The Covenant Of The Flame

by David Morrell

  She hoped that her voice didn't tremble.

  'It'll be a pleasure and a privilege.'

  With gracious movements, Gerrard proceeded toward the forward bulkhead and revealed his quarters. Tess, in spite of her fear, was amazed by the luxurious accommodations: electric window curtains, a lavatory, a shower-tub, a vanity, closets, twin beds, a TV system capable of receiving eight channels simultaneously including images from on-board remote-control cameras so

  Gerrard could assess waiting crowds before he left the aircraft… and two unusual hooks on the bedroom ceiling.

  Tess pointed toward them, confused.

  'Those. Yes, those. They sometimes keep me awake at night,' Gerrard said. 'Their implication. I don't like to think about them. They're hooks for intravenous lines in case I'm – to put it delicately – injured. This jet also has a minihospital.' He paused, somber. 'And a place for a coffin. But' - his expression brightened - 'let's not be morbid. There's a great deal more for you to see.'

  He escorted them back through the central cabin toward the rear bulkhead's door, and beyond it, Tess became even more impressed.

  She'd wondered why the seats in the central cabin weren't occupied. Now she understood. In a conference room that looked as if it belonged in a Fortune 500 corporation's headquarters, a dozen men sat in high-backed upholstered chairs along a large rectangular table.

  Secret Service agents, Gerrard explained. They were double-checking their tactics to protect him when he arrived in Spain. Phones and computers allowed them to coordinate their plans with the Spanish equivalent of the Secret Service.

  Spain. Again the word sent tremors through Tess. She struggled urgently not to show her fear.

  In a farther room, she saw another dozen men, vice-presidential aides using more phones and computers as well as printers and copying machines to polish speeches, verify itineraries, and prepare news releases. TV monitors flanked one bulkhead.

  Leaving his aides to their work, Gerrard took Tess, Craig, and Kelly back to the central cabin. 'There's more. Much more,' he said. 'A press room, although on this trip I'm not allowing reporters. Two galleys with gourmet cooks who can serve us Trout Almandine or anything else we want. Enough food for a week. A missile avoidance system. Special shielding to protect the jet's controls from electromagnetic bursts from nuclear explosions. Eighty-five telephones. Fifty-seven antennas. A six-channel stereo system. Two hundred and thirty-eight miles of wiring. A crew of twenty-three. Their quarters are above us. Here, I know that Tess doesn't smoke, and Lieutenant Craig, my researchers tell me you wisely gave it up, although I can still hear the congestion in your lungs, but as souvenirs, why don't you take these?'

  Tess gasped and stared down at a packet of matches. They were labelled ABOARD AIR FORCE TWO. As well, she received napkins, memo pads, and playing cards with the same inscription.

  'I don't know what to say.' Craig shook his head with apparent gratitude. 'I'm honored. I've never been much for collecting souvenirs, but I'll treasure these.' He pocketed the objects.

  The next instant, he abruptly swung his attention toward the increasing shriek of the jet's four engines.

  'It seems that we're about ready,' Gerrard said.

  A servant took their glasses.

  'Your attention, please,' a voice said through the intercom. 'We're cleared for take-off. All passengers be seated.'

  Ten seconds later, the Secret Service agents as well as Gerrard's aides came through the aft door, chose seats, and buckled themselves securely.

  Tess and Craig did the same.

  'I usually stay in my cabin during take-off, but with the two of you on board, it's a special occasion. If you'll allow me…' Gerrard took a seat beside them. As a flight attendant explained the exits and the escape procedures for this Boeing 747, the vice president leaned toward Tess.

  'Obviously you're curious,' he said. 'Why did I send for you? You must be wondering, Why are you here, en route to Spain?'

  Tess resisted the drop in her stomach as Air Force Two moved smoothly across the tarmac toward the take-off strip. She knew that the jet's special shielding prevented Father Baldwin from hearing the transmission from the miniature radio built into the heel of one of her shoes. All the same, she had to know.

  'That's right, Alan. What are we doing here?'

  The jet reached the runway, its four engines gaining power, roaring now instead of shrieking, propelling the aircraft with such force that Tess was shoved back against her seat.

  At once the nose tilted toward the sky. Now the pressure Tess felt was downward again as the 747 gained altitude. At the same time, from beneath the fuselage, she heard a whir and thump as the wheels retracted into the wings and undercarriage. Craig had the window seat, but Tess was able, by leaning across him, to peer out. Amazingly soon, the lights of Andrews Air Force Base became glowing specks far below. Cities blazed to the right and left. Then the night enveloped the aircraft.

  'The reason I'm here,' Gerrard said, 'the reason I'm flying to Spain is that the Spanish president died this morning. A heart attack. A tragic loss not only to Spain but the European Economic Community. I'm being sent as America's official representative at the funeral. But you and Lieutenant Craig are here because I can't think of any place safer for you than aboard this plane. If Air Force Two can survive a nuclear war, the two of you certainly don't need to worry about being attacked while you're with me. All these Secret Service agents – I've instructed them to make sure you're not harmed. Until we sort out this mess, your protection is guaranteed.'

  The logic was attractive. If Tess hadn't felt ambivalent toward Gerrard, if she hadn't been worried that he was an enemy, her fears would have been subdued. In theory, in the present circumstances, she was absolutely protected, as safe as possible.

  'Since your mother's home was attacked last night,' Gerrard said, 'I've had my investigators working overtime. I've learned about the death of your friend in Manhattan last Saturday night. Burned.' He shook his head, appalled. 'I've also learned that you and Lieutenant Craig have been trying to determine why he was killed.'

  Tess debated, then nodded in agreement.

  Gerrard continued, 'You flew to Washington to see your mother in Alexandria yesterday evening, which makes me suspect that you planned to use your father's contacts to help you investigate, and which in turn also makes me suspect that the attack on your mother's house and the attack on your friend are related, that you're the common denominator. More, I believe that Brian Hamilton's death has something to do with this. My investigators found out from his secretary that you called Brian at his office yesterday and that he missed a reception for the Soviet ambassador last night so he could visit your mother – translation, to visit you. After you spoke with Brian, he was killed in a freeway accident while en route to see the FBI director. I know that Brian phoned from his car and asked for that appointment because the FBI director told Kenneth Madden at Arlington Cemetery this afternoon, and Madden later told me. Finally an attack similar to the one at your mother's house occurred in Washington this afternoon. The owners of the house are missing, but one of them, Professor Richard Harding, taught you art history at Georgetown University. Again you're the common denominator. The coincidence troubles me. Were you there, Tess? No, don't look away. This is too important. Tell me. Be honest. Were you at Professor Harding's home this afternoon?'

  Tess slowly, reluctantly, nodded again, inwardly flinching at the memory of the nightmare.

  'The pattern is obvious. Tess, to be blunt, who's so desperate to kill you and in the process to kill the people you've recently contacted? Why ? It almost makes me nervous to be in touch with you myself.' Gerrard's latter remark was obviously somewhat exaggerated, given the presence of the Secret Service. No matter. The vice president continued to look intense.

  'Your investigators are very thorough, Alan.'

  'That's why they work for me. They're the best.'

  'Then maybe they've figured out why I'm in danger.'

&
nbsp; 'No. Otherwise I wouldn't be asking you. Is it the heretics? Do they want to kill you?'

  Tess felt her cheeks turn pale. 'The heretics…?'

  She hadn't expected…

  She couldn't believe…

  Straining to keep her breathing steady, she managed only to stare.

  'Your friend who was burned in Manhattan? My investigators conducted an in-depth background check. He was a heretic,' Gerrard said. 'We've known about them for some time. At first, there were merely rumors. International gossip. But then a pattern began to be evident. Unusual diplomatic decisions. Puzzling changes in the policy of foreign nations, especially in Europe. Assassinations. Unexpected deaths of foreign diplomats, perhaps even the death of the Spanish president. Something – we don't know what – is happening. Blackmail. Extortion. Votes are controlled. Politicians are subjected to irresistible pressure. Major industries are afraid because several top executives have been murdered. It's not the Soviets. That system's collapsing. It's something else. A new threat looms now that the cold war seems to be over. All because of a group of fanatics who somehow survived from the Middle Ages and decided to preserve their religious theories by disguising themselves and burrowing into the mainstream of international corporations and major governments. We have trouble identifying the heretics – they've had centuries of practise in hiding – but we recognize their trail, and we know that they're determined to destroy both democracy and capitalism. They might be a greater threat than the Soviets – whom I still think are raising a smoke screen and trying to conceal their true aggressive intentions – ever were.'

  'The Evil Empire,' Tess said. The Reagan administration was obsessed with that idea. Don't tell me this administration also believes that the Soviets-'

  To hell with the Soviets. For all I know, I'm wrong to think they're trying to deceive us. It could be that the heretics have taken charge over there and are responsible for the downfall of the Communist Party. What I'm talking about is-'

  With a mighty thrust, then a slight change of tone from the engines, Air Force Two stopped rising, settled, and maintained a level altitude.

  The seatbelt light was extinguished.

  From a microphone, a voice said, 'All passengers are free to move throughout the aircraft. In case of turbulence – of which you'll have ample warning – return to your seats and refasten your belts.'

  In an instant, the Secret Service agents, followed by the vice president's aides, exited hastily through the rear door to continue their duties.

  Gerrard leaned sideways. 'Tess, what I'm asking is, do you believe that the heretics are the people who want to kill you? Because of your friendship with one of them? Because they're afraid you've learned too much about them?'

  Tess fought to conceal her shock. She hadn't known what to expect when Gerrard brought Craig and her aboard Air Force Two. For certain, she'd never expected that Gerrard himself would raise the subject of the heretics. What the vice president had just told her about them – the extent of their conspiracy – was more than she already knew. Maybe she was wrong about him. Did it make sense for him to be so open, to reveal so much, if he was one of them?

  Or was he using candor to gain her confidence, to mute her suspicions?

  In a quandary, Tess decided that she couldn't pretend to be ignorant. She had to follow his lead. 'As near as I can figure, Alan, the answer is yes. But the truth is, although I stumbled across them, I hardly know anything about them.' She reached in her purse and showed him the photograph of the statue. 'This is the only evidence I have. I found the statue in my friend's bedroom, but later it was stolen. The reason I went to see Professor Harding was that I hoped he could tell me what it meant.'

  'And did he?'

  'His wife did. The man on the bull is a god named Mithras. The serpent, the dog, and the scorpion represent his evil counterpart. They're trying to stop the blood from reaching the ground, the wheat from growing, the bull from being fertile. That information – and the fact that the heretics survived a purge in the Middle Ages and then infiltrated various governments to stop the purge – is all I know.'

  Gerrard squinted. 'Then it's who you are, not what you know, that they believe threatens them. They're afraid you'll use your influence with your father's friends, including me, to expose them. The terrible irony is that their killings have been needless, that their desperate efforts are wasted since we already know a great deal more than you do about them. Your mother and Brian Hamilton didn't have to die. What a waste. I'm so sorry, Tess.'

  Tess's throat ached again from grief.

  At the same time, she retained' sufficient presence of mind to wonder why – if the inner circle of the government knew about the heretics – Eric Chatham had claimed to be ignorant about them?

  Surely the director of the FBI would have a major role in investigating them. Had Chatham been so suspicious of Father Baldwin's group that he'd decided to pretend he knew nothing about the heretics?

  As she considered the possibilities, uncertainty made her dizzy. What appeared to be sincerity might be deception, and apparent deception might very well be sincerity.

  Her consciousness felt clouded. Her sense of reality was threatened.

  Gerrard distracted her by clasping her hand. 'I promise you this. I'll use all my power to make them pay for what they did to your mother.'

  'Thank you, Alan. If only this nightmare would end.'

  'That's another promise. I'll do my best to see that it does end.'

  The cabin became still, except for the slight vibration caused by the engines.

  Gerrard glanced beyond Tess, his attention devoted to Craig. 'Lieutenant, my investigators tell me that you're fond of opera.'

  'True.' Craig frowned.

  'No need to be puzzled. My staff is thorough, as I explained.'

  'But what does opera have to do with…?'

  'If you'll reach in the seat pocket before you…"

  Craig searched and found a set of earphones.

  'Put them on,' Gerrard said. 'Insert their extension into the console beside you. Turn the dial to channel five. You'll hear what is the greatest opera of all – Verdi's Otello.'

  'Verdi's good, but I've always preferred Puccini.'

  'I wasn't told that. I'm sorry - on this flight, all the operas we have are by Verdi, Mozart, and Wagner.'

  'Verdi will do just fine.' Craig coughed. 'The thing is, while I listen…?'

  Tess and I will take other seats. We haven't seen each other in too many years. We have memories to share, private matters to discuss.'

  Craig straightened nervously.

  'Executive privilege,' Gerrard said. 'Enjoy the opera. Tess?' He stood.

  'It's late.' She stood as well. 'Madrid's a long way. You'll be exhausted if you don't get some sleep, Alan. And I'm already exhausted. No offense. I'll want to lean against Craig's shoulder soon and doze off.'

  'I'll be waiting,' Craig said.

  'We won't be long,' Gerrard said. 'It's just a little story I want to tell her.'

  'I hope it's as fascinating as the opera,' Craig said.

  'More so,' Gerrard said.

  'Well, she can't ask for better than that.' Craig put on his earphones.

  Knowing the tension that Craig fought not to reveal, Tess allowed Gerrard to guide her toward one of many empty seats in the rear of the cabin.

  'And now?'

  'Actually I have two stories,' Gerrard said. 'One's about vinegar. The other's about frogs.'

  'Vinegar? Frogs? You're confusing me, Alan.'

  'You'll understand when I finish.'

  SIX

  'To begin,' Gerrard said as they buckled their seatbelts, 'I'm told that since I last saw you, since you graduated from college, you've become an environmentalist, not just in your attitudes but as your profession. You're a staff writer for Earth Mother Magazine.'

  'That's right,' Tess said.

  'I confess I haven't read the magazine, but my investigators searched through several back issues. Th
ey tell me your articles are very informative, the writing quite accomplished. They particularly mentioned how impressed they were with an essay you'd written on the alarmingly rapid disappearance of wetlands and the rare species that inhabit them. What struck my investigators was that it wasn't a topic they would have expected to find interesting, but you made it so and indeed convinced them of how important those wetlands were. The photographs that accompanied the article – taken by you – were exceptional, they said, and made them realize how beautiful the rare insects, birds, and fish that inhabit those wetlands are, what a loss to the planet they'd be. To the world's ecology.'

  'Thank them for the compliment;' Tess said. 'Now if they'd just follow through and donate to organizations devoted to preserving those wetlands.'

  'As a matter of fact, they did.'

  Tess felt gratified. 'Please, thank them twice.'

  'I will. Now here's the point. Even though I haven't read Mother Earth Magazine, I'm an environmentalist as well. You may have read about the controversy I caused when I voted against the president to break the tie on the Senate's rigid clean-air bill.'

  'I did,' Tess said, 'and I have to say I was impressed. You did the right thing.'

  'The president has a different opinion. You wouldn't want to have been in the Oval Office when he chewed me out for being disloyal. What he doesn't know is that in matters about the environment I'll continue to be disloyal, even if it means he chooses someone else as a running mate in the next election. There comes a time when you have to take a stand, no matter the personal cost.'

  Tess felt her suspicions dwindling. Despite her fear, Gerrard had begun to win her respect. 'He'd be making a mistake if he dumped you.'

  'Write him a letter. Tell him so.' Gerrard chuckled. A few moments later, he sobered. 'Because you're an expert in these matters, maybe you know this story, but I'll tell it to you anyhow.'

  He was interrupted. A voice asked, 'Sir, would you care for a drink?'

  Gerrard glanced up. A flight attendant stood beside him. 'The usual. Orange juice.'