The Covenant Of The Flame

ONE

Western Germany. South of Cologne. The Rhine.

Headlights glimmered through fog along a seldom traveled lane. Years earlier, between the Great Wars, it had often been used by fishermen who'd laid their bicycles behind bushes, removed tackle kits from baskets on the front of their bikes, assembled fishing rods, and followed well-worn paths down the thickly treed slope to favorite spots on the river. Children once had scampered along the bank. On warm summer days, mothers had spread blankets on sweet lush grass and opened picnic baskets, the aroma of sausage, cheese, and freshly baked bread drifting out. Bottles of wine had cooled in shallows.

But that had been long ago, and in western Germany, while at the same time in Washington Tess listened with horror to what Professor Harding's wife explained to her, this wasn't day, and even if it had been, no one came to fish here anymore. Few people came here for any reason and certainly not to picnic, for the stench from the river would have fouled the aroma of freshly baked bread, and the poison in the water had long since been absorbed into the soil, blighting the grass and trees, and the sludge that choked the current had long since killed the fish.

On this evening, however, the passengers in the car that jolted along the lane did think about picnics and fishing, although their thoughts were bitter, making the men frown with anger at glimpses of leafless trees and stunted bushes in the fog.

All except one passenger who frowned for another reason.

Indeed he trembled. 'You won't get away with this! My guests are expecting me! I'll be missed!'

'You're referring to the reception at your estate?' the driver asked, then shrugged. 'Well, your guests will just have to do without you, Herr Schmidt.'

'Yes,' another man said. Too bad. They'll simply have to wait.'

'And wait. And wait,' a third man said.

'What do you want from me?' the silver-haired, lean-faced, tuxedo-clad man demanded. 'Ransom? If that's what you want, what are we doing here! Let me use a phone! I'll arrange-! My assistant will deliver any amount you demand! No police!'

'Of course not, Herr Schmidt. I can guarantee,' the driver said. 'Later maybe, but not for now. There'll be no police.'

'What are you talking about?'

'Justice,' a man with a pistol said.

The pistol was wedged against the silver-haired man's neck.

'Examples,' another man said. 'Here.' From the back seat, he leaned forward, telling the driver, 'When I was a child, this was my favorite path. The river was so…! How I loved this place. Now look at it! Look at how ugly it's become! Here! Yes, stop right here.'

'Why not?' The driver shrugged again. 'It's as good a place as any.'

'For what?' Schmidt demanded, voice trembling.

'I already told you,' the man with the pistol said. 'Justice.'

The driver stopped among skeletal bushes at the side of the lane, dead branches snapping. He turned off the headlights and stepped from the car while his companions opened other doors and dragged Schmidt, struggling, into the fog-shrouded wasteland. The sleeve of his tuxedo tore on a barkless tree limb.

'Ah, too bad,' the man with the gun said. 'What a terrible shame.'

'Yes, a pity,' the driver said.

They reached a bluff and forced Schmidt down the sterile slope. At once, the sickening fumes from the river enveloped them, making them cough. In terror, Schmidt resisted so fiercely that the men were forced to drag him downward, his patent-leather shoes scraping over rocks. Where the zigzagging, barely detectable path became steep, one of the men used a shielded flashlight to guide their way.

At the oppressive grassless bottom, the light revealed the foam along the river's edge, the slime on the water, and the sludge that thickened the current. The area smelled like a cesspool, for sewage too fouled the water.

'What a damnable…! I used to be able to swim here!' the man with the gun said. 'And the fish… the fish tasted so pure and delicious. Their meat was so white, so flaky, at the same time solid. The way my mother dipped them in milk. She used to cover them with biscuit crumbs, and…'

'Fish?' Schmidt whimpered. 'What are you talking about? Fish? Why does that-? For God's sake, if your purpose was to scare me, you've succeeded! I admit it! I'm terrified!' His control collapsing, the silver-haired prisoner began to sob. 'How much do you want? Anything! Please! I swear on my mother's grave, I'll pay you anything!'

'Yes,' the driver said. 'That's right. Anything. You'll pay.'

'Name it! Just tell me how much! It's yours! Mein Gott, how much?'

'You still don't understand how much you must pay,' another man said. 'You did this.'

'Did? What did I…?'

'This.' With disgust, the fourth man gestured toward the noxious desecration of the river. 'You. Not alone! But you share the responsibility!'

'With?' Schmidt voided his bowels.

'With the other greedy industrialists who demanded profits, no matter the cost to nature. Billionaires who wouldn't miss the comparative few millions it would have taken to keep the river pure and the sky free of poison.'

'Millions?' Schmidt shook his head, frenzied. 'But my board of directors, my shareholders would have…!'

'Millions? Yes! But only at the start!' the man with the gun corrected. 'A one-time only expense! But that was years behind us! Now the cost would be greater! Much, much greater! And the river's so poisoned, so dead, that it might take decades before it's revived, if ever, if the dead can ever be brought back to life.'

Scowling, the man with the flashlight stepped closer. 'Pay attention, Herr Schmidt. We didn't choose this place merely because we used to love to come here when we were children. Not at all. We chose it because…' The grim man gestured. Even in the fog, the lights that silhouetted the numerous huge factories upriver were gloomily visible. Indeed the fog was not completely natural. Smoke containing toxic pollutants added to it. Nearby, a drainage pipe from one of the factories spewed nostril-flaring chemicals into the water. The foam accumulated.

'We chose this site because we wanted you to witness your crimes,' the driver said.

'Sins,' the man with the gun corrected.

'Sins?' Schmidt cowered. 'You're all lunatics! You're-!'

'And sins must be punished,' the man with the flashlight said. 'As you indicated, you're eager to pay.'

'And will pay,' the fourth man said.

Schmidt pressed his hands together. 'I'm begging you.' He sank to his knees. 'I promise. I swear. My engineers will redesign the waste system in my factories. The cost doesn't matter. I'll stop the chemicals from reaching the river. I'll speak to the other manufacturers in the area. I'll convince them to prevent the discharge from-'

'Too late,' the man with the gun said.

'-from pouring into the river.' Schmidt sobbed. 'I'll do anything if you'll just-'

'Too late,' the man with the gun repeated. 'An example has to be made.'

'Many examples,' the man with the flashlight said.

'Justice,' the driver said.

'I'm thirsty,' the fourth man said. 'The walk down that slope made my mouth dry.'

'Mine, too,' the man with the gun said.

'And Herr Schmidt, I imagine that your mouth feels especially dry. From fear. I believe you deserve a drink.'

The fourth man removed a plastic container from a knapsack on his shoulder. Repelled but determined, contracting his chest, visibly holding his breath, he stooped toward the noxious fumes that rose from the water's edge and scooped foam, slime, sludge, and sewage into the container.

Schmidt screamed. 'No! I can't drink from…! Don't make me swallow…! That stuff 'll kill…!'

The man with the flashlight nodded. 'Kill you? Indeed. As it killed the fish. As it killed the river. As it killed the trees and the bushes and the grass. As it's slowly killing the people in the cities who depend on the river for water, however much the cities try to purify that water.'

'Regrettably, an example has to be made,' the man with the gun said. 'Many examples. If it's any consolation, take heart. You won't be alone. I promise. Soon many of your fellow sinners will join you. Many lessons need to be taught. Until the ultimate lesson is finally learned. Before it's too late. That is, if it's not too late already.'

The man with the container of sludge pressed it against Schmidt's mouth.

Schmidt wailed, then clamped his lips tightly together, jerking his face away.

'Now, now,' the man with the container said. 'You must take your medicine.'

The other men held him firmly.

'Accept your fate,' the man with the flashlight said. 'Taste the product of your success.'

Schmidt struggled, desperate, yanking his arms, straining to escape the rigid hands of his captors.

'Destiny, mein Herr. We must all confront it.' The man with the container raised it again toward Schmidt's clamped jaws.

Again Schmidt jerked his face away.

'Well,' the man with the flashlight said, disappointed. 'That leaves us no choice.' With relentless strength, he tugged Schmidt downward. The other men helped him, using their knees along with their hands to force Schmidt onto his back, straining to keep their prisoner's thrashing face pointed toward the murky, fog-and-smoke-clogged sky.

The man with the container knelt and pressed a nerve behind Schmidt's ear.

Schmidt screamed reflexively.

At once, another man rammed a funnel into Schmidt's mouth, clamped it firmly between his lips, watched the container being raised toward the funnel, and nodded as foam, slime, sludge, and sewage were poured down Schmidt's throat.

'Perhaps, in one of your future lives, you'll be more responsible,' the man said. That is, if we're successful, if anyone has a chance for a future life.'

Later…

After the corpse was discovered and the autopsy was performed…

The medical examiner debated about the primary cause of death. In theory, Schmidt had drowned.

But the chemicals that filled his stomach and swelled his lungs were so toxic that, before he drowned, his vital organs might easily have failed from instant shock.

TWO

Craig, you were with me. You heard me talk about Joseph! You saw what was in his bedroom. If the killers followed both of us, to protect their secret, they might come after you!

Remembering Tess's warning when she'd phoned him at One Police Plaza, Craig squirmed against his seatbelt and directed his troubled eyes toward the smog beyond the window of the Trump Shuttle 727 about to land at Washington National Airport.

Come after me! he thought.

Until Tess had mentioned it, that possibility hadn't occurred to him. He recalled – and had meant – what he'd replied. Let the sons of bitches try. The truth was, he would welcome a confrontation. Anything to stop the madness. Anything to save-!

Keep running, Tess! he thought. Be clever! Don't take chances! Soon. I'll be there soon!

Prior to leaving One Police Plaza, he'd phoned the security personnel at LaGuardia's Trump Shuttle terminal to alert them that he was a police officer who'd be bringing credentials, that he'd be prepared to fill out all the forms and comply with all the complex procedures, including an interview with the pilot, that allowed him to carry his handgun aboard this plane. On the way to the airport, he and Tony had done their best to make sure they weren't being followed, although in the chaos of noon-hour traffic that was almost impossible.

Now, concealing his gesture from the passenger next to him, Craig kept his right hand beneath his suitcoat, his fingers clutched around the.38 caliber, Smith and Wesson revolver's handle. Not that it mattered. If there was trouble, it certainly wouldn't happen during the flight. Certainly not shooting. Too dangerous. The bullets would rupture the fuselage and depressurize the cabin, at the risk of causing the jet to crash. All the same, the feel of the weapon gave him confidence.

As casually as his nerves would allow, Craig glanced around. No passenger seemed to care about him.

Good, he thought. Just keep control. He strained to reassure himself. You've taken every precaution you could think of. You're in the flow now! You're committed! You've got to go with whatever happens!

Still, he hadn't noticed the gray-eyed man ten seats behind him, who appeared to nap, thus hiding the color of his eyes, and who, under various names, had bought a ticket for every Trump Shuttle flight from LaGuardia to Washington National Airport since the woman had disappeared last night.

Not that the gray-eyed man had intended to use all the tickets. Instead he'd waited, unobtrusively watching the terminal's entrance, in case the woman's detective-friend arrived. One of his counterparts had kept a similar watch at the Pan Am shuttle terminal.

About to give up hope, abruptly seeing his target get out of a police car, the gray-eyed man – pulse speeding – had strolled inside the terminal, passed through the security checkpoint, presented the ticket for his flight, and boarded the jet before the detective did. In that way, he followed the detective paradoxically from in front and almost surely prevented the target from suspecting he had company.

Yes, the woman had escaped last night. But thanks to the onboard phone, which the gray-eyed man had asked a flight attendant to bring to him, he'd been able, using guarded expressions, to alert additional members of his team that the detective was en route to Washington National Airport, presumably to rendezvous with the quarry.

The woman.

She was dangerous. She knew too much.

So – it had to be assumed – did the determined detective, who showed far too great an interest in the woman.

When the two came together, they would both be silenced, the photographs would be destroyed, and the covenant would at last again be protected.

THREE

'Evil,' Priscilla Harding said.

The stark word caught Tess's attention.

She, Priscilla, and Professor Harding had moved from the kitchen to a downstairs study in the Victorian house near Georgetown in Washington. Now that Priscilla's insulin had taken effect and her blood sugar was stabilized by the lunch she'd eaten, the elderly woman seemed ten years younger. Her eyes looked vital. She spoke with strength, although her cadence was slow and deliberate, as if by habit she used the lecture style she'd perfected during her many years as a professor.

But Tess didn't have time for a lecture. She needed to know about the statue right now. Hurry! She had to meet Craig .

Priscilla noticed her impatience and sighed. 'Stop looking at your watch. Sit down, Tess, and listen carefully. This isn't something I can condense, and if you're in as much trouble as you described, your life might very well depend on an absolute understanding of what I'm about to tell you.'

Tess hesitated. Suddenly tired, she obeyed, sinking toward a leather chair. 'I apologize. I know you're trying to help. I'll do my best to… If this is complicated, I'd better not… In fact, I don't dare try to rush you. Tell it your way.'

Nonetheless Tess felt her muscles ache from tension as she watched Priscilla take several thick books from a shelf and place them on a desk.

'"Evil",' Tess said. 'You mentioned "evil".'

Priscilla nodded. 'Evil is the central dilemma in Christian theology.'

'I'm afraid I… What does that have to do with…?'

'Think about it. How do you reconcile the existence of evil with the traditional concept of a benign, all-loving, Christian God?'

Tess frowned in rigid confusion. 'Really, I still don't understand.'

Priscilla raised an arthritis-swollen, wrinkled hand. 'Just listen. We know that evil exists. We encounter it every day. We hear about it on the radio. On TV. We read about it in the newspapers. Moral evil in the form of crime, cruelty, and corruption. Physical evil in the form of disease. Cancer. Muscular dystrophy. Multiple sclerosis.' Priscilla's voice dropped. 'Diabetes.'

She hesitated, then sat despondently behind the desk.

Brooding, Priscilla continued. 'Of course, some deny the existence of, even the concept of, evil. They claim that crime is merely the result of poverty, inadequate parental guidance, or lack of education, et cetera. They place both the causes and the blame on society, or in the case of someone so repugnant as a serial killer, they attribute the killer's violence to insanity. They also refuse to consider that diseases have theological implications. To them, cancer is a biological accident or the consequence of substances in the environment.'

'But they're not wrong,' Tess said. 'I work for a magazine that tries to protect the environment. Carcinogenic substances are all around us.'

'Absolutely,' Professor Harding said. 'The poisons are evident. My lilies struggle to blossom. They're not half as brilliant as they used to be.'

'Richard, if you wouldn't mind…' Priscilla tapped her gnarled fingers on the desk. I'm suddenly, terribly thirsty. I'd appreciate very much if you went to the kitchen and brewed us some tea.'

'Why, of course.' Professor Harding grasped his cane. 'Any special preference?'

'Whatever you choose, I'm sure will be fine.'

'In that case, I think Lemon Lift, dear.'

'Excellent.'

As Professor Harding hobbled from the study, Priscilla narrowed her wrinkle-rimmed eyes toward Tess. Alone, the two women faced each other.

'Carcinogenic substances and so-called biological accidents are exactly my point,' Priscilla said. 'Physical evil. Theological evil.'

Tess shook her head. 'But how can cancer have anything to do with theology?'

'Pay attention. According to Christianity, a generous loving God made the universe.'

That's right,' Tess said.

'So what kind of God would add crime and cancer to that universe? The existence of those evils makes the traditional Christian God seem not at all benign. In fact, it makes Him seem cruel. Perverse. Inconsistent. That's why the Devil was invented.'

Devil? Tess thought. What the…? This is getting…

'Lucifer,' Priscilla said. The topmost angel in heaven. The superstar of God's deputies. But the Light-Bearer, as he's sometimes called, wasn't satisfied with being a deputy. No, that powerful angel wanted even more power. He wanted God's power. He thought he could compete. But when he tried, God pushed him down, oh so far down, to the depths, to the newly created fires of hell. And God changed his name from Lucifer to Satan, and Satan in his fury vowed to corrupt God's perfect universe, to introduce evil into the world.'

'But that part of Christianity always seemed to me a myth,' Tess said.

'To you. However, the majority of Christians, especially fundamentalists, believe and base their lives on that conception. God and the fallen angel. Satan is a convenient explanation for the spreading evil around us.'

'You sound like the nun who gave me catechism lessons every Sunday after mass.'

'Do I?' Priscilla wrinkled her already wrinkled brow. 'Well, I'm about to teach you a different catechism. And it might undermine your faith. As well, I regret to say, it might terrify you.'

Tess straightened, her muscles cramping as she listened with greater tension.

'The trouble with using Satan as an explanation for the existence of evil,' Priscilla said, 'is that God can still be accused of perversity. Because God tolerates Satan's evil. Because He allows Satan to oppress us with crime and disease.'

Tess shook her head once again. The nun who taught me catechism used to say that God decided to condone Satan's evil rather than destroy him – in order to test us. If we overcome the temptation of evil and accept the hardship of disease, we can gain a higher place in heaven.'

'Now, Tess, really. Do you honestly believe that?'

'Well… Maybe not. But at least, it's what I was taught.'

'And this is what I was taught.' Priscilla's tone became bitter. 'Richard and I had a son. Jeremy. Our only child. When he was ten, he died – in excruciating pain – from bone cancer. Thirty years later, I still wake from nightmares of how much he suffered. That sweet, dear, perfect boy never harmed anyone. He didn't have the faintest idea of what sin was.' Priscilla's eyes misted. 'Nonetheless God allowed that vicious disease to torture my son. If Satan is responsible for evil, God is responsible for Satan and ultimately for what happened to Jeremy. I still blame God for what happened to my…' The mist in Priscilla's eyes faded, replaced by a hard determination. 'So I come back to the question I asked you earlier. How can a benign, all-loving God permit evil? The Christian attempt to provide an answer, by inventing a fallen angel, is not at all satisfactory.'

Priscilla scowled, then continued. 'However, there is another myth that provides a more logical explanation for the existence of evil. Thousands of years before Christ, our ancestors believed in two gods, a good one and a bad one, co-equal, both of them fighting for control of the universe. That version of Satan wasn't a fallen angel but rather a divinity. The virtuous god was independent from and hence couldn't be held responsible for the evil god and the viciousness that the evil god inflicted on us. The earliest evidence we have for this belief comes from the fourth millennium BC in ancient Iraq, specifically in the valley between the Tigris and Euphrates Rivers. That's where tradition tells us the Garden of Eden was supposed to have existed.'

'The serpent in the garden,' Tess said.

'Exactly. But that serpent wasn't a fallen angel. He was a symbol of an evil god in combat with a virtuous one.'

Tess couldn't help staring toward a clock on the wall. Craig. He'd be landing at Washington National Airport soon! He expected her to meet him!

'Don't look at the clock, Tess. Look at me. Keep paying attention.' Priscilla braced her shoulders with professorial sternness. The concept of opposite but equally powerful gods spread throughout the Mideast. By the time it showed up in ancient Iran, around one thousand BC, the virtuous god had a name. Mithras.'

Tess jerked straighter. 'Mithras? You mentioned him before.'

'Yes. The figure in the bas-relief sculpture,' Priscilla said. 'Now do you understand why I had to go into so much detail? The figure killing the bull is not a man. He's a god. Various later religions, Zoroastrianism and Manichaeism, also used the concept of equal, competing, good and evil gods. But essentially those gods are versions of Mithras and his evil counterpart. We're talking old, Tess. Very old. That's what I meant when I said that Mithras comes from the roots of history. He's the most ancient notion of a god we have any specific knowledge of, and it's only by chance that…'

Professor Harding interrupted, supporting himself with his cane while he wheeled in a cart upon which a teapot, cups, and a plate of biscuits were arranged.

'Thank you, Richard.'

'I'm pleased to help, dear.'

'It's only by chance that what?' Tess asked, impatient for Priscilla to continue.

'Milk, dear?' Professor Harding asked.

'Just a little.'

Tess became more impatient, barely able to restrain herself from telling Priscilla to hurry.

While Professor Harding poured the tea, Priscilla pensively opened one of the books she'd set on the desk, leafed through it, and found the page she wanted. 'Let me describe a religion to you. When you enter its church, you dip your hand in a holy-water basin and make the Sign of the Cross. On the altar, you see a representation of the physical form of your God. During the service, you receive a communion of bread and wine. You believe in baptism, confirmation, salvation through good works, and life after death. The physical form of your deity has his birthday on December twenty-fifth, and his rebirth occurs during the Easter season.'

Professor Harding wrapped each steaming teacup with a napkin and handed them to Priscilla and Tess. 'Catholicism,' he said.

'Yes, that would be the logical assumption, Richard. However, with apologies, you're wrong.' Priscilla kept staring at Tess. 'It's Mithraism.'

'What?' Tess set down the teacup and blinked in surprise. 'But how can there be so many parallels? You said that Mithraism came long before Christianity.'

'Think about it.' Priscilla lowered and peered over her glasses. 'I'm sure the answer will occur to you.'

'The only explanation I can… It doesn't seem possible. Christianity borrowed from Mithraism?'

'So it appears,' Priscilla said. 'For the first three centuries after Christ, while Christianity struggled to survive, Mithraism was a major force in the Roman Empire. Several Roman emperors not only endorsed it but were members. Mithras is sometimes called the sun god, and because of him, Sunday assumed sacred importance for the Romans and eventually for Western culture. Mithras is often pictured with a sun behind his head, and that sun became the halo around the heads of major figures in Christian art. The cross, by the way, is an ancient symbol that represents the sun. Thus believers in Mithras made the Sign of the Cross when they entered their church to worship the sun god.'

Priscilla turned the book and slid it toward Tess. 'Here's a photograph of an ancient bas-relief depicting a Mithraic communion service. Notice that the pieces of communion bread have a cross etched into them.'

'Before Christianity?' Tess felt off-balance. 'But this is… All my religious training, everything I took for granted about Catholicism… I feel like I'm sinking.'

'I warned you.' Priscilla raised her swollen fingers. 'I told you that what I had to say might undermine your faith. I tried to prepare you when I said it might be terrifying. In more ways than one. But I'll get to that.'

Professor Harding sipped from his teacup, sighed in appreciation of the taste, swallowed with pleasure, and interrupted. 'My dear…'

'Yes, Richard?'

'When I came in, you said it was only by chance that… What was only by chance?'

'That's what I want to know,' Tess said.

'I meant…' Priscilla narrowed her gaze. 'It was only by chance that Mithraism didn't assume the dominance in Western culture that Christianity now has. As I mentioned, in the first three centuries after Christ, several Roman emperors pledged themselves to Mithras. But all of that changed with Constantine. In the year three-twelve, just before Constantine was about to send his army against his major enemy in the famous battle at the Milvian Bridge, Constantine had what he later described as a vision.'

'Vision?'

'Perhaps it's another myth. Constantine peered toward the sky and claimed that he saw a cross of light imposed on the sun. He interpreted this as a message from God and ordered his soldiers to paint similar crosses on their shields. They entered and won the battle – under the Sign of the Cross. Considering that the cross is an ancient symbol for the sun and that Mithraism favored that symbol as a reference to its sun god, historians aren't clear why Constantine seemed arbitrarily to decide that this cross referred to the crucifix, the cross upon which Christ had died.' Priscilla settled back. 'In any event, Constantine converted to Christianity and eventually made it the primary Roman religion. Christians, who until then had been tolerated at best – when not spurned or thrown to the lions – were quick to take advantage of their sudden influence. Their urgent priority was to stamp out the sect that rivaled them. Mithraic chapels were sought out and destroyed. Mithraic priests were killed, their corpses chained to their altars… to so desecrate the Mithraic chapels that they'd never be used again. The balance of history tilted, and Mithraism abruptly declined. Persecuted as heretics, its few remaining followers went into hiding. In small groups, they performed their rites in secret. But no matter how stringently they were hunted, they managed to survive. In fact, to this day, Mithraism is practised in India.'

Priscilla sipped her tea, gaining strength. 'But in Europe, the last vestige of Mithraism was eradicated during the Middle Ages. In the thirteenth century, the concept of two opposing, equal gods – one good and one evil – surfaced again in a town in southwestern France called Albi. The Catholic Church referred to the name of the town and declared that this unexpected reappearance of Mithraism was the Albigensian Heresy. After all, there could only be one God. The papally authorized crusaders, thousands of them, converged on southwestern France and massacred anyone – multitudes!-whom they suspected of being a heretic. Eventually they forced the supposed disbelievers onto a mountain fortress. Montsegur. There, the crusaders waited until the heretics surrendered due to starvation and thirst. The crusaders then herded the heretics into a wooden stockade, set fire to it, and watched while the heretics burned. That was the last time, more than seven hundred years ago, that a version of Mithraism raised its head in the Western world.'

'But you don't look convinced,' Tess said.

'Well.' Priscilla debated. 'A rumor persists that the night before the massacre, a small group of determined heretics used ropes to descend from the mountain fortress, taking with them a mysterious treasure. I've sometimes wondered if pockets of the heretics might have survived, remaining in hiding to the present day. And the photograph of that sculpture makes me suspect I'm right. It's not as if you can walk into an art gallery that specializes in ancient artifacts and simply buy one of these objects off the shelf. If any were available, the price would be outrageous because, as I told you, most of the bas-relief statues were destroyed after Constantine converted to Christianity. The few that survived are museum pieces. The best two I know of are in the Louvre and in the British National Museum.'

'But you saw similar statues in Spain in nineteen seventy-three,' Tess said.

'Yes, weathered engravings in grottoes outside Merida. And a badly broken bas-relief in a small museum outside Pamplona. Then, to my great surprise, a few sculptures hidden in isolated caves in the area. That's what made me wonder if the heresy continued to survive. Surely the local villagers had explored those caves and knew about the statues. They'd been left there, hidden, for a reason, I thought, and I took care to leave them exactly where I'd found them, out of respect, not to mention fear. After all, I didn't want to anger the local villagers by stealing a sacred part of their tradition, and I did have the sense I was being watched as I left the caves.'

'You never told me that, dear,' Professor Harding said.

'Well, I haven't always told you everything, Richard. I didn't want to concern you. I've had many adventures on my determined solitary journeys, and if you'd known, you might have tried to stop me from going on other journeys. But that's a separate matter. My point is, Tess, your photograph doesn't show an ancient statue. It's a painstaking modern recreation. In marble. Someone went to a great deal of trouble and expense to have it made. The question is, Why?'

'And,' Tess insisted, 'what the hell does it mean? Why would the ancients have considered it religious? Why is Mithras slicing the throat of the bull?'

FOUR

Washington National Airport. Craig waited tensely for the jet to reach the docking platform. He unsnapped his seatbelt and lunged to his feet the instant the seatbelt-warning light was extinguished. In a rush, he squirmed past other passengers in the aisle, anxious to leave the plane.

Past the exit gate, he hurried through the crowded terminal, checking warily around him, apprehensive about anyone who might show an interest in him. Outside the terminal, he fidgeted, forced to stand in a line with other travelers wanting taxis. Finally it was Craig's turn. As an empty cab stopped at the curb, he scrambled into the back, telling the driver, 'The Marriott hotel in Crystal City.' Sweating, Craig glanced repeatedly at his watch.

The taxi arrived at the hotel slightly ahead of schedule, two-twenty-five, about when Craig had predicted to Tess that he'd reach the rendezvous site.

A uniformed doorman approached Craig while he paid the driver and the taxi pulled away. The doorman seemed puzzled that Craig had no luggage. 'Are you checking in, sir?'

'No. I'm expecting someone.'

The doorman frowned and stepped backward. 'Yes. Very good, sir.'

Craig nervously scanned the busy highway, watching for a black Porsche 911. The car wouldn't be hard to recognize. Anytime now, Tess would steer off the highway and stop before him. Craig would dart into the passenger seat. They'd speed away.

Sure. Anytime now.

Craig coughed from the smog and began to pace. He glanced at his watch.

Two-thirty.

Two thirty-five.

Two-forty.

She must be having problems with traffic.

Any minute now, I'll see her.

As solemn men with rings in their pockets watched from a replica of a UPS truck in a parking lot across the street…

As gray-eyed men stared with vicious resolve from the window of a restaurant farther along the street…

Craig's muscles hardened.

Two forty-five.

He breathed heavily.

Tess!

For God's sake, what happened? Where the hell are you?

FIVE

'You said you saw the sculpture in a bedroom of a friend?' Priscilla asked.

Tess hesitated, again unsure how much to reveal for fear that the Hardings would be in danger if the people hunting her found out that she'd come here. 'Yes, the statue was on a bookshelf.'

'From the rigid expression on your face, it's obvious something else troubles you.'

Tess made her decision. Urgency compelled her. She had to know. 'The bedroom…'

'What about it?'

'… looked strange.'

Priscilla leaned suddenly forward. 'How?'

'There weren't any lamps. The overhead bulb didn't work. The floor was covered with candles. And next to the statue, on each side, there were other candles.'

'Candles? Of course. And one pointed upward, the other downward?' Priscilla asked at once.

Tess jerked her head back in surprise. 'Yes. How did you know?'

'The photograph of the sculpture. The torch bearers flanking Mithras. One torch is raised, the other inverted. Tess, I very much suspect that what you saw was a makeshift version of a Mithraic altar. What else haven't you told me?'

With a shiver, Tess relented completely, prepared to tell Priscilla everything. Rapidly she explained, from the start, a week ago Wednesday – could it have been only that recently?-the first time she'd met Joseph. The gold Cross pen she'd dropped in the elevator.

Joseph had studied the pen and murmured its name almost with reverence.

Gold Cross.

Tess now knew what those words had meant to Joseph.

The symbol for the sun god.

SIX

Near Washington National Airport, the smog became thicker. In the replica of the UPS truck that stood in a parking lot across from the Marriott hotel, a man with a ring in his pocket spoke to a phone equipped with a scrambler to prevent anyone from overhearing his conversation. 'No, he just keeps pacing in front of the hotel. Every thirty seconds, he checks his watch. It's obvious he's waiting for someone. This has to be the rendezvous site. Anytime now, the woman ought to arrive.'

A voice on the other end of the line said, 'But you're sure he doesn't know you followed him from the airport?'

'As certain as I can be,' the man in the truck said. The moment the target left the plane and got into a taxi, one of my operatives used a portable phone to warn me. We were parked at the exit from the airport. When we saw the cab that the bait had hired, we pulled out ahead of him. He went directly to the hotel. We parked across the street.'

'And the enemy? the voice on the other end demanded. 'Have you seen any evidence of the vermin?'

'Not yet. But we have to assume that they followed the detective just as we did. If the woman's as great a danger to them as we suspect they fear, he's the only way for them to locate her.'

'Keep watching! Keep searching for them!'

'We're trying. I've got another team patrolling the highway. But this area's extremely congested. Unless you get up close to the vermin and happen to notice the color of their eyes… We won't know for certain until the enemy makes its move. Wait a…! Hold it!'

'What?' the voice on the other end said fiercely.

'Something's happening! In front of the hotel. I don't understand! The bait just-!'

SEVEN

Craig kept pacing. With greater tension, he suddenly noticed movement to his right and spun, apprehensive, his hand beneath his suitcoat, grasping his revolver. He relaxed only slightly when he saw that the movement was the hotel's thin-lipped doorman walking toward him, frowning harder.

Don't tell me he's going to insist I check in or stop loitering outside the hotel! Craig quickly removed his hand from his weapon and reached toward a pocket inside his suitcoat, ready to pull out his police ID, anything to appease the doorman.

But what the doorman said was so unexpected that Craig restrained his gesture, paralyzed with bewilderment.

'Is your name Craig, sir?'

Craig felt a chill. 'Yes. But how did you know that?

'Sir, the clerk at the check-in desk just received a phone call. From a woman who, to say the least, is upset. She demanded that someone hurry outside and see if a man was waiting. She said if the man's name was Craig, she had to talk to him at once.'

Tess, Craig thought. It had to be! What had happened? What was wrong?

'The phone!' Craig said. 'Where is it? Is she still on the line?' He hurried toward the hotel's entrance.

'Yes, sir,' the doorman said, following briskly, troubled. 'She insisted that we not hang up.'

Craig pushed open the hotel's front door, lunging in. His eyes struggled to adjust to the shadows after the smoggy sunlight. The check-in desk was directly across from him. Hurrying toward it, Craig fumbled into one of his trouser pockets, pulled out a ten-dollar bill, and handed it toward the doorman.

Thank you, sir. I appreciate your-'

'Don't go far. I might need your help. I've got more money.' Craig reached the desk. 'My name is Craig. There's a call for-'

'Definitely.' A clerk straightened, picking up a phone, extending it across the counter.

'Tess?' Craig's hand cramped around the phone as he pressed it against his ear. 'Where are you? What happened!'

'Thank God, you waited,' she said.

Craig exhaled at the sound of her voice.

'I was worried,' she said, 'that you might have-'

'Left? No way! I promised I'd wait! Answer my question. What happened?'

'Don't worry. I'm safe. At least, as safe as I can be until you get here.'

'Where?

'Craig, I think I've found out what's been happening, and it makes me even more terrified. I don't have time to explain, and this isn't something we can talk about on the phone. Write down this address.'

Distraught, Craig glanced toward the counter, grabbed a pen and a pad, and frantically printed the information she gave him.

'It's important,' Tess said. 'Get here as fast as you can.'

'Count on it.' Craig tore off the sheet of paper, shoved the phone toward the clerk, and blurted, Thank you.'

In distress, he spun toward the doorman, thrusting twenty dollars at him. 'Get me a taxi. Now.'

EIGHT

In the parking lot across the street from the hotel, the solemn man with a ring in his pocket straightened behind the steering wheel in the replica of the UPS truck.

Again he spoke into the cellular phone. The bait! I see him! The detective! He's outside the hotel again! He's getting into a taxi!'

On the other end of the phone, the chameleon responded with equal intensity. 'Follow him! Alert the other unit! Remain in contact! A team of enforcers is en route from LaGuardia!'

The man behind the steering wheel felt his stomach cramp as he set down the phone.

Enforcers?

He hadn't been told that this mission was considered so desperate. He had the unnerving sense that events were out of control, that brutal forces were converging, that a terrible, ultimate battle was about to begin.

Obeying instructions, he used a two-way radio to alert his other team, then twisted the ignition key, heard the engine rumble, and glanced toward the rear of the truck. There, five men waited, their expressions strained, ignoring him, rechecking their handguns.

The driver, breathing rapidly, stomped the accelerator and sped from the parking lot in pursuit of the taxi.

NINE

In the Marriott's lobby, a well-built, tanned, expensively dressed man in his thirties stepped through the entrance and approached the check-in desk, carrying a briefcase.

'Excuse me.' His manner was deferential toward the clerk, his voice smooth but sounding concerned. 'I wonder if you could help me – I had an appointment to meet a man here, but traffic delayed me – Unfortunately, I don't see him anywhere. He must have become impatient and left. I wonder if… Is it possible? Did he leave a message. His name was Craig.'

'As a matter of fact, sir, a man by that name was here, and indeed he was waiting for someone,' the clerk said. 'A minute ago, he received a phone call and left.'

The well-built man looked disappointed. 'My boss… to put it mildly… won't be happy. My promotion's at stake. I had important contracts for Mr Craig to sign. I don't suppose you know where he went.'

'I regret to say no, sir. Mr Craig wrote directions on that pad and tore off the sheet of paper. But he didn't mention where he was going.'

'On that pad, you say?'

'That's correct, sir.'

The well-built man studied the indentations that Craig's strong printing had made on the page beneath the one he'd torn off. 'Did you happen to overhear the name of the person he spoke to?'

'A woman. Her name was Tess, sir.'

'Of course. Well, I thank you for your trouble,' the man said, giving the clerk twenty dollars.

'That's really not necessary, sir.'

'Ah, but it is.' The well-built man tore off the next sheet on the pad, feeling the indentations of Craig's printing. 'If you don't mind.'

'Not at all, sir.'

'Very good.'

As the well-built man walked briskly from the lobby, the clerk glanced with satisfaction at the twenty-dollar bill and thought with interest that in all his years of greeting guests, it was seldom that he'd met anyone who had gray eyes.

TEN

In a rush, Tess reentered the study. 'Thanks for letting me use the phone.'

'No need to thank us,' Professor Harding said. 'The main thing is, did you manage to contact the man you were supposed to meet?'

Tess nodded forcefully. 'He'll be here as quickly as he can. I'll feel a lot better when he does. In the meantime…' She spun toward Priscilla. 'The statue. You were about to explain what it meant. Keep talking. Why is Mithras slicing the neck of the bull?'

Priscilla shoved her glasses higher onto her nose and studied the photograph. 'I can understand why you're mystified. Like most depictions of rites sacred to various religions, this object appears incomprehensible. Imagine an aborigine who's spent all his life on a small Pacific island, totally isolated, with no experience of Western customs. Imagine if he were brought to America and taken to a Catholic church. Then imagine his reaction when he saw what hung behind the altar. The statue of Christ on the cross, hands and feet pierced by nails, head crowned with thorns, side slit open, would be an absolute, horrifying mystery.'

'Wait,' Tess said. 'After everything we've discussed, you're telling me you don't know what the statue means?'

'On the contrary, I do know what it means,' Priscilla said. 'What I'm getting at is that without a knowledge of the traditions and symbols of an unfamiliar religion, you can't appreciate why a particular image is important to that religion. But the moment the symbols are given meaning, the image becomes perfectly clear. To me, this statue is as easy to interpret as an image of Christ's crucifixion. Lean closer toward the photograph. Examine the details I point out. I suspect that soon you'll realize how simple they are to interpret.'

'Simple?' Tess shook her head. 'I really have trouble believing that.'

'Just try to be patient.' Priscilla placed her right index finger on the photograph. 'Why don't we start with the bull?

'Notice that the marble of the statue is white. The bull is white,' Priscilla said. 'After his death, he'll become the moon. Logically, you might expect that the bull would become the sun, given that Mithras is the sun god. But there's a deeper logic. The moon is a version of the sun at night. It illuminates the darkness, and in this case, it represents the god of light in conflict with the opposite god, the evil god, the god of darkness.'

'Okay,' Tess said, 'I see that logic. But what I don't is… Why does the bull have to die?'

'Did you ever read Joseph Campbell? The Masks of God: Primitive Mythology?'

'In college.'

'Then you ought to know that in almost every religion there's a sacrificial victim. Sometimes the god is the victim. In Christianity, for example, Jesus dies to redeem the world. But often the victim is a substitute for the god. Among the Aztecs and Mayans, they frequently chose a maiden, who gave up her life as a surrogate for, a sacrifice to, the god. The most common method was to cut out her heart.'

Tess winced.

Priscilla continued, 'In the case of Mithras, the bull dies not only to become the moon but to give life to the earth. The ritual execution probably happened during the vernal equinox… the arrival of spring… to regenerate the world. It's a traditionally sanctified time of the year. Most Christians don't know it, but that's the reason Easter is so important in their religion. When Christ leaves the tomb just as the earth comes back to life. And Mithras, too, came back to life in the spring.'

Tess struggled to concentrate, her forehead aching with intense frustration.

'Regeneration,' Priscilla said. 'Out of death comes life. That's why Mithras slices the throat of the bull. There has to be blood. A great deal of blood. The blood cascades toward the ground. It nourishes the soil. You can see grain sprouting from the ground near the bull's front knee. Many ancient religions required blood – sometimes human, sometimes animal – to be sprinkled on the fields before the crops were planted.'

'But that's repulsive.'

'Not if you believed. It's no more repulsive than the implications of communion in the Catholic Church, swallowing bread and wine that symbolize the body and blood of Christ to regenerate your soul.'

'Okay,' Tess said. 'Point granted, although I never thought about it that way before. But what about the dog in the statue? Why is the dog lunging toward the blood? And why is the serpent-?'

With a tingle that swept from her feet to her head, Tess abruptly realized. Dear Lord, Priscilla had been right. Everything was suddenly, vividly clear. The dog and the serpent!'

'What about them? Can you tell me?' Priscilla's eyes gleamed.

'They represent evil! The dog is trying to stop the blood from reaching the ground and fertilizing the soil! The serpent wants to destroy the wheat! And the scorpion's evil, too! It's attacking the bull's testicles, the source of the bull's virility!'

'Excellent. I'm proud of you, Tess. Keep going. Can you tell me about the torch bearers?'

The flame pointing upward signifies Mithras. The flame pointing downward represents his evil competition.'

'You must have been a brilliant student.'

'Not according to your husband,' Tess said.

Professor Harding set down his teacup. 'What I said was, you weren't my best student. But you were bright enough and certainly enthusiastic.'

'Right now, "enthusiastic" doesn't describe what I'm feeling. I'm grieving for my mother. I'm desperate. I'm scared. The raven, Priscilla. Tell me about the raven.'

'Yes.' Priscilla sighed. The raven. On the left, from above the upraised torch, on the side of good, he watches the sacrifice. You have to understand. Mithraism had seven stages of membership, from beginners to priests. And the first stage was called "the raven". As it happens, the raven was also the sacred bird in their religion. It was a messenger sent from heaven, ordered to witness the ritual sacrifice, to observe the renewal of the world, the death of the bull, the blood cascading toward the earth, the return of spring, the fertilization of the soil.'

'Now I understand too well.' Tess quivered. 'It's what I've devoted my life to. Mithras wants to save the planet, and his evil counterpart wants to destroy it.'

ELEVEN

Lima, Peru.

Charles Gordon, a short, frail importer-exporter, slumped behind his desk. Although his office window overlooked the impressive Rimac River, he ignored the dismal view and did his best to concentrate on a catalogue of the various American products that he'd tried, with little success, to sell to local merchants. His gaudy bow tie and ill-fitting suit had attracted smirks from the local population when he'd rented this office a month ago, but his clothes were now an accepted, tired joke that made him in effect invisible.

Bored, his only consolation was that Lima was only seven miles from the Pacific. This close to the sea, the temperature was moderate, the drab city far enough from the towering mountains to the east that the air was breathable. No high-altitude wheezing for him. In that respect, this assignment wasn't bad. Except that the operative who called himself Charles Gordon got tired of the charade involved in pretending to conduct a profit-earning business.

He had a business, all right.

But it wasn't import-export.

No, his business was death, and profit, in the normal sense of the word, had never been his motive.

As the brochure in his hands drooped, the trilling bell on his fax machine made him jerk upright. He quickly stood, crossed toward a table on his left, and watched a page unroll from the fax machine.

The message was from the Philadelphia office of his American supplier, notifying him that a shipment of laptop computers would soon be arriving. The message gave the quantity, the price, and the date of shipment.

Well, finally, Charles Gordon thought.

It didn't trouble him that so sensitive a message had been sent via his easily accessed telephone line. After all, his American supplier was, to all appearance, a legitimate corporation, and the laptop computers would arrive as promised. Even if someone suspected that the message was in code, no one could decipher its true meaning – because the code had been chosen arbitrarily. Kenneth Madden, the CIA's Deputy Director of Covert Operations, had explained it to Gordon the evening before the operative had flown to Peru.

The date of the shipment had nothing to do with the date of the mission. The quantity and the price of the laptop computers were irrelevant. What the message referred to was President Garth's imminent trip to Peru for a drug-control conference. The president's intention was to attempt to convince the Peruvian government to pay subsidies to farmers who switched to less lucrative crops than the easy-to-grow coca plants that local drug lords, among the world's major suppliers, needed to make cocaine.

But the president would never reach the conference.

TWELVE

Tess hesitated. In the study in the Victorian mansion near Georgetown, a memory nagged at her subconsciousness. In a flash, it surfaced. 'But what about the treasure?'

Priscilla frowned, puzzled by Tess's abrupt change of topic.

'Before I used the phone, you mentioned a mysterious treasure,' Tess said. 'In southwestern France, in the thirteenth century.'

'Ah.' Priscilla nodded. 'Yes. When the Catholic crusaders killed tens of thousands of heretics to eradicate a new version of Mithraism."

'You called it Albigensianism,' Tess said. The last stronghold of the heretics was a mountain fortress.'

'Montsegur.' Priscilla squinted.

'And you said that the night before the final massacre' – Tess trembled – 'a small group of heretics used ropes to descend from the mountain, taking with them a mysterious treasure.'

'A rumor. A persistent legend, although as I mentioned, it could have some basis in fact. Since Mithraism survives in India, it might have survived in Europe as well. A small group conducting its rites in secret. To avoid the Inquisition.'

'If so' - Tess raised her voice in frustration – 'what would the treasure have been?'

Priscilla shrugged. 'The obvious answer is wealth of some sort. Gold. Precious gems. Indeed, as recently as the Second World War, the Nazis believed that such a treasure existed and was hidden in the area near Montsegur. Hitler sent an archaeologist, a team of engineers, and an SS unit to search for it in the numerous caves in the region. Evidence of their excavations can still be found. However, the treasure was not. At least, no one ever indicated that a treasure had been discovered, and surely, given something so dramatic, word would have spread. Then, too, another theory is that the treasure was the Holy Grail, the chalice from Christ's Last Supper. And still another theory claims that the treasure was a person, that Christ – contrary to tradition – married and had a son, a descendant of whom was the leader of the Albigensians. Those latter theories were made popular in a book called Holy Blood, Holy Grail. But those latter theories are nonsense, of course. Because the Albigensians had only a superficial resemblance to Catholics. They descended from a tradition much older than Christianity, one that happened to use rituals similar to those of Christianity, but that in fact was based on the theology – opposing good and evil gods – of Mithraism. The heretics would have had no respect for the so-called Holy Grail, and they wouldn't have cared if Christ had a son who established a bloodline. No,' Priscilla said, 'whatever the treasure, assuming it even existed, it more than likely was the obvious: wealth.'

Tess breathed with excitement, although her excitement was tinged with fear. 'I disagree.'

Priscilla adjusted her glasses, confused. 'Oh?'

'I think there was a treasure. Not wealth. At least not in the ordinary sense, although it definitely was mysterious.'

Professor Harding leaned forward, propping his hands on his cane. 'I confess you've made me curious. What are you suggesting?'

Tess rubbed her forehead. 'If the heretics feared that their religion was about to be destroyed, if a small group managed to escape' – she darted her eyes toward Priscilla, then Professor Harding – 'what's the one thing those heretics would have considered so important that they wouldn't have dared to leave without it?'

Professor Harding frowned. 'I still don't follow.'

Priscilla's eyes, however, gleamed with fascination.

'The treasure without which the heretics had no meaning,' Tess said. 'Something so valuable that they couldn't allow it to be destroyed and, equally important, desecrated. Something mysterious in the deepest sense of the word. Something so…'

'Sacred,' Priscilla blurted. 'Absolutely.'

'You understand?'

'Yes!' Priscilla gestured emphatically toward the photograph. 'The image of Mithras that stood on their altar! When Constantine converted to Christianity, the Christians destroyed the Mithraic chapels. For all the heretics at Montsegur knew, the scuplture they possessed might have been the only one in existence. If they left it behind, when the crusaders found it…'

Tess anticipated, The crusaders would have smashed it to pieces. The heretics had to protect the statue in order to protect their religion.' In imitation of Priscilla's earlier gesture, Tess jabbed a finger at the photograph. That statue. There's no weathering on its marble. No cracks. It's in perfect condition. A pristine replication of an ancient model. To borrow your words, someone went to a great deal of trouble and expense to reproduce that statue. Why? It makes no sense unless… I think I know the answer. It terrifies me. God, I think that statue's a copy of the one from Montsegur, but I don't think it's the only copy, and I don't think…' Tess stared at Priscilla. 'We've been talking around this possibility all afternoon, so why don't I say it outright? My friend believed in Mithraism. There are others who believe as he did. They're the ones who killed my mother, who killed Brian Hamilton, and who tried to kill me. To stop anyone from knowing about their existence.'

'Fire,' Priscilla interrupted.

'What about it? Tess struggled to control her shaking.

'You said your friend was killed with fire.'

'And then his apartment was set on fire, and my mother's house was set on fire, and Brian Hamilton died in flames in a freeway accident. Why is fire so-?'

'It purifies. It symbolizes divine energy. Out of the ashes comes life. Rebirth. Fire was sacred to Mithraism. The sun god. When the torch is held upward, it signifies good.'

'But how can all of this killing be good?'

Priscilla suddenly looked aged again. 'I'm afraid there are two things I haven't told you about Mithraism.'

Apprehensive, Tess waited, trembling.

'First,' Priscilla said, 'followers of Mithras, particularly those in the Albigensian sect, the ones at Montsegur, believed in reincarnation. To them, death was not an ultimate end but merely a beginning of another life, until finally – after many lives – their being was perfected and they went to heaven. In that respect, they believed in the theories of Plato.'

Tess remembered that The Collected Dialogues of Plato was one of the books in Joseph's bedroom. 'Keep going.'

'The point is,' Priscilla said, 'a follower of Mithras was able to kill without guilt because he believed that he wasn't ending someone's life but merely transforming it.'

Tess was appalled. 'You said there were two things. What's the…?'

'Second, followers of Mithras were used to killing. They were trained to kill. Don't forget the statue. The knife. The blood. Roman soldiers converted en masse. Mithraism was a warrior cult. By definition. In their souls, they believed that they were engaged in a cosmic struggle of good against evil.'

'The bastards,' Tess said. 'To defeat what they thought was evil, they'd do anything!'

'I'm afraid that's true.'

'They'd kill anyone, including my mother!' Tess raged. 'The sons of…! When I get the chance – and I'm sure I will because I'm sure they'll come for me again – they'll learn the hard way about the difference between good and evil!'

THIRTEEN

As the taxi rounded a corner and proceeded along a street of well-maintained, century-old houses near Georgetown, Craig stiffened in the back seat, seeing a black Porsche 911 parked ahead at the curb. Abruptly he leaned forward, pointing urgently. 'There,' he told the driver. 'Where that sportscar…'

'Yeah.' The driver scanned the numbers on houses. 'That's the address you want, all right.'

Craig glanced behind him, checking yet again to make sure he hadn't been followed. There wasn't much traffic. A few cars passed through an intersection back there. A UPS truck turned at the corner but headed in the opposite direction from where the taxi had gone. Halfway down the other block, the truck stopped. A uniformed driver got out, carrying a box toward a house.

Craig had seen several UPS trucks on his way here. They were as commonplace as Federal Express and post office trucks. He had no way to tell if that particular truck had been tailing him. Indeed, contrary to popular misconception, Craig knew that unless you had a team using various cars to help you, or unless your opponent was clumsy, it was almost impossible to spot motorized surveillance, especially if your enemy also had a team and alternated vehicles.

Well, Craig thought with growing unease as the taxi stopped behind the Porsche, I've done what I could. I can't keep cruising around the city. I've got to make a choice. I've got to commit. Tess is waiting for me. She needs my help.

Nervous, Craig paid the driver and left the taxi. While it drove away, he studied the Victorian house, saw colorful, high-stalked flowers along the sides, and wondered what on earth Tess was doing here. In a rush, he approached the front steps.

FOURTEEN

'Sorry. Wrong address,' the solemn man with a ring in his pocket told the woman whose doorbell he'd just pressed. 'My mistake. This package belongs down the block.'

The woman had curlers in her hair and looked annoyed that she'd been interrupted. Inside the house, a TV gameshow host announced outstanding prizes, his audience applauding.

'Really. My apologies,' the man said. He wore the brown uniform of a UPS delivery man. When he turned to carry the package back to his truck, he heard the woman slam the door behind him.

At the truck, he climbed behind the steering wheel and turned to the five men in back. They had their handguns ready and ignored him, their concentration focused toward the rear window and the taxi pulling away from the Porsche parked in front of a house in the middle of the next block. The tall, rugged detective stood on the sidewalk for a moment, then disappeared past trees and bushes, approaching the house.

'Well, this might be another false rendezvous, but it's my guess that the bait led us to the quarry,' the solemn man said and closed his door. 'Now all we have to do is wait for the vermin.'

'Assuming they followed him as well. But we didn't see any sign of them,' one of the men in the back said.

'Just as we were careful and hope that they didn't see any sign of us,' the man in front said. 'We know, however, that their only chance to find the woman is to follow the detective.'

In back, someone murmured, 'I'll feel more confident when our other unit shows up.'

The man in front nodded. 'And even more confident when the enforcers arrive. I called our man at the airport. He'll instruct them where we've gone.'

Another man in back asked, 'How long will they take to-?'

Their plane lands in half an hour,' the man in front said. 'Figure another twenty minutes after that. We've got a car waiting to bring the enforcers.'

'In which case, we just have to hope that the vermin don't make their move before… Wait a moment. I see a car.'

The gunmen stared out the rear window.

'It isn't our other unit,' one of them breathed.

The man in front concentrated. Through the rear window, he saw a blue Toyota round the corner, approaching. A thirtyish man drove, an attractive woman beside him.

'Do you think it might be-?'

They probably live in the neighborhood. But if they are the vermin, they've made a mistake.' The man in front drew his pistol. 'Six against two. They're outnumbered.'

The car passed the truck's back window, no longer in sight. As the solemn man turned toward his sideview mirror to watch the car continue forward, he flinched.

The woman hurled a canister through his open window.

The canister hissed.

The car kept driving down the street.

'No!' the solemn man screamed.

At once he shuddered and slumped. Invisible nerve gas filled the truck. The men behind him scrambled to open the back door.

Too late. As the gas touched their skin, they convulsed, voided their bowels, vomited, and lay still.

FIFTEEN

'But what about the photograph of the books?' Tess demanded. 'Do their titles mean anything to-?'

Priscilla removed a magnifying glass from a drawer in the desk and held it over the photograph. 'Eleanor of Aquitaine… The Art of Courtly Love…'

'The one in Spanish means The Dove's Neck Ring,' Tess said.

'I know. It's another treatise on courtly love. Eleventh century as I recall.'

Tess blinked in surprise. 'You can't imagine the trouble I went through to learn that, and you just…'

'Hey, it's my specialty, remember.' Priscilla's wrinkled lips formed a modest smile. 'These titles are all related. It's just like with the sculpture. Once you understand the background, everything's clear. Eleanor was the Queen of France during the century before the fall of Montsegur. Aquitaine, where Eleanor came from, was in southwestern France. She established – and her daughter, Marie de France, continued to maintain – a royal court in that region.'

Tess nodded, having learned that much when she'd read the introduction to The Dove's Neck Ring the previous night at her mother's home, just before the fire had…!

With a shudder, grieving, she forced herself not to interrupt.

'Southwestern France,' Priscilla emphasized. 'Where Mithraism resurfaced, in the form of the Albigensian heresy, shortly after Eleanor's death. Eleanor encouraged the notion of courtly love, a strict set of rules that idealized the relationship between men and women. Physical union wasn't permitted until after a stringent code of overly polite behavior was obeyed. The Albigensians adapted courtly love for their own purposes. To them, after all, the good that Mithras fought for was spiritual. The evil of the opposing god was physical, belonging to the world and the flesh. For example, Albigensians were vegetarians, allowing only the purest of foods to enter their bodies.'

'My friend was a vegetarian.' Tess felt startled.

'Of course. And I imagine he didn't drink alcohol.'

'Right,' Tess said.

'And he exercised rigorously.'

'Yes!'

'He needed to deny and control his flesh,' Priscilla said. 'It's what I'd expect from someone who believed in Mithras. But the Albigensians also believed that sex was impure, that carnal desires were one of the ways that the evil god tempted them. So they abstained, except for rare occasions, allowing intercourse only for the exclusive purpose of conceiving children. A necessary grudging surrender to the flesh. Otherwise their community would have dwindled and died. With that rare exception, in the place of sexual relations, they substituted highly formal, immensely polite social relations that they borrowed from the concept of courtly love.'

'My friend insisted that we could never be lovers, never have sex,' Tess said. 'He claimed he had certain obligations he had to follow. The most we could ever have was what he called a platonic relationship.'

'Of course.' Priscilla shrugged. 'Plato. Another of the books on the shelf in this photograph. According to Plato, the physical world is insubstantial. A higher level should be our goal. You see how it all comes together?'

'But what about…?'

The doorbell rang. Tess had become so absorbed by the conversation that the sudden disturbance made her flinch. At once she realized.

It must be -

Priscilla jerked up her head, anticipating. 'I imagine that's your other friend. The one you phoned from here a while ago. The man who expected you to meet him near the airport.'

Tess stared toward the exit from the study. 'God, I hope. Priscilla… Professor Harding… I have to explain. My friend's a…'

'No need to explain,' Professor Harding said. 'Any friend of yours is welcome here.'

'But you have to understand! He's not just a friend. He's-'

Again the doorbell rang.

'-a policeman. A detective from New York's Missing Persons.' Tess reached inside her canvas purse. 'But maybe I'm wrong. Maybe it's someone else! What if it's-?' She withdrew the handgun from the purse.

Priscilla and Professor Harding blanched at the sight of it.

Grasping the trigger, Tess ordered, 'Hide in that closet. Don't make a sound. If it's them and they kill me, if they come in here and take the photographs, they might be satisfied! They might not search the house! They might not find-!'

The doorbell rang a third time.

'I shouldn't have come here! I hope I haven't-!' Tess couldn't wait any longer. 'Pray!'

She lunged from the study, assumed the stance her father had taught her, aimed her handgun down the hallway toward the front door, and said a silent prayer of thanks when she saw Craig's tense, confused face through the window in the door.

As he pressed the bell yet again, Tess hurried along the hallway, yanked the door open, and tugged him inside, thrusting her arms around him. 'I've never been so glad to see anyone in my life.'

With her left hand, she slammed the door shut behind them, leaned past him to lock it, and hugged him even harder.

'Ouch!' Craig said. 'I hope that pistol isn't cocked! You're pressing its handle against my back!'

'Oh.' Tess lowered the pistol. I'm sorry! I didn't mean to-'

Wary, Craig glanced at the pistol. 'Good, it isn't cocked. Where did you get that? Do you know how to use it?'

'Yes. A very long story. Craig, I've learned so much! I've got so much to tell you!'

'And I want to hear it, believe me.' Craig hugged her in return. 'I've been so damned worried about you. I-'

Tess felt Craig's reassuring arms around her. She felt her breasts against his chest, her nipples unexpectedly tingling. The warmth surging through her was equally unexpected. Responding to an irresistible impulse, she kissed him. In the midst of fear, the pleasure she received from Craig's embrace was like…

She'd been meant to be in his arms…

Craig's lips against hers…

Hers against his…

From the moment they'd met.

For now.

For always.

Abruptly Tess felt suffocated. Pushing away, sliding her hands from Craig's back, around his broad shoulders, toward his firm chest, she peered upward, straining to catch her breath. She studied his strong-boned, hard-edged features, which suddenly struck her as being handsome, and told herself, Screw love at first sight. Second sight is better. It gives you a chance to think, to get your Priorities straight. Passion is fine. But devotion and understanding are better.

This man – whatever mistakes he made in his marriage – never mind what happened before I met him – is decent and kind. He cares for me. He's willing to risk his life to help me.

He doesn't just love me. He likes me.

Someone discreetly cleared a throat behind them.

Turning, Tess saw Priscilla and Professor Harding standing selfconsciously in the hallway near the door from the study.

'I'm sorry for interrupting,' Professor Harding said, 'but…'

'No need to feel sorry.' Tess smiled. 'And we don't have to worry.'

'I gathered that,' Priscilla said, her wrinkled eyes crinkling with amusement, 'from the way you greeted him.'

Tess blushed. This is my friend. Lieutenant Craig. His first name's… You know,' she told Craig, 'you never mentioned it to me. But on your answering machine, I heard…'

'It's Bill.' Craig walked down the hallway, extending his hand. 'Bill Craig. If you're friends of Tess…'

'Oh, definitely,' Tess said.

'Then I'm very pleased to meet you.' Craig shook hands with them.

'Mr and Mrs Harding,' Tess said. They're both professors.'

'Please, Tess, I told you no formalities.' Priscilla gave her first name to Craig. 'And this is Richard, my husband. And don't you dare refer to either of us as professor.'

Craig chuckled. 'I can already see that we're going to get along.' His expression sobered. 'But Priscilla… Richard… we have things to discuss. Important things. And time's against us. So why don't you bring me up to speed? What are you doing here, Tess? What's going on?'

Priscilla gestured. 'Come into the study.'

'And perhaps you'd like some tea,' Professor Harding said.

'Richard, for heaven's sake, the lieutenant came here to help Tess, not to be offered tea.'

'Actually I could use a cup,' Craig said. 'My mouth's dry from being on the plane.'

They entered the study.

For the next fifteen minutes, while Craig politely sipped tea, he listened impatiently to what Tess… and then Priscilla… and on occasion, Richard… told him.

When they finished, Craig set down his teacup. 'If I told this to my captain, he'd think you were, to put it politely, letting your imaginations get carried away. But never mind, I believe – because I saw the statue. And Joseph Martin's dead. And Tess, your mother's dead.' He shook his head in commiseration. 'And Brian Hamilton's dead. And you're in danger. All because of-'

'Something that happened more than seven hundred years ago,' Priscilla said.

'What else haven't you talked about?' Craig asked.

'The titles of the books on the shelf in Joseph Martin's bedroom,' Priscilla said. 'Before you rang the doorbell, I was about to explain that The Consolation of Philosophy, a sixth-century treatise written by an imprisoned Roman nobleman, describes the Wheel of Fortune.'

Craig shook his head, confused.

'An image for the ups and downs of success and failure. The book analyses and condemns the physical values – wealth, power, and fame – by which people addicted to worldly success are tempted and ultimately disappointed. Because physical values are temporary and insubstantial. It's exactly the type of book that someone who believed in the spiritual values of Mithras would find appealing.'

'Okay.' Craig frowned. 'But why did Joseph Martin keep a copy of the Bible? That doesn't fit. From what you've told me, Mithraism doesn't believe in Christianity.'

True,' Priscilla said. Their theologies are different, but both religions share similar rites, and both reject worldly goals. For Joseph to read the Bible would be comparable to a Christian reading about Zen Buddhism, for example, because its mystical basis was different from but could be applied to his own religion.'

'Anyway, Joseph didn't read the entire Bible,' Tess said. 'He ripped out most of the pages, except for the editor's introduction and the sections written by John. I don't understand. Why the preference for John?'

Priscilla raised her shoulders. 'Because John's sections in the Bible most closely approximate the teachings of Mithraism. Here.' She held her magnifying glass over a photograph that showed a page and a passage that Joseph Martin had underlined in one of John's Epistles. 'Love not the world. If any man love the world, the Father is not in him. For all that is in the world – the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eyes, and the pride of the world – is not of the Father but is of the world. And the world passeth away, and the lust of it, but he that doeth the will of God abideth forever. Does that sound familiar?'

Tess nodded soberly. Take away the reference to the Father, substitute Mithras, and it matches everything you've told me.'

'But there's something I don't understand,' Craig said. 'Why the Scofield edition of the Bible? Is that significant?'

'Oh, very much,' Priscilla said. 'When Ronald Reagan was president, most of America's foreign policy was based on Scofield's interpretation of the Bible.' She studied another photograph. 'Here's an underlined section from Scofield's introduction. The Bible documents the beginning of human history and its end.' Priscilla glanced up. The climax of the Bible, John's Book of Revelations, describes the end of the world. Ronald Reagan believed that the end – the Apocalypse – was about to occur, that a cosmic battle between good and evil, God and Satan, was about to take place. Remember all that business about the Soviets being the Evil Empire? Reagan also believed that in the cosmic battle, goodness would triumph. I suspect that's why he encouraged confrontation with the Soviets, to begin Armageddon, with the total confidence that the United States – in his opinion, the only good – would triumph.'

'Madness,' Craig said.

'But also very much like Mithraism, provided you think of Satan as an evil god and not a fallen angel,' Priscilla said. 'In that respect, it's not at all surprising that Joseph Martin kept an abbreviated version of this Bible near his bedside.'

'Keep going,' Craig said. The other books I saw on Joseph Martin's shelf. The Millennium. The Last Days of the Planet Earth:

Priscilla set down the magnifying glass. 'Obviously, Joseph Martin was obsessed by the impending year two thousand. Each millennium is a traditional time of crisis, every thousand years a time of fear, an apprehension that the world will disintegrate.'

'And this time,' Professor Harding said, 'given the poisons that wither my lilies, the prediction might not be wrong. The Last Days of the Planet Earth! I thank the Lord I'll be dead before that happens.'

'Richard, if you die before me, I'll never forgive you,' Priscilla said.

Craig, despite his distress, couldn't help smiling. 'I wish my former marriage had been as good as yours.'

'We survive,' Priscilla said.

'Yes,' Craig said. 'Survival.' He put his hand on Tess's shoulder.

Electricity jumped, making her tingle.

Craig stood. 'I'd better phone the Alexandria police chief. He and I will get you to a safe house, Tess. Richard and Priscilla, you'll be out of this. In no danger.'

'I hope,' Tess said.

'The nearest phone is in the kitchen.' Professor Harding pointed. 'To the left. Down the hallway.'

With fondness, Tess watched Craig start to leave.

But at once Craig hesitated and swung back, frowning. 'There's one thing I still don't understand. Nothing you've said explains it. I'm really bugged by… Tess, if Joseph Martin believed in Mithras, and if the people trying to kill you believe in Mithras, why did they kill him?'

The study became silent. No one was able to answer.

Craig frowned harder. 'I mean, it just doesn't make sense. Why did they turn against one of their own?' Shaking his head in confusion, he continued from the study.

Yes, Tess thought. Why did they hunt Joseph down and set fire to him? Troubled by the question, she watched Craig enter the hallway.

SIXTEEN

And abruptly she frowned even harder than Craig had.

Because Craig didn't pivot to the left toward the phone in the kitchen, as he'd been told.

Instead he paused, glanced sharply to the right, and dove to the floor, at the same time drawing his revolver.

No! Tess thought.

With a cringe, she heard two muffled spits, then the ear-stunning roar of Craig's revolver. Once! Twice!

Priscilla screamed.

Craig surged from the floor, scrambling down the corridor to his right.

Despite the ringing in her ears, Tess heard a man groaning. Paralysis seized her. Biting her lip, she forced herself into action, grabbed her pistol, and lunged toward the hallway. The stench of cordite assaulted her nostrils. Spinning, using the doorjamb for cover, aiming to the right, she saw two men sprawled on the floor in the hallway. Craig kicked pistols from their hands, leapt over their bodies, and slammed the front door shut, locking it, crouching below the door's window.

But I shut and locked that door after Craig arrived! Tess thought. How did-?

One of the men kept groaning. With a sudden gagging sound, he trembled and no longer moved. A pool of blood widened on the hardwood floor around both men. Stunned, Tess gaped at the crimson stain on each man's chest, where Craig's bullets had struck them.

Adrenaline scalded her stomach. Even so, Tess felt cold. She stared past the corpses toward their pistols, more appalled, noting that the weapons were equipped with silencers.

'Get down!' Craig ordered, checking to make sure that the men were dead.

Tess hurriedly obeyed. 'How did they-?'

'Picked the lock!' Craig said. They must have listened outside the study window! They knew where we were! They decided to take the chance that we wouldn't hear them sneak inside!' Staying low, he risked furtive glances through the door's window, tensely darting his gaze this way and that, scanning the porch. 'I don't see any other-'

The back door!' Tess said. In a rush, she turned, charging down the hallway toward the kitchen.

'Be careful!' Craig warned.

She barely heard him, too preoccupied by an urgent fear.

The hallway became a blur.

But the moment Tess entered the kitchen, she saw with appalling clarity.

Outside, on the back porch, a man smashed his gloved fist through the kitchen door's window.

Tess heard shards of glass fall, crashing into smaller pieces on the floor. At the same instant, the man thrust his hand through the jagged hole in the window, groping for the lock.

Tess raised her pistol and fired.

The man's right eye exploded.

Tess didn't have time to react to the horror.

Too much! Because behind the falling man, another man raised a pistol with a silencer.

Tess was far beyond conscious decisions. Automatically, she pulled the trigger again. Her ears rang as she shot the man in the forehead. In a spray of blood, the man arched up, then down, disappearing, his no longer visible body thumping heavily on the back porch.

'Tess!' Craig yelled from the front of the house. 'Are you-?'

'All right! Yes! I'm all right!' Tess ducked behind the kitchen table, aiming toward the back door. 'God help me, I just shot two men!'

'Don't think about it! Remember, they want to shoot you!'

'Hey, I'm too scared to think! All I want to do is stay alive!'

'Keep telling yourself that! Where did you learn to shoot?'

'My father taught me!'

'Good man!'

'He's dead!'

'I know!' Craig yelled. 'Six years ago in Beirut! The bastards tortured him, but he never talked! I repeat, a damned good man! Be as strong as he was! Grab the phone! Dial nine-one-one!'

Tess scuttled backward, aiming her pistol toward the back door. She yanked the kitchen phone off the hook beside the refrigerator and urgently pressed numbers, listening.

No!

'Craig, the phone's dead!'

Priscilla screamed again.

'Stay low, Priscilla! Don't go near the windows!' Craig yelled.

'My husband!'

'What about him?'

'I think he's having a heart attack!'

'Get him down on the floor! Open his collar!' Tess shouted.

Another assassin appeared at the kitchen window.

Tess aimed and shot. The bullet plowed up his nostrils. His face erupted.

'Oh, my God!'

Tess bent over, vomiting.

'Tess!' Craig roared.

She fought to speak. 'I'm all right! Keep watching the front!'

Priscilla screamed again. 'Richard isn't breathing!'

'Tess!' Craig ordered. 'Get back to the hallway! Watch the front and rear while I-'

'Yes! Take care of Richard!'

Tess retreated, hunkering midway along the corridor, jerking her eyes toward each door, pistol clenched, while she felt Craig lunge Past and into the study. Still sick, wiping vomit from her lips, she heard Craig press Richard's chest and breathe forcefully into his mouth, again, then again, administering CPR.

'I can feel his heart beat!' Craig said. 'He's breathing!'

'He needs oxygen! A doctor!' Tess kept staring back and forth toward each door.

'Priscilla, your face is gray! Lie down here beside your husband! Tess, any sign of-?'

'No! Maybe we got them all!'

'We don't dare count on that! Priscilla, is there another entrance to the house?'

Priscilla murmured, 'Through the basement.'

'Where's the inside basement door?'

'The kitchen.' Priscilla sounded weaker.

'Tess!' Craig ordered.

But Tess was already on her way, darting toward the kitchen. Behind her, she heard Craig enter the hallway, watching the front.

As she reached the kitchen, Tess heard something else, however, and the sound made her spine freeze. Footsteps beyond a door to her right. She whirled to face it, saw the doorknob turning, and fired at the door. Wood splintered. She fired again and heard a moan, a body tumbling down the stairs.

She didn't know how many others might be in the basement. If there were several and they rushed through the door in a group, she might not be able to shoot all of them before one of them shot her.

The basement door was next to the stove. With strength that came from years of daily workouts, her energy intensified by fear, she shoved against the side of the stove and propped it against the basement door.

'The neighbors, Craig! They must have heard the shots! They'll call the police! All we have to do is wait and hope the police can get here before-'

Craig didn't answer.

'What's wrong?'

'You don't want to know!' Craig said.

'Tell me!'

'These big old Victorian houses were built so solidly… The walls are so thick… From outside, the shots might be too muffled for anyone to hear from another house! Besides, we can't take for granted that the neighbors are even home! And the hedge on each side conceals the gunmen!'

Tess felt sick again. 'You're right, I wish I didn't know!' She kept her weapon aimed toward the back door.

In contrast with last night, this time she'd counted how many times she'd pulled the trigger. Five. That left twelve rounds in her pistol. If the gunmen rushed the house, she might have enough to kill them all.

But how many more could there be? Six were already dead. Surely just a few, if any, were left. All the same, she desperately wished that she'd thought to dump extra rounds into her purse, that she hadn't shoved the two boxes of ammunition under the front seat of the Porsche.

'Craig, you shot twice! Your revolver holds six! Have you got any other-?'

Yet again Craig didn't answer.

Oh, Jesus, Tess thought. He's got only four rounds left, and my bullets don't fit his revolver.

'I picked up the two pistols from the men on the floor at the front. I still don't see any other men. Maybe you're right! Maybe we got them all!' Craig said.

'Last night, they burned my mother's house, hoping the fire would get me! And if it didn't, they planned to shoot me when I hurried outside!' Tess said. 'This time, why didn't they-?'

'Late afternoon, the smoke would be so obvious that a neighbor or a passing driver would call the fire department! Besides, since you got away from them last night, I think this time they want to make sure they finish the job, face-to-face, no doubts! And they want to make sure they get the photographs!'

'I mailed your office the negatives!'

'Good! Priscilla, how's Richard?'

Tess heard her murmur. 'His eyes are open. He's breathing. But…' Priscilla whimpered.

'What?'

'He can't… Richard can't seem to talk.'

Tess cringed. A stroke? No! Please, not…! I shouldn't have come here! I shouldn't have put them in danger! 'Priscilla, I'm sorry! I-'

'You didn't do this. The men who want to kill you did.'

'Still no sign of them in front!' Craig said.

'Nothing back here!' Tess crouched behind the kitchen table.

'I'm soon going to need my insulin,' Priscilla said.

'I'll get it for you!' Tess kept low, watching the back door while she inched toward the refrigerator. 'Craig, what if-? Suppose we didn't get them all!' When she opened the refrigerator, with a quick glance she saw a row of loaded syringes and grabbed one. 'Suppose a few of them are still outside!' She closed the refrigerator. 'Suppose they're afraid that a neighbor did hear the shots! They can't wait around! But they'll want to make sure I'm-!' She backed nervously toward the corridor, her left hand cradling the syringe. They might get desperate enough to try what they did last-!'

SEVENTEEN

'Night,' she began to say but flinched as an object smashed through the big kitchen window, glass flying.

The object was metal.

A canister.

It banged on the floor.

A grenade?

A gas bomb?

Tess had no way of knowing.

All she did know was that the thing was rolling toward her. She couldn't get away in time! She had to-!

She dropped the syringe, barely hearing it shatter as she lunged toward the kitchen table and heaved it over so its top landed on the canister.

At the same time, her heart pounding, the canister blasted apart, flames whooshing sideways from beneath the table top.

A fire bomb.

'Craig!'

He didn't respond.

'Craig!'

In the front of the hallway, glass fractured.

'Craig!'

'They're-!'

Something exploded. Flames reflected down the corridor.

'Priscilla, a fire extinguisher!' Craig yelled. 'Have you got a-?'

'In the pantry.' Priscilla's voice shook. 'Next to the refrigerator.'

'I'm getting it!' Tess scrambled past the fridge and yanked open a door.

Next to shelves of boxes and cans, the fire extinguisher was mounted to a clamp on a wall. She rammed her pistol under her belt, grabbed the fire extinguisher with one hand, released the clamp with the other, then pulled out the pin that secured the extinguisher's lever, and spun toward the flames gushing from beneath and eating through the overturned table.

Desperate, she aimed the extinguisher's nozzle, pressed the lever down, and spewed a thick white spray toward the blaze.

Foam gushed over the table, over the flames.

Coughing from smoke, Tess inwardly shouted in triumph as the flames diminished.

But another canister crashed through the window. As it landed, before it erupted, Tess tried to smother it with a dense pile of foam.

Whump! The canister blew apart, chunks of metal bursting through the foam. Tess kept aiming the nozzle, spraying the flames, which struggled, dying.

Tess!' Craig yelled from the front. 'I need that extinguisher!'

Trembling, she glared at the kitchen window, saw no one, and darted into the hallway, stunned, unable to see the front door because of the spreading blaze. In a frenzy, she pressed the extinguisher's lever again, spraying foam toward the flames.

Craig didn't try to take the extinguisher from her, realizing she had control. 'Someone has to check the back!' he blurted. 'I'll trade places!' He was gone.

Tess kept spraying.

The flames diminished.

Then the foam diminished.

Abruptly it stopped.

We've got to get out of here! Tess thought. Throwing down the empty extinguisher, she ran toward the study.

On the floor, Professor Harding blinked with a look of helplessness. Beside him, Priscilla quivered, her face gray, terrified.

Tess tried not to show her own fear. 'Can you walk, Priscilla? Can you reach the hallway?'

'Do I have a choice?'

Their next target might be this study, Tess kept thinking. If they throw a fire bomb through the study's window…!

She scooped up the photographs, crammed them into her purse, slung the purse across her shoulder, and bent toward Professor Harding.

He lay on a carpet. Grabbing its end, she tugged both it and the limp weight of Professor Harding across the floor into the hallway, joining Priscilla, who sagged against a wall.

At the front of the hallway, the flames spread, their roar increasing.

Crash! A canister hurtled through the study window. Fire gushed over the desk, the chairs, the floor.

'Let's go, Priscilla!' Tess gripped the carpet, dragging Professor Harding toward the kitchen.

Another canister must have landed there. To the left of the refrigerator, the room was ablaze.

Craig wheezed, enveloped with smoke, his revolver aimed toward the kitchen door. They'll be waiting for us!' He fought to breathe.

'The paths in the garden!' Tess said. 'If we can get there, the flowers are tall enough to hide us!'

'But what about Priscilla and Richard? How are we going to-?'

Tess whirled toward Priscilla, realizing that the aged woman wasn't strong enough to drag her husband to safety. The flames became more powerful. Tess winced from the heat. 'Craig, you'll have to go ahead!'

'But I can't leave you!'

'We'll die if we stay here! There isn't another-! Go! I'll be right behind you! Reach the garden, then cover me!'

Craig hesitated.

The flames roared toward them, singeing.

'Open the door!' Tess said.

Craig stared, then nodded. With fierce resolve, he jerked the door open and raced outside.

For a fraction of an instant, Tess's mind played a trick. The afternoon changed to night. This house became her mother's house.

It was happening again! They'll kill us the same as they killed my-!

No! I've got to-!

Tess clutched the carpet, rushing backward from the kitchen, dragging Professor Harding through the door into the haze-choked sunlight. Priscilla did her best to hurry and follow.

Tess heard a shot. Ignoring it, she tugged Professor Harding across the back porch, bump, bump, down the steps, feeling the jolts to his body, wincing in sympathy.

Another shot. Tess released the carpet and spun, her pistol drawn, searching for a target.

Craig had reached the paths in the garden. He crouched behind a section of scarlet lilies, hardly visible, shooting toward the left of the house.

But behind Craig, rising from a path beyond a farther section of lilies, a gunman appeared, aiming toward Craig.

Tess fired. The gunman jerked.

Tess fired again. The gunman toppled backward, arms splayed, crashing among the flowers, lily-stalks snapping.

'Priscilla, lie down! Hug the grass!' Tess ordered.

At once she whirled, saw a target at the right corner of the house, shot, missed! Shot again. And blood flew from his throat.

Sweating, breathing hard, Tess hunkered, pivoting to the left, then again to the right, searching for other targets.

Apart from the crackle of the blaze in the house, the back yard became eerily silent.

'Hurry, Priscilla! Follow me!'

Again Tess tugged at the carpet, at Professor Harding, hurrying backward toward Craig, toward the paths among the flowers.

She feared that any second a bullet would blow her head apart. Breathing harsher, deeper, she reached a path, kept tugging, yanked Professor Harding behind a section of flowers, and gasped when she saw that Priscilla was only halfway across the lawn.

A man appeared at the right of the house.

Tess aimed.

The man ducked behind the corner.

'Craig!' Tess yelled.

'I see him!'

'Cover me!'

Tess bolted forward, reached Priscilla, picked her up, grasping her shoulders, the back of her knees, and ran, bent over, collapsing behind the flowers, their fragrance in contrast with the stench of her fear.

Immediately she knelt, risked exposing her face, and aimed toward the left side of the house.

The lilies gave no protection from bullets, she knew.

But at least they obscured her from a killer's aim.

Sweat rolled off her brow. Her eyes stung. Her chest heaved.

She hurriedly squinted behind her in case another gunman was hidden among the flowers.

The man at the side of the house. Where the hell had he gone?

'Craig! Do you see him?'

'No!' Craig kept aiming.

Tess noticed that he'd dropped his revolver, which he must have emptied, and now held one of the pistols that he'd picked up inside the house.

Behind her, flowers whispered.

Again Tess whirled, squinting, her weapon ready.

Not quickly enough.

A man's arm thrust from the lilies, the rest of him hidden. His powerful thumb pressed a nerve at the back of her neck.

Agony!

Paralysis!

Wanting to scream, unable to, helpless, Tess watched her gun fall. Equally helpless, she felt the man squirm soundlessly from the flowers and press his weight over her onto the path. His thumb kept pressing the nerve on her neck.

With his other hand, he raised a silenced pistol and aimed toward Craig in the next row among the flowers.

Tess tried again to scream.

Impossible.

'Lieutenant!' The man dove as Craig whirled and fired.

'Lieutenant!' the man repeated. 'I'm going to show my head! I'm going to use your friend as a shield! If you're foolish enough to think that you can kill me, if you aim at me, I'll kill her.'

'Then I'll kill you!' Craig said.

'But your friend is more important. Pay attention, Lieutenant. Think.'

The only noise was the crackle of flames from the house.

'Lieutenant,' the man commanded, his grip still paralyzing Tess, his weight still upon her. 'You're about to see the head of your friend.'

Furious, Tess felt the man twist his grip on her neck and force her to raise her head while he kept his own head behind hers.

Craig made a tentative motion with his pistol.

'Lieutenant, don't do it,' the man said, calmly aiming his weapon. 'You're compromised. You can't possibly hit me. I don't intend to kill either of you. I assure you I'm a friend. But if you persist and attack me, I'll do what's necessary. Listen to reason. My team just saved your life.'

'What are you talking about?'

'We shot the remaining attackers. There isn't time to explain. I need your help.'

In the distance, sirens wailed.

'The authorities are on their way,' the man said, maintaining his calm, although his tone was paradoxically emphatic. 'We have to get out of here. I could have killed you. I didn't. That's a sign of good faith. Here's another sign of good faith.' The man shoved his pistol beneath his belt. He released his thumb from the nerve on Tess's throat.

The sirens wailed closer.

Abruptly Tess found she could move. Angry, she squirmed beneath the man's weight.

He stood.

She rolled away, her throat in pain, and fought to recontrol her muscles, lurching clumsily to her knees.

'I apologize,' the man said.

In the background, flames roared in the house. Smoke spewed.

'Who are you?' Tess rubbed her throat.

The man wore a dark sportcoat and slacks. He was in his early forties, solidly built, his hair a neutral brown, his face indistinctive, not handsome, not repulsive, the sort of common face she would never notice in a crowd.

'Your savior. Be grateful. And I repeat, I don't have time to explain. Those sirens. Will you cooperate?'

Tess darted an uncertain glance toward Craig.

'Sure.' Craig stared. 'Provided you give me your weapon.'

The stranger exhaled. 'All right, if that's what it takes.' He removed his pistol from his belt, engaged its safety mechanism, and extended it to Craig, who shoved it into a pocket of his suitcoat.

'What the hell, screw it.' Craig lowered his own weapon.

'Good. Very good,' the stranger said. 'Hurry.' He gestured, and almost by magic, equally neutral-faced, solidly built men emerged from the flowers and the side of the house, holding weapons.

There's a van in front.' The stranger cocked his head, assessing the intensity of the sirens. 'Let's go.'

'Priscilla and Professor Harding,' Tess said.

'We'll take them with us, of course.'

Again the stranger gestured. Two men raced from the flowers, lifting Priscilla and Professor Harding.

'She needs insulin,' Tess said, 'and her husband may have had a stroke.'

'It'll all be taken care of. You have my word.' The stranger pressed a hand against Tess's back. 'Move.'

As the sirens wailed closer, the group surged toward the right of the house.

Smoke wafted out of the study's window, obscuring Tess's gaze.

Then the smoke cleared, and she saw two bodies. She flinched and stared away, the front yard before her, trees and shrubs, a van looming.

'The Porsche!' Tess said. 'I got it a from a friend! She can't be involved!'

'Give me the key!'

Tess groped in her purse and threw it.

The stranger caught the key, tossed it to another man, and ordered him, 'Follow us!'

Tess and Craig scrambled into the van. Other men hurried inside with Priscilla and Richard, slamming the van's side hatch shut. A driver stomped the accelerator, squealing away from the curb.

Behind the van, the Porsche sped to follow. The two vehicles rounded a corner, disappearing from the street, just as Tess, bewildered, heard the approaching sirens wail toward the burning house, nearing it from a different direction.

'So, all right,' Craig said, hoarse. 'You claim you saved our lives. So we got away. So what do you want from us?'

The stranger peered backward from the passenger seat. 'Very simple.' He scowled. 'Your help. To eliminate the vermin.'

'What?'

'This isn't the time or place to discuss it,' the stranger said. 'Arrangements have to be made. Your friends need medical attention, and several of our associates have been-'

'Hold it,' Tess said, glancing toward the rear window. 'We're being followed. Behind the Porsche.'

'That UPS truck and the gray sedan?' The stranger nodded. 'They belong – or used to belong – to several of our associates. The vermin executed those two squads before attacking the house.'

'Executed?' Craig demanded.

The stranger ignored the interruption. 'We found the vehicles, the corpses inside them, a block apart as we arrived. The evidence indicates that nerve gas was used. Members of my own team now drive those vehicles. Security and honor insist. We must not abandon our dead. The corpses of our brave departed require the proper rites, honorable burial in consecrated ground. Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine.'

'Et lux perpetua luceat eis,' the other men added, somber, reverential.

Tess shook her head, confused, astonished. At first, she thought she was hearing gibberish. Then, abruptly, the realization startling her, she blurted, 'You're praying! In Latin?'

The stranger squinted. 'Do you understand what it means?'

'No.' Tess fought to speak. 'I'm a Catholic, but…'

The stranger sighed. 'Of course. You wouldn't be able to translate. You're too young to know what the mass sounded like before Vatican Two ordered it changed from Latin into the vernacular. "Grant them eternal rest, Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them." It's from the mass for the dead.'

Even more startled, Tess suddenly realized something else. 'My God, whatever you are, you're also…!'

'Also what?' The stranger studied her.

'Priests!'

'Well,' the stranger said, 'that gives us something else to discuss.'

EIGHTEEN

The grimy-windowed rectory, behind a boarded-up Gothic church on the outskirts of Washington, had a weed-grown parking lot. The UPS truck and the gray sedan had long since veered away. Only the van and the Porsche remained.

As the stranger stepped from the van, joining Tess and Craig who left the side hatch, he explained, 'This is one of many churches that the Vatican's dwindling finances have forced the Curia to sell. Not to worry. We're safe here. Did you notice the sign in front?'

'F and S Realty,' Tess said.

'You're very observant. It's our own corporation. We're negotiating the sale ourselves. Eliminating the middle man, so to speak.'

'Unless it's a middle woman,' Tess said.

'By all means,' the stranger said. 'I did not intend to be sexist. For now, however, we still control this church and the rectory. The neighbors will assume you're potential buyers. No one who lives in this area will bother us.'

'Except… Unless…' Tess glanced around nervously.

'You mean, the vermin? None of your attackers survived to follow. The others don't know about this place. I repeat, we're safe here.'

'You keep calling them "vermin",' Craig said.

'A precise description.'

'Where did the UPS truck and the gray sedan go?' Tess asked.

'I assumed you understood from my earlier remarks. Our departed associates require a mass for the dead. It's being arranged.'

'And burial in consecrated ground,' Tess said.

'Yes. For the good of their souls… The Porsche. Where does it belong?'

Tess gave the address. So much had happened, she felt as if days instead of hours had passed since she'd left the comfort of Mrs Caudill's home. 'I'd be grateful if the authorities couldn't trace the car to her.'

'I guarantee that,' the stranger said. 'As long as you remember what you just promised.'

'Promised?'

That you'll be grateful.'

Tess squirmed.

The stranger approached and spoke to the Porsche's driver. With a nod, the man backed the sportscar expertly from the lot and drove away.

'And,' Tess said, 'my friends.'

'Richard? Priscilla? Like you, Tess, I'm concerned about them,' the stranger said.

'You know my name?'

'More than that. I know virtually everything about you. Including your relationship with Lieutenant Craig. My briefing was thorough. The men in the van have paramedical training. They're monitoring the heartbeat and respiration of your friends. Richard and Priscilla are stable. But they do need further help. So my driver and a paramedic will deliver them to a doctor at a private clinic that we control. The authorities won't be able to question your friends until the doctor, who works for us, has taught them how and what to answer. In the meantime, Priscilla and Richard will be well taken care of.'

'Thank you,' Tess breathed.

'I don't need thanks. What I insist on is what you promised – gratitude,' the stranger said. He motioned toward the driver in the van, who steered from the lot and headed toward the clinic.

'Gratitude?' Craig rested his hand on the stranger's weapon, which he'd shoved in a pocket of his suitcoat.

Three of the neutral-faced men gripped pistols and flanked him.

'Yes,' Craig said. 'Of course. By all means. What am I thinking of? Gratitude!'

'So why don't we go inside the rectory,' the stranger said, 'and discuss how glad you are to be alive? And discuss our mutual problem? And discuss the vermin?'

'The vermin.' Tess jerked up her arms, assaulted by insanity. 'Damn. You bet. The vermin. We certainly have to discuss the-'

'You're verging on lack of control,' the stranger said. 'I urge you, don't lose it.'

'Listen, I've kept control through hell,' Tess said. 'I've seen my mother die. I've been chased and shot at. I've shot in return. I've killed. Do you honestly think that you and these three men scare me? I'm an expert in keeping control, no matter how terrified I…!'

'Tess, I say it again – you don't need to be afraid. We're here to help you, not threaten you. As long as Lieutenant Craig keeps his hand away from the weapon I graciously surrendered to him.'

'Well, your generosity is obviously a problem,' Craig said. 'Here. Watch my hand. I'll move it slowly. Carefully. Fingertips only. No threat, right? Here. Satisfied? Take it. The way things are, with these men beside and behind me, it's useless to me anyhow.'

Craig handed the weapon to him.

'Dramatic but unnecessary,' the stranger said. 'Especially since I can see the bulge of another weapon under your belt, concealed by your suitcoat. No problem. You don't know it, but we're working together.'

'Oh, yes, of course,' Craig said.

'I understand your skepticism. All right, then,' the stranger said. 'We'll enter the rectory. We'll exchange opinions. I'll tell you about the vermin, and you'll tell me if you're prepared to help.'

'What I need is help,' Tess said.

'Wrong! To save your life, what you need to do is cooperate, to help exterminate the vermin.'

NINETEEN

The rectory smelled of must. In the gloomy vestibule, cracked-leather chairs were positioned at random, a dust-covered desk the center of focus. Cob-webbed religious pictures hung on oak-Paneled walls in need of polishing.

Tess felt exhausted, the aftereffect of adrenaline. 'Before we begin…"

'Whatever you need,' the stranger said.

'The bathroom.'

'Of course. To the right. Down that hallway. The first door on the left. I'm sure you'll want to clean the traces of vomit from your chin and your blouse.'

Tess raised a hand, embarrassed.

'No need to be self-conscious. On occasion, during violence, I've vomited as well.'

'How encouraging,' Tess said grimly. She proceeded toward the restroom, entered weakly, and locked the door. Only as she opened her belt, did she notice that unaware she must have picked up her handgun after the stranger had released his paralyzing grip in the garden.

The weapon nearly fell from her loosened belt. She grabbed it, set it next to her on the sink, pulled down her jeans, and settled onto the seat. Her nostrils quivered. Her urine stank from fear. Disgusted, she rose, rebuckled her pants, and rinsed her face, doing her best to swab the stains from her blouse.

At once, she grabbed the gun. All along, the stranger must have noticed it beneath her belt. He could have taken it anytime.

But he'd let her keep it.

Why?

A sign.

A gesture.

Of cooperation.

Of reassurance.

All right, she thought and zipped up her jeans, returning the gun beneath her belt. I'm getting the message.

Feel safe.

But don't be aggressive.

She flushed the toilet, unlocked the washroom door, and walked with feigned confidence down the hallway toward the vestibule.

TWENTY

In the dim light through the murky windows, Tess glanced at Craig, who sat on one of the cracked-leather chairs. He sipped from a glass of water.

So did the other men. Several bottles and glasses had been placed on the desk.

When the stranger handed her a glass, Tess suddenly realized how dry and thick her tongue felt. She hurriedly drank, barely tasting the cool pure liquid. She couldn't remember when she'd been this thirsty.

She grabbed a bottle, refilled the glass, and drained it. Drops of water clung to her lips.

When she reached to refill the glass yet again, the stranger gently put a hand on her arm. 'No. Too much at once might make you sick.'

Tess studied him, then nodded.

'Sit,' the stranger added. Try to relax.'

'Come on. Relax? You've got to be kidding.' All the same, Tess moved a chair next to Craig. Its brittle leather creaked when she slumped upon it.

'So.' The stranger raised his eyebrows. 'Is there anything else you need? Are we ready now for our talk?'

'I'm definitely ready for answers.' Craig straightened, rigid. 'Who the hell are you? What's this all about? What's going on?'

The stranger considered him. His brooding silence lengthened. At last he sighed. 'I can't answer your questions until you answer mine.'

'Then we're not ready for a talk,' Craig said. 'I ran out of patience quite a while ago. I…'

'Please,' the stranger said. 'Indulge me.' He directed his eyes toward Tess. 'How much have you discovered about the vermin? Do you understand why they want to kill you?'

Tess frowned. 'The way you say that… Your tone. It doesn't sound as if you're puzzled. It's as if you already know the answers but wonder if I know.'

The stranger cocked his head. 'Impressive. To repeat my earlier compliment, you're very observant. But what I know isn't the issue. Tell me. How much have you discovered?'

Tess pivoted toward Craig, who debated, then shrugged.

'It's a standoff,' Craig said. 'Go ahead. Tell him. Maybe he'll answer our questions.'

'Or maybe if I do, they'll kill us.'

'No, Tess,' the stranger said. 'Whatever happens, we are not your enemy. On the contrary.' He reached inside a pocket of his jacket and placed a ring on his finger.

The other men followed his example.

Their rings were dramatic. Each had a glinting golden band, a shimmering ruby embossed with a golden intersecting cross and sword.

'Few outsiders have seen these rings,' the stranger said. 'We show them as a sign of respect, of trust, of obligation.'

'A cross and a sword?'

The stranger lowered his gaze toward the ring. 'An appropriate symbol. Religion and retribution. Tell me, Tess, and I'll tell you. Why do the vermin want to kill you?

'Because of…' Confused, frightened, Tess opened her mouth.

Hesitated.

Then confessed. Unburdened. Revealed.

Throughout, she glanced at Craig, who pretended to listen, his shoulders braced, while he checked the exits, never interrupting.

Mithras. Montsegur. The treasure. Joseph's bedroom. The bas-relief statue. A war between a good god and an evil one.

Exhausted, Tess slumped back, the cracked-leather chair sagging beneath her. They want to stop me from telling others what I know, from showing the photographs.'

'Yes.' The stranger caressed the cross and sword on his ring. 'The photographs. Let me see them.'

Tess fumbled in her purse and handed them over.

The stranger's face became rigid with hate when he examined them. 'It's what we suspected. A damnable altar.'

Craig scowled. 'So Tess was right. All of this was pointless. You haven't heard anything you didn't already know.'

'On the contrary, I've learned a great deal.' The stranger passed the photographs to his companions, who studied them with equal loathing. 'I've learned that you know so much I can't, as I'd hoped, deceive you with half-truths. I won't be able to use you without providing a fuller explanation than I'd planned.' He brooded. 'It presents a problem.'

'How?'

'I need you, but I can't trust you. I can't depend on your silence. Just as the vermin are determined to protect their secrets, so we guard ours. How can I be sure that you'll stay quiet about what I tell you?'

'Yes, it's a problem,' Craig said. 'Apparently you'll just have to trust us anyhow.'

'Lieutenant, I'm not a fool. The moment you're free, you'll report everything you've heard to your superiors. It might be better if I released both of you right now. True, you've seen the rings. However, they tell you nothing.'

'Let us go? Then you meant what you said?' Craig shook his head, puzzled. 'You don't intend to harm us?'

'After saving your lives?' the stranger asked rhetorically. 'I've already shown my commitment to your safety. There's the door. It isn't locked. You're free to leave. By all means, do so.'

'But,' Tess said, 'if you let us go, we'll be back where we started.'

'Exactly,' the stranger said. The vermin will continue to hunt you, and without our help, I fear that the next time they'll succeed in killing you. A pity.'

Craig's voice became husky. 'What kind of mind game are you playing?'

'I need reassurance. Do you love this woman?'

Craig answered without hesitation. 'Yes.'

It made Tess proud.

'And are you willing to admit,' the stranger continued, 'despite your best efforts, there's a good chance she'll die without our help? At the very least, that you and she will be forced to keep hiding, constantly afraid that the vermin are about to attack again?'

Craig didn't respond.

'Answer me!' the stranger said. 'Are you willing to condemn the woman you love to an uncertain future, cringing at the slightest sound, always terrified?'

'Damn it, obviously I want to protect her!'

'Then give me your word! On the soul of the woman you love, swear to me that you'll never repeat a word I say to you!'

'So it's that way.' Craig glared.

'Yes, Lieutenant, that way. The only way. Do I need to add that if you break your vow and tell the authorities, this woman will never trust you again?'

Craig kept glaring.

'And do I need to add something else?' the stranger asked. 'If you break your vow, the vermin won't be the only group that hunts her. We will. I myself would kill her to punish you if you betrayed us.'

'You son of a bitch.'

'Yes, yes, vulgarity vents emotion. But it settles nothing. You're avoiding my demand. Are you willing to swear? For the woman you love, are you prepared to make a solemn pledge of silence?'

Craig's cheek muscles rippled.

Tess couldn't restrain herself. 'Craig, tell him what he wants!' She swung toward the stranger. 'You have my word. I won't repeat anything you say.'

'But what about you, Lieutenant?'

Craig clenched his fists. His shoulders seemed to broaden. Slowly he swallowed. 'All right.' He exhaled forcefully. 'You've got it. Nothing means more to me than keeping Tess alive. I don't want another group trying to kill her. I give you my word. I won't betray you. But I have to tell you, I hate like hell to be threatened.'

'Well, that's the point. A vow means nothing unless a threat is attached to its violation. Actually two points.'

'Oh? What's the second one?'

'You already mentioned it. What we're here to discuss… Hell.'

TWENTY-ONE

Tess blinked. A sharp pain attacked her forehead. 'I don't understand.'

'Hell,' the stranger emphasized. 'Where the vermin belong. Where we've devoted ourselves to send them.'

'I still don't…' Abruptly Tess dreaded what the stranger was going to tell her. She braced herself for another assault on her sanity. 'Why do you keep calling them vermin?'

'No other word applies. They breed like rats. They infest like lice. They're vile, contemptible, destructive, loathesome, morally filthy, worse than plague-ridden fleas, spreading their evil, vicious, repugnant heresy.'

The litany of hate jolted Tess's mind. She lurched back in her chair, as if she'd been pushed. 'It's time. You promised to explain. Keep your word. Who are you? In the van, I said I thought you were priests, but…'

'Yes. Priests. But more than priests. Our mandate makes us unique. We're enforcers.'

'What?'

The stranger nodded, his eyes gleaming.

Tess struggled to ask him, 'For…?'

'The Inquisition.'

Tess had trouble making her throat work. Her consciousness swirled.' What are you talking about? That's crazy! The Inquisition ended in the Middle Ages!'

'No,' the stranger said. That's not correct. The Inquisition began in the Middle Ages. But it persisted for several hundred years. In fact, it wasn't officially dissolved until eighteen thirty-four.'

Tess winced. She couldn't adjust to the realization that so cruel an institution – the relentless, widespread persecution of anyone who didn't follow strict doctrine – had survived until so recently. Its victims had been tortured, urged to recant their heresy, and if they refused, burned at the stake.

Flames! she thought.

Everything led back to flames!

The stake of the Inquisition! The torch of Mithras!

But there was more. Tess wasn't prepared as the neutral-faced stranger, his eyes gleaming brighter, continued.

'You'll note I used the word "officially",' he said. 'In truth, the Inquisition did not end. Unofficially, amid the greatest secrecy, it remained in action. Because its necessary work had not yet been completed. Because the vermin had not yet been eradicated.'

'You're telling us' – Craig sounded appalled – 'that a core of Inquisitors followed secret instructions from the Church and persisted in hunting down anyone who strayed from orthodox Catholicism?'

'No, Lieutenant, that's not what I'm telling you.'

'Then…?'

'The Church was firm in its order to disband the Inquisition. No secret instructions were given. But secrecy was followed nonetheless, on the part of Inquisitors who felt that their crucial mission could not in conscience be interrupted. Before they died, they trained others to take up the mission, and they in turn trained others. An unbroken chain, until we now train others but more important fight the enemy.'

Tess slumped. 'Too much.' She fought to retain her sanity. Too damned much. Just because your victims don't go to mass on Sunday?'

'Don't trivialize! It makes no difference to me who goes to mass on Sunday. Anyone who worships God, the one God, in his or her own way, is not my concern. But those who believe in an evil god in combat with the true good Lord are by definition as evil as the god they hate. Mithraism.' The stranger almost spat. 'Albigensians. Dualists. The survivors of Montsegur. They are my enemy. They managed to escape. They took their statue with them. They hid. They festered. They spread. And now they're out of control, or to be exact, about to assume control. They killed your friend. They killed your mother! They want to kill you! I won't rest until I destroy them!'

'Okay, just a minute. Calm down,' Craig said. 'Back up. What do you mean they're about to assume control?'

'After they escaped from Montsegur, the small group of heretics fled from southwestern France, trying to put as much distance as possible between them and their hunters. They headed farther south into Spain, where they sought refuge in an isolated mountain valley, the range that we now call the Picos de Europa. There, they determined to replenish their cult, to learn Spain's language and customs, to try to blend, which they did successfully, practising their contemptible rites in secret. For more than two hundred years, they flourished, eventually sending contingents to other sections of Spain. After all, in case their central nest was discovered, the other nests would still have a chance to preserve their repulsive beliefs.'

'Pamplona and Merida,' Tess said.

The stranger's gaze intensified. 'Why do you mention those areas?'

'Priscilla. The woman your men took to the clinic. She told me,' Tess said. 'In fact, almost everything I know about Mithraism comes from her. She used to be a professor. She's an expert in-'

'Answer my question. What do you know about those areas?'

'On a research trip, Priscilla saw Mithraic statues in caves near those cities.'

'Truly, I never expected… You've told me something I didn't know. We've been trying to find the central nest. Now you've pointed me toward possible other nests.'

'Answer my question,' Craig said. 'What do you mean they're about to assume control?'

'After two hundred years, the heretics felt secure. But then in fourteen seventy-eight, the Spanish Inquisition began. Earlier there'd been purges throughout various other countries in Europe, but the Spanish Inquisition was by far the most extreme. Enforcers hunted heretics everywhere. No village was too small to avoid a purifier's attention. But the vermin – resourceful, resilient – fled again. To northern Africa, specifically Morocco. Taking utmost precautions, they came together for a critical secret meeting in which they decided that in order to protect their religion, they needed to counterattack, to rely on every devious means possible to guarantee their survival. The final decision was to train representatives to leave the nest, conceal their true identity, and seek power, to imbed themselves within society and gain sufficient political influence to stop the persecution. To infest! As you might expect, their initial efforts were minor. But since the fourteen hundreds, the heretics have spread, multiplied, and infiltrated every important institution in Europe and America. They've risen to the highest levels of government. It was due to their influence that the Inquisition was finally dissolved. And now the crisis is universal. They're about to assume complete control, to impose their vicious errors upon the world.'

'Obviously you're exaggerating,' Craig said.

'Hardly. It's impossible to exaggerate the extremes to which they've gone. The vermin are convinced that the evil god is destroying the planet. They feel an urgency as the year two thousand looms. The millennium and all it implies. Crisis. Apocalypse. Not satisfied with manipulating governments, they've organized their own Inquisition. They've sent assassins to eliminate anyone they feel is dominated by the evil god. You must have noticed the pattern. The killings. Everywhere. In Australia. Hong Kong. Brazil. Germany. Kenya. The North Atlantic. America. Industrialists. Developers. Corporate managers. Drift-net fisherman. Ivory hunters. The captain of the oil tanker that polluted and nearly destroyed the Great Barrier Reef. The vermin are executing anyone they blame for the greed, negligence, and poisons that threaten the planet.'

'My God,' Tess said, 'you're talking about the article I've been working on! Radical environmentalists attacking…!'

'No, not environmentalists. And when you speak of God, which God do you mean? I hope not a good god at war with an evil god,' the stranger said.

'I don't care about that! The fact is, the planet is in danger! It has to be saved!'

'A commendable notion,' the stranger said. 'However, if you believe in the one true God as /do, then you have to trust that God. He knows better than we do. If the planet dies, it's His will. It's part of His grand design. A punishment because of our sins. If we don't correct our ways, we'll be destroyed. But the vermin, the heretics, believe they obey a different god. A god that is non-existent. Their heresy challenges the true God's plan. And for that, they'll suffer in hell.'

'Don't you realize?'

'What?'

'You're as fanatical as they are!'

The stranger's calm reaction surprised her. The situation demands fanaticism. After all, a determined enemy requires an even more determined opponent.'

'That's not what I meant. One god. Two gods. You think you're right. They believe they're right. The world's collapsing, and you're fighting each other about theology! If anything, I empathize with the other side. At least, they're working to save the planet.'

'But they're also trying to kill you,' the stranger said. 'And they've succeeded in killing many others. Do you condone political assassination? Do you approve of the murders of industrialists, financiers, and-?'

'Your goal is to execute the heretics. Nothing would please you more. Killing. That's what you're about. How can you blame them for doing the same thing you do?'

'There's a difference,' the stranger said. 'I'm engaged in a war. But I kill combatants, not civilians. In contrast, they kill without discrimination. They destroy the innocent as well as the guilty. Your mother. Her only fault was that she happened to be present when they tried to kill you. For your mother's sake, I would have expected you to want revenge.'

'Yes, I do want someone to pay, but… Oh, Lord, help me. I'm so confused.'

'You're not alone,' the stranger said. 'To kill contradicts my very purpose as a priest. And yet…'He lowered his gaze. 'I pledged myself to protect the faith.'

The vestibule became silent.

Craig took advantage of the pause. 'I've got a lot more questions.'

'Yes. By all means.' The stranger slowly raised his head.

'You said that the heretics hurried from Spain when the Inquisition came too close.'

'Correct.'

'Then they went to Morocco.'

'Yes.'

'Which explains Joseph Martin's fascination with The Dove's Neck Ring, a treatise on courtly love, written by a Moor who immigrated to Spain.'

The stranger nodded.

'That also explains why Joseph Martin looked vaguely Spanish. Swarthy. Dark-haired. With Latin features as opposed to French. Does that mean the heretics not only blended with but bred with the local population?'

'Yes,' the stranger said. 'At the start, the group was so small that the vermin needed to replenish their gene pool. They converted their spouses to Mithraism and swore them to secrecy.' The stranger gestured. 'But you didn't mention one more detail about their features. In some descendants of the vermin, there's an unusual gene that makes their eyes gray. It's one of the few means we have to identify them.'

'Gray.' With a pang of grief, Tess vividly remembered the compelling color of Joseph's eyes. Their intensity. Their charisma.

'But if the Inquisition came so dangerously close that the heretics abandoned Spain,' Craig asked, 'why do you think that the central nest is still in…?'

'Spain? Although the heretics came from France, they eventually considered Spain their homeland. We believe they returned. We've searched. But we haven't been able to find that nest.'

'Another question. And this one really bothers me,' Craig said.

The stranger motioned for Craig to continue.

'If Joseph Martin believed in Mithras, why did his fellow believers turn against him?' Craig asked. 'Why did they hunt him down and set fire to him in Carl Schurz Park? It doesn't make sense for them to turn against one of their own.'

'Ah, yes, Joseph Martin. Interesting. He'd have made an excellent informant,' the stranger said.

Tess felt a tremor of confusion. 'Informant? What do you-?'

'As my associates continued searching, they discovered something totally unexpected,' the stranger said. 'One of the heretics had bolted from the ranks. The deserter was appalled that his group was engaged in massive killing. He fled, determined to practise his religion in private. Cautious, he assumed many false identities, moving from city to city, aware that his former brethren would now consider him a security risk. After all, he knew too much, and if he revealed what he knew, he might have directed us toward his brethren. Obviously, from the heretics' viewpoint, the man who eventually called himself Joseph Martin had to be killed. So while we tried to find him, his brethren did the same. Los Angeles. Chicago. New York. We followed his trail. We found him. But my associates waited too long. They hoped that the vermin who tracked him would also arrive. My associates wanted many targets. Unfortunately, their plan didn't work, and Joseph Martin was killed.'

'Not just killed. He was burned!' Tess said.

'Of course. Why does that surprise you? Remember the torch of Mithras. The god of the sun. Of fire. That's why the vermin are so devoted to killing with flames.'

'Don't sound so righteous. They're not alone in that. Didn't the Inquisition also kill with flames?' Tess demanded.

'True. There is, however, a distinction.'

'Tell me about it!'

'Their fire, like the phoenix rising, sends their victims to another life, or so they believe. To them, death doesn't always lead to heaven or hell but rather to another stage in existence, a rebirth, a further chance for salvation. Reincarnation. One of the reasons they want the world to survive. So they can be reborn,' the stranger said. 'But our fire punishes, nullifies, and purifies, reducing sin to ashes. More, it gives the vermin a foretaste of the ravaging flames of hell.'

'Yes. That's what this conversation keeps coming back to. Hell.' Tess grimaced.

'Not only that.'

'What?'

'We have to go back to something else.'

'What?' Tess repeated.

'Just as I'm confident that you intend to keep your promise of silence, so I kept my promise. I've told you what I know. Now I repeat. I ask what I did at the start. Will you cooperate? To save your life, are you prepared to help us exterminate the vermin?'

'Save my life? Exterminate the…? I don't see how the two are related.'

'It's really quite simple.'

'Not to me, it isn't.'

'To prevent you from revealing information about them, the vermin will continue to hunt you. The only way to stop them is for you to help us complete our mission.' 'And how am I supposed to do that?' The stranger's gaze intensified. 'By presenting yourself as bait.'

TWENTY-TWO

Again Tess finched, the pain in her forehead sharper. 'But that means nothing's changed. I'll still be in danger!'

'I guarantee we'll protect you,' the stranger said.

'That's bullshit,' Craig said. 'You know you can't possibly guarantee that. The minute Tess shows herself, the minute the killers find out where she is, they'll organize an attack. They've proven how determined they are. The only defense I can think of is to get Tess to a safe house and surround it with policemen.'

'But how long will they stay there?' The stranger shook his head. They can't keep guard forever. It's too expensive. Eventually they'll be needed elsewhere. For that matter, how long will they manage to remain alert? After a few days, if nothing happens, it's human nature for a sentry to lose his edge, to start to get bored. And that's when-',

'Wait. I know how to save myself!' Tess interrupted.

'Oh?' The stranger sounded skeptical.

'There's an easy solution!'

'Really?' Now the stranger sounded perplexed. 'If so, I haven't thought of it.'

'All I have to do is tell everyone I meet. The police. Reporters. TV crews. Whoever. I mean everyone. About what's happened. About Joseph. About my mother. About the heretics and why they want to kill me. If their motive is to shut me up, after I've finished blabbing, they won't have a reason to shut me up. Because I'll have already told what they didn't want me to say! Don't worry. I promised. I'll leave you out of this. But your enemy-!'

'And yours,' the stranger said.

'Right,' Tess agreed, 'and mine. The bastards who killed my mother won't have a reason to keep hunting me. They'll be exposed. They'll be hunted. They'll have to go into hiding!'

'Tess' – the stranger bowed his head in despair – 'you still haven't understood.'

'But the logic's so convincing!'

'No,' the stranger said. 'In the first place, the vermin would want to get even. They'd do their best to kill you on principle, to punish you for the trouble you caused. In the second place, do you realize how outrageous you'd sound? The police, the reporters, the TV crews, they'd think you were deluded. In the third place, the information you'd reveal wouldn't make a difference. Suppose – against all odds – that the authorities managed to repress their doubts and actually, amazingly, believed you. What then? If we, with centuries of experience in hunting the vermin, still haven't tracked down and killed every one of them, what chance do you think the police would have? You've missed the point. Oh, yes, indeed. I'm very much afraid that you've missed the essential point.'

'Which is?' Tess demanded, furious.

'You.'

'What's so special about…?'

'You, Tess. Think about who you are! Think about your background! Think about your dead father!'

'What does he have to do with-?'

'Influence, Tess. I'm talking about influence. Suppose you did tell policemen, reporters, and… No matter. Whoever. When they didn't believe you, what would you do? Give up? Say "I did my best" and hide in fear that you'd still be attacked?'

'Of course not!'

'I ask you again! What would you do?'

'Keep trying. Keep struggling to avenge my mother's death and Joseph's death.'

'Exactly,' the stranger said. 'You'd use your influence. You'd demand that the friends of your dead, martyred father pay their debts of gratitude. You'd insist - at the highest levels of government – that those friends of your father cooperate. And they would, Tess. I believe they would. To satisfy you. To ease their guilty consciences for having sent your father to his death in Beirut for the sake of an illegal arms deal that would have tilted the balance in the Lebanese civil war and given the Christians power over the Moslems. But I told you – and I remind you – that the vermin have risen to the highest levels of government. We don't know who they are. We haven't been able to identify them. But believe this. Count on it. Your survival depends on it. As you keep insisting, you'll eventually encounter your enemy. You won't know it. You won't be able to identify them. But they'll know you. And they'll do their best to have you executed before you accidentally expose their network and possibly them .'

Tess shuddered. 'It never occurred to me. I never thought…'

'I hate to say this,' Craig murmured. 'He's right.'

'Of course,' the stranger said. 'So now you have your choices. Leave. Keep your pledge of silence, except for what you already knew about the vermin. Or cooperate with us. Follow my directions. Help us discover the vermin at the highest level. Then permit us to do our duty and-'

'Killing. I'm so sick of killing.'

'I guarantee you wouldn't like the alternative,' the stranger said. 'The options are before you. Think carefully. Consider your future. Then make your choice.'

'There isn't a choice.'

'Be specific,' the stranger said.

'The way you put it, I'm forced to do what you want.'

'Exactly.'

'But are you certain I'll be protected?'

'On my honor,' the stranger said.

'I certainly hope you value your honor.'

'More than the vermin, Tess. And remember, we have an advantage.'

'What?

'The one true Lord is on our side.'

'I wish I shared your confidence.'

Tess spun, an abrupt sound jolting her nerves, the rectory's door being opened.

But a man who'd been standing guard didn't seem concerned.

Another enforcer entered, the man who'd driven the Porsche back to Mrs Caudill. 'Nice old lady,' he said. 'She even told her butler to drive me back to Washington. I got out fifteen blocks from here so he wouldn't know about the rectory.' He handed a paper bag to Tess. 'Before I returned the car, I searched it, in case you left anything that might attract suspicion. I found these under the Porsche's front seat.'

Despondent, Tess peered inside the bag, although she knew what she'd find – the two boxes of ammunition.

'Thanks.' Her shoulders sagged. The way things are going…' Her voice cracked in despair. 'It looks like I'll be needing these.'