Covenant Of The Flame

by David Morrell

  Nervous, she wasn't surprised. At least, not exactly. The man who lived here, her former art professor at Georgetown University, was renowned for spending his summer vacation in his back yard, tending, caring for, whispering to his magnificent collection of lilies.

  But that had been in the old days, Tess remembered with painful nostalgia. After all, she hadn't seen her beloved professor since she'd graduated six years ago.

  Professor Harding had been old even then. Perhaps he'd retired. Or perhaps he'd gone to Europe to study the art he so worshipped and the enthusiasm for which he so ably communicated in his courses.

  All Tess knew was that he'd treated his students as if they were part of his family. He'd welcomed them to his home. At sunset, amid the glorious lilies in his garden, he'd offered them sherry but not too much - he didn't want to cloud their judgment - and described the glories of Velazquez, Goya, and Picasso.

  Spanish. Professor Harding had always been partial to the genius of Spanish art. The only competition for Harding's admiration had been.

  Tess stepped from the porch and rounded the side of the house, proceeding toward the back yard. After so many years, she hadn't remembered Professor Harding's phone number, and in any case, she'd felt too panicked, too exposed, too threatened, to stop at a phone booth and get his number from information. Needing somewhere to go, she'd decided to come here directly and take the chance he was home. There was no alternative. She had to know.

  But as she reached the back yard, her immediate fears were subdued. She felt a warm flush of love surge through her chest at the sight of Professor Harding - much older - distressingly infirm - as he straightened painfully from examining a waist-high lily stalk.

  The back yard was glorious with the flowers. Everywhere, except for a maze of narrow paths that allowed visitors to stroll in admiration, the garden was filled with abundant, myriad, trumpet-shaped, resplendent, many-colored tributes to God's generosity.

  Tess faltered amid the beauty. She clutched her purse and the weight of its pistol, reminding herself of how far she'd come, not necessarily forward, since leaving Georgetown University. How she wished she was back there.

  Professor Harding turned and noticed her. 'Yes?' Trembling, he fought to maintain his balance. 'You've come to see my.?'

  'Flowers. As usual, they're wonderful!'

  'You're very kind.' Professor Harding used a cane and hobbled toward her. To my regret, there once was a time.'

  'Your regret?'

  'The poisonous air. The equally poisonous rain. Eight years ago.'

  'I was here,' Tess said. 'I remember.'

  'The lilies were.' Professor Harding, wrinkled, alarmingly aged, sank toward a redwood bench. His white hair was thin and wispy, his skin slack, dark with liver spots. 'What you see is nothing. A mockery. There once was a time, when nature was in control. The lilies used to be so.'He stared toward his cane and trembled. 'Next year.' He trembled increasingly. 'I won't subject them to this poison. Next year, I'll let them rest in peace. But their bulbs will be safely stored. And perhaps one day grow flowers again. If the planet is ever purified.'

  Tess glanced defensively backward, clutching the outline of her handgun in her purse, then approaching.

  'But do I know you?' Professor Harding asked. He steadied his wire-rimmed glasses and squinted in concentration. 'Why, it's Tess. Can it actually be you? Of course. Tess Drake.'

  Tess smiled, her tear ducts aching. 'I'm so pleased you haven't forgotten.'

  'How could I possibly forget? Your beauty filled my classroom.'

  Tess blushed. 'Now you're the one who's being kind.' She sat beside him on the redwood bench and gently hugged him.

  'In fact, if I'm not mistaken, you were in many of my classes. Each year, you took a course.' The professor's voice sounded like wind through dead leaves.

  'I loved hearing you talk about art.'

  'Ah, but more important, you loved the art itself. It showed in your eyes.' Professor Harding squinted harder, as if at something far away. 'Mind you, in honesty, you weren't my best student.'

  'Mostly B's, I'm afraid.'

  'But by all means, you were certainly my most enthusiastic student.' The professor's thin, wrinkled lips formed a smile of affection. 'And it's so good of you to come back. You know, many students promised they would - after they graduated and all.' His smile faded. 'But as I learned to expect.'

  'Yes?'

  'They never did.'

  Tess felt a tightness in her throat. 'Well, here I am. Late, I regret.'

  'As you always came late for class.' The old man chuckled. 'Just a few minutes. I wasn't distracted. But it seems you couldn't resist a grand entrance.'

  Tess echoed the old man's chuckle. 'Really, I wasn't trying to make a grand entrance. It's just that I couldn't manage to get out of bed on time.'

  'Well, my dear, when you're my age, you'll find that you wake up at dawn.' The professor's frail voice faded. 'And often earlier. Much earlier.'

  He cleared his throat.

  Their conversation faltered.

  Even so, Tess found that the silence was comfortable.

  Soothing.

  She admired the lilies.

  How I wish I could stay here forever, she thought. How I wish that my world wasn't falling to pieces.

  'Professor, can we talk about art for a while?'

  'My pleasure. As you're aware, apart from my lilies, I've always enjoyed a discussion.'

  'About a bas-relief statue? I'd like to show you a picture of it.'

  Apprehensive, Tess withdrew the packet of photographs from her purse, taking care to conceal the handgun.

  'But why.? You're so somber.' Professor Harding narrowed his white, sparse eyebrows. 'Have you lost your enthusiasm for the subject?'

  'Not for the subject,' Tess said. 'But as far as this goes.' She showed him the photograph of the statue. 'This is another matter.'

  Professor Harding scowled, creating more wrinkles on his forehead. He pushed up his glasses, then raised the photograph toward them. 'Yes, I can see why you're disturbed.'

  He shifted the picture forward, then backward, and with each motion shook his head. 'Such a brutal image. And the style. So rough. So crude. It's certainly not something I care for. Certainly not Velazquez.'

  'But what can you tell me about it?' Tess held her breath.

  'I'm sorry, Tess. You'll have to be more specific. What exactly do you need to know? What's your interest in this? Where did you find it?'

  Tess debated how much to tell him. The less the old man knew, the better. If the killers found out that she'd come here, ignorance and infirmity might be the difference that saved Professor Harding's life. 'A friend of mine had it in his bedroom.'

  'That doesn't say much for his taste. His bedroom? This doesn't belong even in a tool shed.'

  'I agree. But have you any idea who might have sculpted it? Or why! Or what it means! Are there any sculptors you know or you've heard of who might have done it?'

  'Dear me, no. I can see why you're confused. You think this sculpture might relate to a contemporary school of. I don't know what I'd call them. neo-primitives or avant-garde classicists.'

  'Professor, forgive me. I'm still not a very good student. What you just said. You've lost me.'

  'I'll try to be more enlightening. This photograph. It's difficult to tell from the image, but the sculpture seems to be in perfect condition. Distinct lines. No missing sections. No chips. No cracks. No sign of weathering.'

  'I still don't...'

  'Pay attention. Pretend you're taking notes.'

  'Believe me, I'm trying.'

  'The object, its craft, its execution, are recent. Very distinct. But the image itself is.' Professor Harding hesitated. 'Old. Very old. This is a copy, Tess, of a sculpture from as long ago as. oh, I'd guess. two thousand years.'

  'Two thousand years?' Tess gaped.

  'An approximation. It's not my specialty, I'm sorry to say. Anything before the sixteen hundreds is outs
ide my expertise.'

  Tess slumped. 'Then there's no way you can help me understand what it means?'

  'Did I say that? Please. I merely admitted my own limitations. What you need is a classical scholar with training in archaeology.'

  Tess glanced at her watch. Half-past twelve. Craig would be at LaGuardia by now. He'd soon be flying to Washington. She had to meet him at two-thirty. Time. She didn't have much time!

  'A classical scholar with.?' Tess breathed.' Where on earth am I going to find...?'

  'Young lady, I'm disappointed. Have you forgotten the marvelous woman I'm married to? She's the brains of the family. Not me. And until five years ago, she belonged to the Classics Department at Georgetown University. Come.' Professor Harding leaned on his cane and stood from the redwood bench. He wavered for a moment. 'Priscilla's been taking a nap. But it's time I woke her. It really isn't good if she misses lunch. Her diabetes, you know. Perhaps you'd care for a bite to eat.'

  'Professor, I don't mean to be rude. I'm really not hungry, and please - oh, God, I hate this - I'm in a hurry. This is important. Terribly urgent. I need to know about that statue.'

  'Well.' Professor Harding studied her. 'How mysterious you make it seem. Good. I can use some stimulation.' The old man shuffled unsteadily along a path, the fragrance of his lilies tainted by smog. 'But if it's that urgent, if you don't mind the familiarity, you'd better put your arm around me so I can walk a little faster. I confess I'm curious. So let's wake Priscilla and stimulate her. Let's find out what that odious image means.'

  EIGHTEEN

  Kennedy International Airport.

  The Pan Am 747 from Paris arrived on time at 12:25. Among the four hundred and fifty passengers, six men - who'd sat separately in business class - were careful to leave the jet at intervals, and with equal care took different taxis into New York. They were all well-built, in their thirties. Each wore a nondescript suit and carried a briefcase as well as an under seat bag. None had checked luggage. Their features were common, ordinary, average.

  Their only other shared characteristic was that while they'd been pleasant to the flight attendants, their polite remarks had seemed to require effort as if each man had urgent business that preoccupied him. Their eyes communicated the gravity of their concerns: distant, pensive, cold.

  In Manhattan, at diverse locations, each man got out of his taxi, walked several blocks, took a subway at random, got off a few stops later, hired another taxi, and arrived several minutes apart on avenues west of the Museum of Natural History. After assessing the traffic, parked cars, and pedestrians in the neighborhood, each approached a brownstone on West Eighty-Fifth Street and rang the doorbell.

  A matronly woman opened the door, blocking the narrow entrance. 'I don't believe we've met.'

  'May the Lord be with you.'

  'And with your spirit.'

  'Deo gratias.'

  'Indeed.' The woman waited. 'However, a sign is required.'

  'Absolutely. I'd feel threatened if you didn't ask.'

  The last man to arrive reached into his suitcoat pocket and showed her a ring. The ring had a gleaming ruby. The impressive stone was embossed with the golden insignia of an intersecting cross and sword.

  'Deo gratias,' the woman repeated.

  Only then did the woman open the door all the way, stepping backward, bowing her head, respectfully allowing the visitor to enter.

  In an alcove to the left of the door, a grim, intense man in a Kevlar bullet-resistant vest lowered an Uzi submachine gun equipped with a silencer.

  The woman closed the door. 'Did you have a good flight?'

  'It didn't crash.'

  'The others arrived not long ago.'

  The visitor merely nodded, then followed the woman up narrow stairs to the second floor. He entered a bedroom, where the five other members of his team had already changed into unobtrusive clothes and now were taking apart and reassembling pistols laid out on the bed.

  The weapons, Austrian Clock-17 9 mm semiautomatics, were made of sturdy polymer plastic, their only metal the steel of the barrel and the firing mechanism. Lightweight, dependable, their main advantage was that metal detectors often failed to register them, and when disassembled, the pistols frequently weren't noticed on airport X-ray machines.

  'Your street clothes are in the bureau,' the woman said.

  'Thank you, sister.'

  'Your flight was long. You must be tired.'

  'Not at all.'

  'Hungry?'

  'Hardly. My purpose gives me energy.'

  'I'll be downstairs if you need anything. You will have to hurry, however. The schedule has been increased. You have tickets for a three o'clock flight to Washington National Airport. The bait is in motion.'

  'I'm pleased to hear that, sister. And the enemy? Have the vermin taken the bait?'

  'Not yet.'

  'They will, however.' His voice became an ominous whisper. 'I have no doubt. Thank you.' He guided her from the bedroom. 'Thank you, sister. Thank you.' He shut the door.

  The matronly woman gripped the banister, proceeded hesitantly down the stairs, then paused before the guard at the entrance. 'They make me shiver.'

  'Yes,' the haggard man with the Uzi said. 'Once before, I worked with enforcers. For a day afterward, my marrow still felt frozen.'

  NINETEEN

  Tess waited, squirming impatiently on a chair at Professor Harding's kitchen table. The spacious room, in back of the Victorian house, was clean and uncluttered, painted blue. A large window provided a magnificent panorama of the thousands of glorious, many-colored lilies, but she was too preoccupied to pay attention to them. Some time ago - too long - Professor Harding had left her here while he'd gone upstairs to wake his wife.

  Tess kept glancing nervously toward her watch. It was five after one. She fidgeted. Unable to control her anxiety, she stood and paced, locked the back door, abruptly sat down again, and continued fidgeting.

  Hurry! Craig's plane would be in the air by now! He expected her at the Marriott hotel near Washington National Airport in less than ninety minutes!

  I won't be able to stay here much longer!

  But I can't just leave.

  I've got to know!

  At once she exhaled, hearing muffled footsteps on a staircase at the front of the house.

  The next thing, she heard murmured voices. The footsteps shuffled along a corridor, approaching the kitchen.

  Tess bolted to her feet as Professor Harding escorted his wife into view.

  But at the sight of the woman, Tess felt her stomach turn cold.

  No!

  So much time! I've wasted so much.!

  Priscilla Harding looked even more infirm than her husband. She was tiny, thin, and stoop-shouldered. Her wispy white hair was mussed from her nap, her face wrinkled, pale, and slack. Like her husband, she needed a cane. They clung to each other.

  'Professor,' Tess said, trying not to insult their dignity by revealing her alarm. 'If only you'd told me. I'd have been more than happy to go upstairs with you and help bring your wife downstairs.'

  'No need.' The old man smiled. 'Priscilla and I have managed to get along without help for several years. You wouldn't want to spoil us, would you? However, I appreciate your consideration.'

  'Here, let me.' Tess hurried around the table, gently gripped Priscilla Harding, and helped her to sit.

  'Good,' the professor said, breathing with difficulty. 'Our little exercise is over. How do you feel, Priscilla?'

  The woman didn't answer.

  Tess was alarmed by the lack of vitality in her eyes.

  My God, she isn't alert enough to.

  She can't possibly answer my questions!

  Professor Harding seemed to read Tess's mind. 'Don't worry. My wife's merely groggy from her nap. It takes Priscilla a while to regain her energy. But she'll be fine as soon as.'

  The old man opened the refrigerator's gleaming door and took out a syringe. After swabbing his wife's arm with rubbing a
lcohol, he injected her with what Tess assumed was insulin, given the professor's earlier remarks about his wife's diabetes.

  'There,' the professor said.

  He returned to the refrigerator and removed a plate of fruit, cheese, and meat that was covered with plastic-wrap.

  'I hope you're hungry, my dear.' He set the plate on the table, took off the plastic-wrap, then shifted unsteadily toward a counter to slice some French bread. 'I suggest you start with those sections of orange. You need to maintain your-'