was all he could do now. He had to protect his soul. His only consolation was that he couldn't be interrogated. Nonetheless, he regretted that he wouldn't be able to prevent the assassin from searching him and taking the ring that he kept hidden in his suitcoat.

Abruptly he felt the car stop. He heard the assassin get out and heard another car stop beside the Taurus.

So they're going to leave me here – wherever this is – to die?

Hope made his weakening pulse regain some strength. Maybe I can muster the energy to crawl from the Taurus. Maybe I can find someone to help me, to drive me to a hospital.

But his hope was cruelly destroyed, for the next dim sound he heard wasn't the assassin getting into the other car. Instead he heard liquid being spattered into the Taurus. He felt it soak his clothes and retched from the sharp stench of gasoline.

No!

The last thing he heard was a match being struck and the whoosh as the gasoline ignited. Flames filled the Taurus and swooped across his body. No! Dear God! In absolute torment, he prayed more fervently. Our Father Who art in heaven…! Amazingly his will was powerful enough that he got as far as deliver us from evil before the excruciating blaze consumed him.

In the mansion's vestibule, as Tess walked toward the huge wide staircase, her mother said, 'Despite the evening's regrettable unpleasantness, I really am glad that you came to visit. I hope a good night's sleep will put you in a better mood.'

Thanks, mother. And it's good to see you.' Tess drooped her shoulders. 'But somehow I doubt I'll sleep much. I've got too much to think about.'

'Well, perhaps if you had something to read. That always puts me to sleep. Oh, my.' Tess's mother halted abruptly on the staircase.

'What's the matter?'

'I completely forgot. You asked me to phone the director at the Library of Congress. He found that book you wanted and sent it here by messenger.' Tess's mother retreated down the stairs. 'It's in the drawing room. But he says you made a mistake about the title.'

'The Circle - or else The Ring – of the Neck of the Dove?'

'Apparently that's a literal translation from Spanish. But in English, the prepositions disappear and…' Tess's mother hurried into the drawing room and came back, removing a tattered book from a package. 'The Dove's Neck Ring. Yes, that's what it's called.'

The book smelled old. Tess quickly opened it, her spirits rising when she saw that it was in English. 'Thank you.' She hugged her mother, who blinked at so forceful a show of affection. 'I appreciate it. Honestly. Thank you.'

Her mother looked confused. 'I've never seen anyone get so excited about a book before. When I paged through it, waiting for you to arrive, it certainly didn't appear very interesting.'

'On the contrary, mother, I expect to be fascinated.' Heart pounding, Tess wanted to rush upstairs to her room so she could start reading, but she forced herself to climb the steps slowly, matching her mother's pace. In a long upper corridor lined with paintings by French Impressionists, they paused outside Tess's door.