Sight Unseen. Gayle Wilson
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Prologue
Washington, D.C.
“I’ve heard of The Covenant, of course. Most of what I know concerns the quasi-patriotic/religious programs they sponsor from behind the scenes. Anyone who’s been in Washington for any length of time has some knowledge of their role in those. That’s not to say, however, that I have anything to add to what you’ve uncovered. Or any names to give you. No acquaintance of mine has ever admitted to belonging.”
Despite his age, former director of central intelligence Montgomery Gardner’s mind was still sharp and his connections as good as they had ever been. If he knew nothing about The Covenant, then Phoenix operative Ethan Snow knew he was at a dead end. And that he’d just spent six months on an investigation that was literally going nowhere.
If the stakes hadn’t been so high, he might have given up long before now. He had come to Griff Cabot’s office today ready to admit defeat. Although Griff had acknowledged that visiting the old man was a last-ditch effort, he had insisted it was one they should make. Gardner was, after all, his wife’s grandfather and Griff trusted him to tell them the truth. Now this, too, appeared as futile as every other avenue of information Ethan had pursued.
“What we’ve uncovered is little more than the fact the organization exists,” Griff admitted. “And that some of its members, maybe a fringe element, have been involved in funding domestic terrorism.”
“Other than a few tantalizing hints,” Ethan added, “we can’t even get a handle on how wide scale their efforts there have been.”
He had hoped the plot involving the Lockett Legacy that John Edmonds had quashed might be an aberration. Now, after months of following up every elusive lead through electronic intercepts and banking records, Ethan had come to believe The Covenant was indeed promoting terrorism on many other fronts. All of them harmful to the United States.
He couldn’t prove what he knew intuitively. And he couldn’t find any way to penetrate the veil of secrecy that effectively protected whoever was behind the organization.
“Americans perpetrating acts of terror against their own people,” Gardner said, shaking his head.
As the director of the CIA, Gardner had certainly been exposed to the harsh realities of treason. There was not a naive bone in the old man’s body, yet he sounded shocked that a group considered by many to be both patriotic and altruistic might be guilty of that heinous crime.
“And protected by an oath of confidentiality while they do it,” Cabot added.
“Membership is by invitation only,” Ethan said. “No one I’ve interviewed will admit to knowing anyone who is or who might be a member. There are no organizational lists as far as we can discover. No tax records because of the way they handle contributions. I’m not sure any one member is allowed to know the identity of another.”
“That must make for interesting meetings,” the old man said dryly. “Do you suppose they go to those masked? A modern-day Hell Fire Club?”
“One bent on destruction rather than debauchery,” Ethan said.
“And all the while hidden behind a cloak of sanctity,” Griff added. “Short of divine intervention or clairvoyance, I’m not sure how we pierce that veil of secrecy.”
“I can’t help you there,” Monty Gardner said, “although I suspect my relationship to the Divinity is as close as some others’ in this town who go out of their way to flaunt their standing with Him.”
They waited as the old man’s lips pursed, his eyes focused unseeingly across the room. The silence stretched long enough to become uncomfortable before Griff broke it.
“Monty?”
“I may know someone who can help. You’ll have to do a bit of traveling. I assume you aren’t averse to that?”
The question was clearly addressed to Ethan. Despite his failure to make any headway with the investigation, this was still his case. If the ex-DCI had a contact he believed could provide information on The Covenant, Ethan was eager to pursue it, wherever it might take him.
“I’m more than willing, if you think it might help.”
“I shall hold you to that,” the old man said with that same touch of dry humor. “Come into my office, and I’ll find the address for you. I keep it in a special place. A very special place.”
With that cryptic comment, the old man began to rise from his comfortable armchair. Under the cover of that movement, Ethan glanced toward Griff, his brows raised in inquiry.
Cabot shook his head and shrugged. Apparently he had no idea where or to whom Gardner intended to send his agent.
And it didn’t really matter, Ethan acknowledged. Wherever it was, after six months of frustration, he was more than ready to contact anyone who might be able to help.
Chapter One
Two Days Later
Gulf Shores, Alabama
The same vague feeling of discontent that had plagued her throughout the day had driven Raine McAllister to the studio at the back of the beach house at sundown. Usually, simply entering that room, with its wide expanses of glass, instilled a sense of peace. Tonight even its magic didn’t seem to be working.
She walked over to the wall of windows that looked out on the blue-green waters of the Gulf of Mexico. Cream-crested waves foamed over the sugar-sand beach below. The red of the dying sun painted the edge of the horizon, but twilight had already fallen over the shoreline.
There was not another human being as far as the eye could see. Living this far from the so-called civilization of the tourist areas had its disadvantages, but the isolation soothed her soul.
Except tonight. Tonight nothing seemed soothing. Or normal. It was as if she viewed the familiar scene below through a lens that was slightly out of focus. Flawed and distorted.
She leaned her forehead against the coolness of the glass and closed her eyes. She concentrated on breathing deeply, willing her mind to tranquility.
After a moment, far sooner than she had intended, her eyes opened. She listened, but whatever had disturbed her reverie apparently hadn’t been sound. There was no noise but the rhythmic sibilance of the waves, muted by the glass.
Whatever was out of place in her world wasn’t outside. It was within. Inside her mind. Or in her soul, perhaps. And she had no explanation for it.
She moved away from the window as the sun dipped beyond the ocean, instantly changing the quality of light in the studio. A silver arrow on the water pointed to the moon, which, hidden until now, rode low in the sky.
She lifted the cloth off her latest work and then stepped back to examine the sculpture in its entirety. Like everything else around her, the figure of the running man seemed slightly wrong, but she couldn’t pinpoint exactly what it was about the shape that bothered her.
When she’d finished work last night, she had been pleased with her progress. Now, however…
She allowed her eyes to examine each element of her creation. The runner’s torso expressed a more solid strength than the long, muscled legs, extended to their full range of motion. She reached out, intending to run her finger down the delicate delineation of the calf muscle she had been so proud of yesterday.
For some reason her hand hesitated in midair, as if reluctant to make contact. Determined to shake off tonight’s malaise by losing herself in her work—as she always could—she forced her fingers forward until their sensitive tips encountered the coolness of the clay.
As soon as they did, the figure of the runner disappeared, flickering out of sight to be replaced by the image of a pond. Leaf-shaded and dark, its stillness failed to draw her, as anything in nature normally would. It repelled instead. Frightening. Repugnant.
Deliberately,