The Covenant Of The Flame

by David Morrell

  'Sounds good to me,' Tess said.

  As the flight attendant departed, Gerrard said, There's a man I beard about who lives in Iowa. A farmer. His name's Ben Gould. He's a member of the National Audubon Society. He's also an amateur climatologist. Near his barn, he's got a shed with a rain-gauge, barometer, wind indicator, and various other weather-analysis instruments. Two summers ago, after an extended period of drought that just about killed his corn and soybeans, his farm was blessed with several days of heavy rain. Or at least Gould thought his farm had been blessed. He put on rubber boots and slogged through mud to his weather shack. His rain gauge was almost full. He poured its contents into a sterile container, carried the container into his shack, and dumped the liquid into an instrument that analyses the chemical contents of water. This instrument was computerized. Red numbers glowed on a console. Two point five.'

  The flight attendant handed Tess and Gerrard glasses of orange juice along with napkins.

  They nodded their thanks.

  'Two point five,' Gerrard repeated. 'What those numbers represented was the pH of the rain, the level of acid. The rule is, the lower the number, the higher the acid. Pure rainwater registers at five point three. But two point five! Gould was shocked. He told himself that there had to be a mistake, so he doublechecked his readings, using rain from another gauge. But the instrument's console showed the same numbers. Two point five. That's the acidic level of vinegar. Gould suddenly realized why his crops looked stunted. Vinegar? That's what you put on a salad . Not on your crops. It could rain every week, and Gould's crops would still look stunted. In a panic, he examined his wind charts. Global warming and its erratic effects had caused the jet stream to veer unusually southward. Into New Mexico. Then across Iowa. New Mexico's copper smelters are notorious for spewing outrageous amounts of sulphur fumes into the atmosphere. Those sulphur fumes, as you know, produce acid rain. And acid rain, in never before such intense concentration, was poisoning Gould's land.'

  Pausing, Gerrard sipped his orange juice. 'Anyway, that's my story about vinegar. I wish I could say it had a climax, a happy ending, but the fact is, Gould's crops are still being poisoned, and there won't be a happy ending until we have legislation that forces those copper smelters and other heavy industries to clean up their act. Not just legislation in America, but worldwide. In Germany and Czechoslovakia, for example, there are thousands of square kilometers of woodland that have been totally destroyed and blackened by acid rain.'

  Tess nodded. 'I know about those sections of Germany and Czechoslovakia, but your story about Iowa is new to me.'

  'Then write an article on it. Maybe it'll do some good, get people thinking, motivated enough to write to their congressional representative, demanding controls.'

  'I will,' Tess said. 'Poisoned forests don't seem to bother people unless they see the devastation. But a personal story, like Gould's, might make the crisis vivid.'

  'And while you're at it, write the other story I'm about to tell you, the one about the frogs.' Gerrard drained his glass of orange juice and set it down. The main character in this one is a biologist named Ralph McQueen. His specialty is amphibians, and each year he likes to make a field trip into the Sierra Nevadas. A decade ago, he checked thirty-eight lakes and found them teeming with yellow-legged frogs. Last summer when he went back, he couldn't believe what he found or rather didn't find. The frogs had vanished from all but one of those lakes. In shock, he tried to discover why they'd vanished. His best guess was that some kind of deadly virus had wiped out almost the entire local population. But when he went to a herpetology convention in Brussels last fall, his shock became greater. It turns out that the Sierra Nevadas aren't the only area where frogs are disappearing. From colleagues, he learned that the same thing was happening all over the United States and indeed all over the world – in Costa Rica, Japan, Europe, Australia, Africa, Indonesia, Malaysia, South America, everywhere. The frogs are dying, and no one's quite sure why. Acid rain, pesticides, water pollution, air pollution, global warming, too many ultraviolet rays caused by the hole in the ozone layer. Maybe all of those. It's hard to say. But the interesting thing about frogs is that they don't have scales to protect them, and they breathe through their skin, which is very sensitive. That makes them extremely vulnerable to damaging changes in the environment. It used to be that coal miners took a caged canary into the shaft they were working on. If odorless poisonous gases built up, they'd know because the canary, so small, would die first. The miners would have a chance to run from the shaft.'

  Gerrard furrowed his brow. 'Possibly the frogs are canaries for the planet. Their massive extinction might be a warning that something's very wrong. What's more, their extinction could have disastrous effects on the world's ecology. The frogs eat huge amounts of insects. Without them, flies and mosquitoes – to name just a few – will breed out of control. At the same time, larger life forms such as birds and animals depend on the frogs for food. Without the frogs, those other life forms will die.

  'Frogs.' Gerrard shook his head. 'So seemingly trivial. So formerly common. So much a part of nature that we hardly noticed them. I suppose a lot of people could care less if they're dying, but what those people don't realize is that the frogs are an environmental cornerstone, and without them…' Gerrard's voice dropped, his tone despondent. 'Write it, Tess. An epitaph for the frogs, for the songs they no longer sing. A warning to everyone who still hasn't realized how endangered the world has become.'

  'I will. I promise.'

  Gerrard clasped her hand once more. 'I told you those stories not just because we share the same concerns or because the stories relate to your work. I had another motive, one that involves the heretics.'

  Startled by the mention of the word, Tess came to greater attention.

  'What I didn't indicate earlier,' Gerrard said, 'is that as much as we can determine, the heretics' conspiracy to terrorize corporations and infiltrate governments, to assassinate politicians and replace them with the heretics' own representatives, to blackmail other politicians in order to control their votes on environmental legislation, is due to the heretics' fear about the safety of the world. The photograph you showed me symbolizes their motive.' Gerrard gestured as if tracing an invisible image. 'A good god trying to fertilize the earth. An evil god trying to stop it. The heretics believe that the evil god has assumed control and is using every effort to destroy the planet.' Again Gerrard frowned. 'I'm sure you can understand the heretics' point of view. The evidence of the planet's destruction is all around us. Their intentions are the same as yours and mine, although their methods, of course, are repugnant. But a part of me, I confess, sympathizes. If a person gets frightened enough, if legitimate methods don't work, sometimes desperate measures are required. I don't approve, but I do identify with their desperation, the same desperation that forced me to vote against the president and for the Senate's clean-air bill. What I'm getting at is that good and evil aren't always as easily distinguishable as they might seem. If the heretics manage to save the planet, perhaps in the long run their methods are justified. I really don't know. I'm a politician, not an expert in ethics. But I'll tell you this. There are times when I hesitate, when I question how much force we should use to hunt them. If my children live to have grandchildren and those grandchildren breathe clean air, drink pure water, eat uncontaminated food, and flourish, maybe the heretics will have been right. I just don't know.'

  He studied Tess, waiting for her reaction.

  Tess took a while to answer, mustering, organizing her thoughts. 'I understand what you mean, Alan. Like you, a part of me identifies with the heretics or at least with their motives. Irresponsible corporations ought to be made accountable. Indifferent politicians ought to be removed from government. There's a global crisis, and it has to be faced, to be dealt with and solved. But murder, Alan? Extortion? Lives ruined? Families in grief? I've never supported capital punishment, although I did feel the urge to strangle the captain of the Pacific-Rim oil tanker
who allowed his alcoholism to impair his judgement and capsize his tanker so its cargo polluted the Great Barrier Reef. But I've never met that captain. I don't know him. I don't know his virtues and his strengths, so it's easy enough for me to hate him from a distance. This much I do know. My friend who was burned in New York – he didn't agree with extortion and murder. And Brian Hamilton never did anything to endanger the environment. And my mother, God bless her soul, was just a simple-minded, heartsick, pampered, pathetic socialite who never did anything to harm anyone. In spite of her failings, I loved her. Deeply. When the heretics murdered her – I can still see the blood flying out of her back – just so they could try to get at me, when they did that, they made this very personal. Capital punishment? No, I don't believe in it. But revenge, Alan? After what I've been through, after the horror of the past few days, I'd like nothing better than to hunt them down and pay them back. Didn't you promise me that earlier? To help me pay them back?'

  Gerrard nodded.

  'So what it comes down to, Alan, is that I don't care if the heretics share my commitment to save the world. They're bastards. They're evil – in fact more evil than the evil god they believe they're fighting. They're twisted sons of bitches, and I'll do everything I can to put them in hell, which is where they belong and less than what they deserve. Maybe this planet isn't worth protecting if good gets confused with murder, and my mother dies because of that.'

  Gerrard stared, then sighed. 'Of course. That's exactly what I anticipated you to say. By all means, I agree. I was just pointing out the moral complexities.' He glanced at his watch. 'It's late.' He stood. 'I'm pleased that we had this talk, but tomorrow, I have obligations to face. If you'll excuse me…'

  'Yes, we're both exhausted. But before you leave,' Tess said, 'your personal assistant mentioned something about tooth brushes, an overnight kit, a shower-tub, a place to… I'm afraid I have to pee.'

  Gerrard blushed. 'Our flight attendant will take care of everything you need.'

  'Thanks, Alan. And it is good to see you again.'

  'You're the most welcome guest I've had on Air Force Two.'

  Tess waited until Gerrard disappeared through the forward door into his private cabin. Then she spoke to the flight attendant, who escorted her toward a bathroom in the rear of the plane. Ten minutes later, she re-entered the central cabin, buckled her seatbelt, and nestled next to Craig.

  He was still awake. Removing his earphones from which Tess heard muted opera, Craig asked, 'How did it go?'

  'Confusing. Complicated. Disturbing. But I'm too tired to… I'll tell you later.' With her head against Craig's shoulder, Tess closed her eyes and quickly fell asleep, only to waken several times, shuddering from premonitions.

  SEVEN

  The flight to Spain took five hours, but with the added five hours in time-zone changes, it was just before eleven a.m. when the jet reached Madrid.

  Peering down at the airport, Tess was struck by how hazy the air looked. For a moment, she didn't understand why the smog should be worse here than in New York. Then she remembered that in Europe, most cars weren't equipped with emission controls, and that Spain, like the rest of the continent, still hadn't converted to the widespread use of unleaded gas. The dirtier leaded gas was fouling the sky. She instantly remembered something else – Gerrard's insistence last night on the need for international standards to protect the environment.

  As the massive 747 touched down with remarkable smoothness, he noticed the airport's terminal to her right, but Air Force Two did not approach it, instead proceeded to a remote section of the tarmac, and came to a stop, the shriek of its engines dying.

  Several cars rapidly flanked it, armed men scrambling out to position themselves with their backs to the jet, their assault rifles aimed outward to guard it. At the same time, a black limousine with a diplomatic flag mounted and fluttering on the side of its hood cruised toward a boarding platform that an airport crew rolled against one of the plane's forward hatches.

  The occupants of the central cabin burst into motion. Unbuckling their seatbelts, Secret Service agents hurried to enter the forward compartment while the vice president's aides speedily returned to their office in the rear.

  Tess and Craig crossed to the left of the plane. Curious, they peered out a window from which they saw a uniformed chauffeur open a back door on the limousine. Two distinguished-looking, gray-haired, diplomatically dressed men got out, shook hands with Gerrard's assistant, Hugh Kelly, exchanged remarks with him, braced their shoulders, and climbed the boarding steps to enter the vice president's quarters.

  'And now what?' Craig wondered. Earlier, after a breakfast of fresh fruit and then smoked salmon on a whole-wheat bagel that Tess had recommended, he'd brushed his teeth, washed his face, and shaved. Even so, although he'd slept a few hours, the long flight in combination with jet lag had wearied him. He glanced down at his rumpled clothes. 'Not exactly presentable. I hope we have a chance to buy something a little more formal so we don't look conspicuous, given the company we're keeping.'

  Tess squinted down at her own rumpled blouse and jeans, nodding in agreement. Mostly what she wished she had was a change of underclothes. 'I've got a suspicion that when you travel with the vice president, what you ask for, someone delivers.'

  She flinched, an unexpected noise making her turn toward the forward bulkhead. The door to the vice president's cabin swung open.

  Alan Gerrard appeared, wearing an immaculate gray suit, striped tie and white shirt. His black shoes had been polished to a gleam.

  'So,' Gerard said. 'I hope you slept well.' He rubbed his hands together with enthusiasm. 'Are we ready?'

  'To do what?' Tess asked.

  'To get on another plane.'

  Tess couldn't help feeling surprised. The funeral isn't here in Madrid? The president of Spain…' She frowned in confusion. 'I assumed he'd be buried with full state honors in the nation's capital.'

  'Well, you're right. The funeral will be in Madrid. But it isn't scheduled until two days from now,' Gerrard said. 'I have several important diplomats to see before then, but I told the Spanish government not to tell the press that I'd be arriving today. There's something I need to do before I begin my duties. In fact, one of the diplomats I need to see, a friend from my former trips here, isn't in town. There's a strong chance that Spain's Congress of Deputies will soon elect him as the country's new president. So we're going to board a smaller, less conspicuous plane, and visit his estate. Don't look so hesitant. His home is a showplace. His hospitality is lavish. You'll enjoy yourselves. Really. With my friend's guards as well as my Secret Service agents, you'll still be well protected.'

  It sounded reasonable, Tess tried to assure herself. But her heart cramped as if ice surrounded it. Bewildered, uneasy, she overcame her hesitation and followed Gerrard into his cabin. Craig put an arm around her while they waited for the vice president and the two diplomats 10 descend the stairs to the tarmac. Below, guards surrounded the group as the three men stood near the limousine and shook hands.

  Gerrard turned and motioned for Tess and Craig to come down. 'The plane's just over there.'

  At the bottom, Tess stared toward her right. She didn't know about planes, certainly not enough to be able to identify a model or its manufacturer. All she understood was that this one was smaller than she expected, streamlined, a two-engine, executive jet.

  'But isn't it dangerous for you to travel in something so…?'

  'Unprotected?' Gerrard said. 'You mean because it doesn't have special shielding and all kinds of sophisticated communication equipment?' He shook his head, his blue eyes twinkling with amusement. The one on the right looked less irritated. 'I'm sure you're aware of what the political columnists say about me. I'm so inconsequential. In their opinion, who'd want to kill me?'

  'But a terrorist might not care about what the columnists say. You are the vice president of the United States.'

  'Not to worry,' Gerrard said. 'I've made this side trip before. And
as far as security's concerned, only a very few trusted officials know that I arrived one day earlier than I was expected. I guarantee we're safe.'

  Unable to resist Gerrard's hand on her arm – especially in the crowded presence of the numerous stern-eyed guards – Tess allowed herself to be escorted toward the few steps that led upward through the open hatch into the plane.

  She felt assaulted by claustrophobia, seeing only a narrow aisle with a row of single seats on each side. Seized by alarm, she realized that with the pilot, the co-pilot, Gerrard, Hugh Kelly, Craig, and herself, there was room for only five Secret Service agents to join them. Her premonition increased as the security around her began to decrease.

  Inwardly she winced from the clunking sound the hatch made when the co-pilot shut and locked it.

  Again, as she had when she'd entered Air Force Two, she felt trapped. But more so. It took all her discipline to keep her fingers from trembling when she fastened her seatbelt.

  Opposite Gerrard, she snuck a nervous glance back to her right, toward Craig who sat behind Gerrard.

  Craig winked, and that made all the difference.

  Tess smiled in return and realized how much she'd become attracted to him. Whatever was going to happen, no matter the risk, regardless of the possible imminent danger, she and Craig were in this together, and what they felt for each other was great enough that they could survive and defeat any enemy. They had to.

  Please God, help us, she prayed. Please, help Father Baldwin. Did he manage to follow us to Madrid? Will he be able to receive the signals from the microphone and the homing device built into my shoes and follow us to wherever we're being taken?

  The pilot was given clearance for take-off. Two minutes later, the jet streaked through the smog toward the sky.

  Tess felt more helpless.

  Trying to seem relaxed, she made herself peer out the window. As the jet reached its cruising altitude, she saw a vast arid plain below her and occasional slopes that rose to low flat plateaus, the soil of which had the tint of copper.