The Covenant Of The Flame

ONE

Two cars pulled up outside. The engines stopped. Doors were opened, then shut.

On edge, Tess warily studied the guard at the entrance to the rectory, who peered through its window, held his weapon at his side, and didn't seem concerned.

Footsteps approached. A moment later, four neutral-faced, trim, lithe men came into the vestibule. Two of the men Tess recognized, the driver and the paramedic who'd taken Priscilla and Professor Harding to the clinic.

The other two men she hadn't seen before. Presumably one had driven the UPS truck, the other the gray sedan, following, then veering from the row of vehicles as the group neared the rectory.

'You disposed of the truck and the car?' the stranger asked.

The latter two men nodded.

'In a parking lot at a shopping mall,' one of them said. 'Counterfeit license plates. Fake registration. No fingerprints. We even left the keys. With luck, both vehicles will soon be stolen.'

'Good. And surveillance? I take for granted-'

'We detected none. Our substitute car hadn't been tampered with. A clean exchange.'

'And what about…?'

'The funeral of our associates? It's being arranged. I regret, however, that we won't be able to attend.'

'As do I. But our prayers go with them.' The stranger lowered his head. After a solemn brief silence, he made the Sign of the Cross, exhaled, then turned to the driver and paramedic from the van. 'I'm sure Tess will want to know.'

'You bet I want to know. The clinic. What did the doctor say about Priscilla and Professor Harding?'

The first man made a reassuring gesture. The woman was given insulin. After she ate, she became alert.'

'And Professor Harding?'

The second man frowned. 'The diagnosis is a minor stroke. He's been given medication. Before we left, he managed to speak.'

'What did he…?'

'Three words. To his wife. With effort.'

'And what were…?'

'"I love you."'

Tess felt her throat cramp. 'My fault. It's all my…'

'No,' the stranger said. 'It's the vermin's fault.'

'You can't know how much I want to believe that. But if I hadn't gone to them for information, Professor Harding wouldn't have…' Tess glared. That's what it keeps coming down to, doesn't it? Fewer and fewer choices. Then only one. To cooperate.'

The force of circumstance,' the stranger said. 'And now, I'm afraid, it's time.' He gestured toward a phone on the dust-covered desk. 'Begin. Call your father's contacts. Demand their assistance. Tell them how helpless you are. Make them feel guilty because of their responsibility for your father's death. Among those who respond, at least one of them will be-'

The man who'd driven Priscilla to the clinic interrupted, 'This might be important. In the van coming back, we monitored the news on the radio. The fire and the corpses at the house in Washington are being linked to last night's fire, the identical tactics, the similar massacre in Alexandria. The police are…'

The stranger bristled. 'I don't care about the police. The phone, Tess. Pick up the phone. Call your-'

'Not just yet,' Craig said. 'I promised the police chief in Alexandria that I'd keep in touch.'

'That promise will have to wait.'

'Wrong. If I don't phone to reassure him, my career is finished. I could go to prison for failing to cooperate in a felony investigation. That's assuming I manage to stay alive, of course. I mean, why be optimistic? But I like my work. I'd like to keep doing it. However, there's one thing I don't like – not knowing the name of someone I talk to.'

'My name? A mere formality. It isn't important.'

'To me, it is.'

'Then call me…' The stranger hesitated. 'Yes. Call me "Father Baldwin".'

'Are you sure you don't want to make it Father Smith or Father Jones?'

'I believe "Father Baldwin" will do.'

'But it's not quite appropriate. Am I wrong, or do I sense a vague European accent? French perhaps?'

'Lieutenant, you finally asked one question too many. Pick up the phone. Reassure the Alexandria police chief, if that's what you feel is necessary for Tess to conduct her mission. Simply tell him you haven't been able to contact her yet. There's no need to worry about the call being traced. A black box routes the transmission through London and Johannesburg.'

'Thorough. I'm impressed.'

'We try. But then, after all, we've had hundreds of years of practise.'

'It shows.' Craig pulled a slip of paper from a pocket of his rumpled suitcoat. He studied a number he'd written on the paper, picked up the phone, and dialed.

At the same time, Father Baldwin pressed a button that activated a microphone, allowing everyone to monitor the call. Tess listened to static, to the click of long-distance relay switches, then a buzz as the call arrived in Alexandria.

Another buzz.

A man's voice answered. 'Chief Farley's office.'

'This is Lieutenant Craig from Missing Persons at NYPD. I believe he's expecting my call.'

'Damned right he is. Hang on.'

Click. More static.

Craig had been put on hold. He glanced at the man who called himself Father Baldwin. Then he reached to put his arm around Tess. 'I know it's tough, babe. Just stay calm.'

'If anyone else had called me that,' Tess said.

'It's what my father called my mother.'

'In that case, it sounds wonderful.'

Click.

'Chief Farley here. Where the hell have you been? I expected you to phone…'

'I know. A couple of hours ago. The trouble is, I haven't been able to find…"

'Theresa Drake. She's not my problem anymore. My men are still trying to make sense of what happened at her mother's house last night. The Washington police had a similar attack in their jurisdiction this afternoon. They want to know if the two are connected. But what I want to know is how the hell did the FBI get involved?'

'What?'

'They weren't invited, and I can't think of a reason why Melinda Drake's murder should be their business.'

At the mention of her mother, Tess winced.

'The FBI?' Craig said.

'Eric Chatham – the Bureau's director himself – got in touch with me shortly after noon. He wants to talk to Theresa Drake. National security. Top priority. Confidential. Blah, blah, blah. Hey, I'm good at my job, and when an outsider tries to tell me how to… Never mind. I explained my arrangement with you. Now it's out of my hands. I have orders – high level government orders – to instruct you to forget about banging Theresa Drake to me and instead to phone Chatham. Three times this afternoon, he called to find out if I'd heard from you, to remind me to tell you to contact him at once. Immediately. Craig, what in Christ's name is going on?'

'Chief, I swear I wish I knew.'

Then, you'd damned well better find out. As Chatham says, now. The last thing I need is trouble from the FBI.'

'I hear you.'

'Well, while you're at it, hear this, Craig. Some day, you and I will meet, and you'd better be prepared to explain. Take my word, you don't want me pissed off at you. Because I'm a vindictive son of a bitch, and I'll make sure your captain's pissed off at you as well.'

'I repeat, I hear you.'

'What a holy hell surprise. Someone's actually taking orders from me instead of giving them to me. Phone Chatham. Here's his private number.'

Craig wrote it down.

'Get that bureaucrat off my tail,' Farley said. 'So I can do my job. So I can find out who murdered Melinda Drake!'

'I promise. It'll be taken care of.' Troubled, Craig set down the phone.

'So,' Father Baldwin said, 'it's already started.'

Tess frowned in amazement. 'You think Eric Chatham's part of the group that's trying to kill me?'

'Possibly. I told you they'd risen to top positions. But this might be coincidental,' Father Baldwin said. 'Did Chatham know your father?'

'Very well.'

Then he might be acting out of loyalty, to try to protect you.'

Tess raised her hands, intensely frustrated. 'There's just one problem with that logic.'

'Oh?' Father Baldwin waited.

'Only the enemy knew I was at my mother's house last night.'

'Not true. There was Brian Hamilton, and of course, my associates.'

'But Brian Hamilton's dead!' Tess said. 'My point hasn't changed. The Alexandria police chief learned I was being hunted because Craig told him. But how did Chatham find out?'

Father Baldwin's eyes blazed. 'You're suggesting he received his information from the men who attacked your mother's house and failed to capture you?'

'It certainly makes sense to me,' Craig said.

'Perhaps.' Father Baldwin shook his head. 'But what troubles me is that the connection's so obvious. Since twelve forty-four and the vermins' escape from Montsegur, the heretics have survived because of their talent for hiding. Over the centuries, they've greatly improved their ability to deceive. If Chatham is an enemy, would he take the risk, would he violate his training and draw suspicion to himself by acting so directly?'

'If he and his group felt desperate enough.' Tess pivoted toward a religious painting, then whirled back toward Father Baldwin. 'By calling Chief Farley and insisting that the FBI take over, Chatham has already accomplished part of their goal. They want to kill me because of the photographs and what I know. But this way, I still haven't been able to tell the authorities.'

Father Baldwin didn't answer for a moment. 'You may be right. But there's only one way to learn.'

Tess breathed. 'Yes. To call him.' Apprehensive, she reached for the sheet of paper upon which Craig had written Chatham 's phone number.

'Wait,' Father Baldwin said.

'A minute ago, you were urging me to…'

'The situation's changed. Now that we've isolated a possible target, I need to teach you how to react to what Chatham tells you. Meanwhile, other arrangements have to be made. They're mundane but necessary.'

'What do you mean?'

'It's after seven.'

'So what?'

'You have to eat.'

'Forget it. Food's the last thing I'm interested in. I probably couldn't keep it down.'

'But you're useless to me if you're exhausted. My informants tell me you don't eat meat. Would fish be acceptable?"

Tess felt intimidated by Father Baldwin's intimate knowledge of her habits. At the same time, she felt indignant. But the priest's forceful tone had its effect.

'If you're that determined,' Tess said, 'go ahead, although I don't know why my permission matters. You'll do it anyhow. Sure. Yeah, fish will be fine.'

'And Lieutenant, what about you?'

'A week ago, I'd have ordered steak and fries,' Craig said. 'But now, after having met Tess… Whatever she recommends to eat is good enough for me.'

'I'll also need your clothing sizes,' Father Baldwin said. 'What you're wearing is torn and reeks of smoke. Since you'll soon be out in public, to avoid attracting attention, you'll have to put on fresh clothes.'

'For the second time today,' Tess murmured and discovered she was trembling.

TWO

Eric Chatham stood at the bottom of the steps that led to the Lincoln Memorial, its massive statue and white marble columns glowing eerily in the darkness. This section of the circular street around the memorial was closed to traffic, but to his right, headlights of vehicles approached along Daniel French Drive to stop at a parking lot, visitors getting out to stroll around and enter the memorial. Chatham studied those cars and visitors, waiting for a man to walk toward him and mention that he'd come from Tess Drake.

The night was warm. All the same, Chatham 's stomach felt crammed with jagged chunks of ice. He brooded, unable to subdue his misgivings. It wasn't just that he'd agreed, against all his instincts, to meet in this unorthodox, potentially dangerous way. It was also that this was the second such unorthodox meeting he'd had today, the first during noon hour at Arlington National Cemetery with Kenneth Madden, the CIA's Deputy Director of Covert Operations. The meetings were related, and Chatham was more convinced that something disastrous was about to happen. He thought of Melinda Drake's murder and corrected himself. No, not about to happen. Now. His years of experience as the Bureau's director told him that whatever was wrong had already begun and might even be out of control.

Tess was frightened, that much was certain. When she'd called him two hours ago, he'd been alarmed by her trembling voice, her desperate tone. Before he had a chance to explain why he needed to talk to her, she'd interrupted, claiming that she knew who'd killed her mother, that she had important information about the murder, but that she couldn't reveal it over the phone. She had to tell him about – to let him see - the evidence in person.

Then come to my office. No,' Chatham had said, 'it's more private at my home.'

'But I can't trust either place!'

'Forgive me, Tess, but don't you think you're taking precautions to an extreme?'

'After everything I've been through? Eric, you have no idea. In my position, you'd be…!'

'Okay. Calm down. If you believe you're in that much danger, I'll arrange for special agents to guard my house.'

'No! The meeting has to be on my conditions! If you were truly a friend of my father, you'll do your best to help me stay alive!'

Chatham had hesitated. 'Yes. For your father. Anything.'

'Some friends of mine will pick you up and bring you to where I feel safe.'

'Agreed.'

'You'll come alone,' Tess had said.

'I don't like that, but again, all right.' Chatham 's forehead had suddenly throbbed.

'It has to be that way, so my friends can make sure you're not followed. The people who want to kill me might be watching you.'

'Again, you're being extreme.'

'No, Eric, practical! If I'm not careful, they'll use you to find me. It doesn't matter who you are. The heretics have proven how determined they are to stop me.'

'Heretics?' The word had frozen Chatham 's spine. 'What are you talking about?'

'You mean you pretend… You're claiming you really don't know?

'If I did, would I…?'

'Be there. I'm begging you! Please!' Tess had named the specifics of the rendezvous. 'I'll be waiting for my friends to bring you to where I'm hiding.'

Now, in the darkness, Chatham glanced nervously at the luminous dial on his watch. Eleven-ten. Amid tourists at the base of the dramatically lit columns and statue of the Lincoln Memorial, he felt chilled in his short-sleeved cotton sweater, despite the night's warmth. After all, the rendezvous was supposed to have occurred ten minutes ago, and although the man who'd been sent to take him to Tess was probably scouting the area to make sure that Chatham had come alone and hadn't been followed by Tess's enemies, the FBI director couldn't help feeling exposed among the numerous passing tourists, any one of whom might be a threat.

Keep control, he told himself. You'll soon be as paranoid as Tess sounded.

Soon be? I already am! I wish I hadn't-

A man stopped beside him and took a photograph of the memorial. He had an average build, nondescript face, and neutral clothes. 'It probably won't turn out.' The man shook his head. 'I brought the wrong speed of film.'

'You never know. You might get lucky,' Chatham said, tensing, completing the identification code.

'Tess Drake,' the man said, taking another picture up the stairs toward Lincoln 's statue beyond the spotlit looming pillars. 'You came alone?'

'As I promised.'

'Not to doubt your word, but I checked to make sure.'

Chatham shrugged. 'I assumed.'

'In that case, are you ready to take a ride?'

'Anything to find out what's going on. Let's do it.' Chatham.urned impatiently to the right toward the murky, tree-enclosed Parkmg lot at the end of Daniel French Drive.

'No, we go this way.' The neutral-faced man with the camera jerked his head in the opposite direction. 'On your left.'

Chatham scowled. 'Left? But…' Turning his nervous eyes in that direction, he saw a waist-high metal barricade that prevented cars from driving completely around the memorial.

Beyond the barricade, numerous headlights flashed by. Chatham heard the din of speeding cars swarming loudly across Arlington Memorial Bridge to veer farther left, away from the Lincoln Memorial onto Twenty-third Street.

'Yeah, I know,' the man with the camera said. There's no parking lot over there. Not to worry. Everything's been taken care of.' He reached inside a leather camera case strapped to his waist and removed a cellular telephone.

Quickly tapping numbers, he listened, then spoke as quickly. 'All clear. We're ready. Two minutes? Good. That's about how long it'll take us.'

The man placed the telephone back in his camera case. 'Would you care for a stroll, Mr Chatham?' Not waiting for an answer, the man touched Chatham 's arm and guided him toward the left, toward the metal barricade.

They skirted it, passing trees whose lush boughs obscured the stars and whose thick trunks flanked an unused, weed-grown section of road.

'If you're wondering,' the man said, I'm not alone. My companions are watching in case anyone's foolish enough to try to come after us.'

Nervous, Chatham managed to say, 'The Bureau's training team at Quantico might benefit by taking lessons from you.'

The man with the camera – which wasn't a camera at all but somehow a weapon, perhaps a hidden gun, Chatham suspected -merely gestured with his free hand. 'We'd never agree to do it, but a compliment is always appreciated.'

'What I'd appreciate is to know what on earth is-'

'Soon, Mr Chatham. Soon.'

They approached the lights and the noise of the off-bridge traffic on the busy thoroughfare. Beyond the trees, on the gravel shoulder, the average- looking man paused, blocking Chatham's way, and in the glare of passing headlights, Chatham realized that the man's ordinary-seeming build was actually sinewy and lithe. Feeling the exhaust-laden wind from the rushing traffic, Chatham concluded that this man was probably more in condition than even the best of his bodyguards.

'So now…?' Chatham asked.

'We wait. But not for long. You heard me say "two minutes". I misjudged, however. We're ahead of schedule.' The escort pointed.

A van sped off the Arlington Memorial Bridge, veered from the myriad glinting headlights, and stopped at the gravel shoulder. A side hatch slid quickly open.

'After you,' the neutral-faced man indicated.

Chatham clambered in, uneasy.

Other neutral-faced men nodded in greeting, their attempt at reassurance negated by their weapons.

As Chatham sat between two of them – no choice, the only place available – his escort followed, hunkered on the floor, and slammed the hatch shut. The van's engine roared. The vehicle skidded from the shoulder, gaining traction, squealing back into traffic.

In the passenger seat in front, a man spoke into a cellular phone. 'He wasn't followed? Good. You know where to meet us.' He set down the phone and turned. 'Welcome, Mr Chatham. Thanks for cooperating.'

'But was all of this really necessary?'

The stranger merely stared at him, as if the answer was self-evident.

'Who are you?' Chatham asked.

'Tess explained that earlier. We're friends.'

'I'll believe that when I see her. How soon will it be until we get to where she is?'

The man in front looked amused. 'Sooner than you think.'

Chatham frowned, not understanding.

At once, surprised, he did understand when he heard a familiar voice.

'I'm right behind you, Eric.'

Chatham spun, his surprise increasing.

Tess, who'd been crouched out of sight in the rear compartment, rose to sit on a wooden crate. A burly, rugged-faced man in a dark blue sportshirt, its cuffs folded up, appeared beside her.

Tess grinned, although to Chatham the expression seemed forced, and that made him nervous.

'It's been a long time. Good to see you, Eric.'

Chatham scowled, ignoring the pleasantry. 'But I thought… on the Phone, you said that these men would take me to where you were hiding.'

'I'm sorry I had to mislead you. In case your phone was tapped and you were under surveillance at the memorial. The way we arranged your pickup, we don't think this van can be followed. But if it is, the enemy will think it's leading them to me. They won't suspect I'm inside. They won't attack it.'

'Attack it? And you thought my phone might be tapped?' Chatham shook his head, baffled. 'My phone's checked every morning. Who could possibly tap it, or for that matter, who'd dare to take the risk of attacking this van while I was in it?'

'The heretics.'

Again, that disturbing word.

'They didn't hesitate to kill Brian Hamilton,' Tess said.

Chatham was too shocked to answer.

'He was important. So why would they hesitate to kill the director of the FBI? To get at me,' Tess said, 'to achieve their goal, to stop me from revealing their secret, they'll do anything.'

'What are you talking about? Secrets? Heretics?'

Tess handed him several photographs and a penlight.

More baffled, Chatham used the light to examine the photographs, all the while conscious that the neutral-faced men watched him intensely.

One of the images made Chatham grimace. 'A man on a bull, slicing its throat?'

'A sculpture.'

'Where did-?'

'You've never seen anything like it before?' Tess asked.

'No! Of course, not! My God, I'd certainly remember something this grotesque.'

The neutral-faced men kept staring at him.

'Tess, I showed good faith. I came alone. I did everything you asked. Now, for heaven's sake, tell me what this is all about.'

The man in front interrupted. 'How did you know that Tess and Lieutenant Craig were supposed to contact the Alexandria police?'

'I didn't,' Chatham said.

'That doesn't make sense,' Chatham heard behind him.

Chatham whirled reflexively to face the rugged-looking man next to Tess.

'You phoned Chief Farley,' the man said. 'Why?'

Chatham felt disoriented, having glanced forward, then back, from the neutral-faced man in front to the rugged-faced man in the rear. 'Are you Lieutenant Craig?'

'Answer my question.' The burly man's voice was gravelly. 'If you didn't know that Tess and I were supposed to contact Chief Farley, why did you phone him?'

'Because I promised I would.'

Tess leaned suddenly near, her strong fingers clutching Chatham 's arm. 'Promised who?'

'Kenneth Madden.'

'Madden?'The man in front spoke abruptly. 'From the CIA?'

Chatham spun in the forward direction, his mind reeling, even more disoriented. 'Yes, the Deputy Director of Covert Operations.'

'What's he got to do with-? Why would Madden ask you to phone the Alexandria police?'

'Because the CIA doesn't have domestic jurisdiction. It was easier and it raised less questions if the Bureau got in touch with the local police.'

'Why?' the rugged man next to Tess demanded.

'It comes down to pride. The local police don't like us to get involved if the crime's not the kind that automatically makes it our business. But the Alexandria police would have liked it even less if the CIA tried to get involved. That for sure would have caused hard feelings, not to mention a lot of angry phone calls. The point is' – Chatham jerked his gaze from the rugged man in back toward Tess beside him – 'you don't understand how much your father's friends are concerned about you. They're shocked about your mother's death. They're afraid that you're in danger. So they used the system. They asked me to contact the Alexandria police, the logical law-enforcement officials you'd ask for protection. But your father's friends want to give you greater protection.'

'By "friends," you mean the CIA and Kenneth Madden.' From the front seat, the neutral-faced man's stern voice made Chatham whirl again.

'That's right,' Chatham said. 'For Tess. For the sake of her father's memory. But what you still don't understand is that the urge to protect her goes far beyond the Bureau and the Agency. Much, much higher.'

'Where?'

'To the White House.'

Tess spoke, and Chatham whirled yet again.

'You're telling me' – Tess squeezed Chatham 's arm more.severely -'that the president himself knows I'm in danger and wants to protect me?'

'No. The vice president.'

'Alan Gerrard?' The burly man next to Tess looked puzzled.

'Hey, I know what the columnists write about him,' Chatham said. 'But at least he cares. He told Madden to get in touch with me, and Madden in turn asked me to phone Chief Farley. I'm never happy working with the Agency. Their mandate is foreign, ours is here at home, and it's important to keep those jurisdictions separate. But when I get an order from the vice president, as long as I'm not being asked to break the law, I do my best to comply. The basic message is, I'm supposed to have Tess call Madden.'

'And Madden claims he'll protect her?' the man in front asked.

'No, Madden's just a relay. It's the vice president who wants to protect her. And that means, I assume, that he intends to use the Secret Service.'

Tess shook her head. 'Why would he take such an interest in me?'

'I told you, because of your father. Like so many government officials, Gerrard felt close to your father, and Gerrard wants the government to pay back its debt to your father – for his bravery and his refusal to talk under torture – by making sure you're protected.'

As the van crossed back toward Virginia, its occupants silently considered what Chatham had just explained. Headlights flashed past in the opposite lanes.

Chatham broke the silence. 'Who are these heretics you keep mentioning?'

Tess glanced toward the man in front, her eyebrows raised as if asking permission.

The man nodded. 'You know the limitations.'

Tess sighed. 'Eric, I hope you've got an open mind.'

'After several years as the Bureau's director, not much surprises me anymore. Go ahead. Try me.'

'In twelve forty-four…'

It took a half hour. Chatham listened, astonished, never interrupting. In the end, he once more used the penlight to study the photograph of the bas-relief statue. 'And that's all of it. There's nothing more.'

'Not quite,' the man in the front said. 'But it's all you need to know.'

'I assume the rest of it concerns you and your involvement in this,' Chatham said.

'Don't assume anything. What you already know is enough to put you in danger. Further knowledge would put you at an even greater risk. What do you intend to do?'

'To be honest, if I hadn't seen these photographs… if Tess herself hadn't been the one who told me about this…'

'It's true, Eric. Every word of it.' Tess stared emphatically into his eyes.

'But something this outrageous… Obviously I have to verify it.'

'Then you'll begin an investigation?'

'Absolutely.'

'I hope, discreetly,' the man in front said. 'Do it yourself. Trust no one. The vermin hide where you least suspect them. Remember what happened to Brian Hamilton. If you're not cautious, you'll be their next victim.'

'Give me credit. I wasn't always a bureaucrat,' Chatham said proudly. 'For thirteen years, before I became an executive, I was a damned fine agent. I haven't forgotten how to conduct an investigation without drawing attention to myself.'

'Then do it,' the man in front said. 'Prove how skilled you are.'

'How can I get in touch with you? How do I report what I've learned?'

'No problem. We'll get in touch with you.'

'And expertly, I'm sure. But I don't know why I should trust you,' Chatham said.

'Because of Remington Drake, Melinda Drake, Brian Hamilton, and Tess.'

'By all means, because of Tess, because of the living.'

'We'll need Madden's phone number.'

'Here. This card has his private number.' Chatham frowned. 'But I still can't adjust to the implications. If you're right, if this isn't a delusion, then Madden and Gerrard, the CIA's covert-op deputy director and the president's next-in-line, might be part of this.'

'As I told you, the vermin hide where you least suspect them.' The man in front glanced through the windshield. 'Ah, I see that our timing is perfect. The minute we complete our business, we arrive outside your home. By the way, your car has been moved from the parking lot at the Lincoln Memorial. You'll find it outside your garage.'

'And I'll take a guess that the man who delivered it resembled me.'

'Precisely. He strolled toward the back of your house and disappeared.'

'I wish you worked for me,' Chatham said.

'Be satisfied we're working with you.'

As the van stopped, the man who'd escorted Chatham from the Lincoln Memorial slid open the side hatch, got out, and gestured for the Bureau's director to leave.

'Well, I can't say I've enjoyed the ride,' Chatham said, 'but it certainly has been informative, no matter how disturbing it was.'

'What we hoped you'd feel is not so much disturbed as…' The man in front hesitated.

'Frightened?'

'Yes.'

'Then,' Chatham said, 'you've definitely achieved your intention.'

THREE

As the van pulled away from the shadowy curb, as Tess, Craig and the members of Father Baldwin's team watched Chatham walk past his car in the driveway and enter his large, attractive house, Father Baldwin asked, 'Is he one of them?'

That's hard to know,' Craig said. 'I looked at him closely. He doesn't have gray eyes.'

'That means nothing,' Father Baldwin said. 'Only some of the vermin retain that characteristic. What's more, they sometimes use tinted contact lenses to disguise the color of their irises.'

'I watched Chatham closely as well,' Tess said. 'He responded the way he should have to what I told him. He was believable.'

'Of course,' Father Baldwin said. 'A true professional is always believable. I take that for granted. So I don't know whether to trust him. That's why, in his absence, his phone has been tapped, his home has been bugged, and so has his office. He brags that his security measures are checked every morning, but his precautions are hardly adequate against our own techniques. From this moment, every word that he says will be monitored. He'll be followed by the finest surveillance. And if he makes the wrong phone call, if he sees the wrong person, if he says the wrong words, we'll know that he's one of the vermin.'

'But I don't think he is,' Tess said.

That remains to be determined,' Father Baldwin said. 'What also remains to be determined is the status of Kenneth Madden and Alan Gerrard. We keep moving upward. Perhaps those next-to-the highest officials in the CIA and the White House are as well-intentioned as you want to believe that Chatham is. But the vermin give off an odor, and my nostrils feel assaulted. The odor is very strong. Make the call.'

'To Madden?'

'Yes. Follow the the schedule you were given. Proceed up the bureaucratic level. We'll find the vermin eventually.'

'All I want is to stay alive,' Tess said. 'I'm not sure I want to keep taking the risk of…'

'Remember, they'll kill you unless you give us the chance to exterminate them.'

'But if I make the call and I go through the CIA, through Madden and then to the Executive Branch to Gerrard, I'll still be in danger,' Tess said.

'Craig and I will be with you, though,' Father Baldwin said. 'And keep in mind, the shoes that both of you were given have homing devices in the heels along with microphones. My operatives will always know where you are and whether you're in danger.'

'Small comfort if I'm being killed while your men try to get to me.'

'Tess, without us, your death is certain. With us, you and Lieutenant Craig will have a chance to enjoy the rest of your lives together.'

'That's good enough for me,' Craig said. 'Come on, Tess. We can't give up. As long as we're being hunted, let's fight the bastards, and if we fail, at least we'll have done our best. There's no other choice.'

'But I'm so scared.'

'I know. For what it's worth, so am I.'

Craig hugged her.

'Make that phone call,' Father Baldwin said. To Madden. And after that, to…'

FOUR

Andrews Air Force Base. Maryland.

One a.m. Nearly blinded by spotlights, Tess and Craig stopped their hastily rented car at the heavily guarded entrance to the tall, chain-link, barbed- wire-topped fence of the military airport.

A broad-shouldered, wary sentry responded immediately, not needing to check the list of names on his clipboard when Tess and Craig identified themselves. 'By all means, you're expected. I.D.,' he demanded, adding with stern courtesy, 'please.'

Tess and Craig showed their driver's licenses.

The sentry examined the documents, compared their faces with the photographs on the licenses, and gave them directions toward the base's VIP wing.

While Tess drove beneath the entrance's rising barrier, she and Craig heard the roar of a jet taking off beyond rows of institutional-looking buildings from which other spotlights blazed.

'Father Baldwin lied,' Tess said. 'He promised he'd be with us.'

'What option did he have?' Craig spread his hands. 'Baldwin couldn't come with us, not when Madden told you to meet the vice president here at Andrews. You and I have worked together long enough that I won't attract suspicion. But if we bring a stranger, an unexpected third party, it'll look like a setup. We couldn't explain Father Baldwin's presence. He'd never survive a background check. And if Gerrard is your enemy, we'd make him realize we suspected him. We'd be placing ourselves in a trap.'

'You're telling me we're not in a trap?' Tess drove nervously toward the impressive floodlit VIP building. 'Father Baldwin's men can't possibly get inside this base if we need help.'

'With so many sentries around, nothing's going to happen. Not here, at least. Not now.'

'You trust those sentries?'

'They work for the Air Force, not for Gerrard himself. They can't all be enemies.'

'But what about later?' Tess shuddered. 'What are we doing here? Why did Madden tell us to come to this airport? Suppose Gerrard tells us to get on a jet?'

Craig thought about it. 'We don't know for sure that Gerrard wants to kill you. Or Madden either. All we're doing is following the sequence we were given. Chatham to Madden to…'

'Gerrard. They sound like a fucking baseball team.'

'Just keep control,' Craig said.

'Hey, I'm not used to risking my life the way you are.'

'Used to risking my life? When I started out, in a squad car patrolling the Bronx, I never got used to it. And even in Missing Persons, I still haven't. Every day I wake up, knowing that any door I knock on might have a maniac with a gun behind it.'

'Well, we have plenty of guns around us now.'

Tess stopped the rented Plymouth before palm-raised sentries next to the VIP building.

'Names, please,' one of them said.

Tess and Craig repeated the ritual.

'Identification.'

Again they obeyed.

'Get out of the car, please.'

The sentries used portable metal detectors to scan them. When one of the detectors wailed, a sentry stared aggressively toward Craig.

'I'm a New York City police officer,' Craig said. 'I'm carrying my service revolver.'

'Not anymore.' The sentry tugged the revolver from the holster on Craig's belt.

Tess, who didn't have a permit to carry a handgun, had reluctantly left her pistol with Father Baldwin. She felt helpless, vulnerable.

Distracted by the search, she hadn't noticed a man in an expensive, well-tailored suit walk toward her, appearing as if from nowhere. He was tall, pleasantly featured, in his thirties, with short brown hair, cheery eyes, and an engaging smile. 'Ms Drake, Lieutenant Craig, welcome.' He shook hands with them. 'I'm Hugh Kelly, the vice president's assistant. You arrived just in time. The vice president's looking forward to seeing you.'

Kelly's reassuring manner made Tess feel somewhat at ease. After the chaos she'd been through, he seemed so normal, so sane that she began to wonder if she was wrong to suspect that Gerrard was a threat. At the same time, Kelly's remark about 'just in time' puzzled her.

'Please, come with me,' he said.

Tess expected that he'd lead them into the VIP building. Instead he guided them onto the tarmac, and after a brief walk, Tess peered ahead toward floodlights and something that abruptly made her falter.

'My God,' she said.

'Impressive, isn't it?' Kelly said. 'It's been on order since nineteen eighty-six. The delays have been a headache, the cost-overruns a political embarrassment, from two hundred and sixty-five million to six hundred and fifty million, but finally here she is, and I have to say, in spite of everything, the wait was worth it.'

What Tess stared at, overwhelmed, was an aircraft six stories high and so long it would have dwarfed a football field – the hughest 747 she'd ever seen, its lines (including the bulge above its nose) incredibly sleek, exuding power, a large American flag painted on its rudder, the words UNITED STATES OF AMERICA stencilled boldly along its side, its color predominantly white with highlights of blue.

'I've never seen…' Tess felt so awestruck that she couldn't speak for a moment. 'Even when my father was alive, I never saw… On TV, yes, in newspapers and magazines. But never in person. Up close like this… it's hard to believe. It takes my breath away.' She spoke with reverence. 'Air Force One.'

'Actually Air Force Two,' Kelly said, 'but you really can't tell them apart. Of course, the pictures you saw were of the old one. The seven-oh-seven. It had to be retired because that model was being phased out, and spare parts were hard to find. It was an awfully fine aircraft. I was sorry to see it go. But that plane can't possibly compare to this new one and its counterpart. Boeing outdid itself. This is truly one of the finest passenger jets in the world, perhaps the finest. You'll see what I mean when you board her.'

'Board?' Craig asked in surprise.

'You mean you weren't told?' Kelly sounded equally surprised.

'Our only instructions were to come to Andrews Air Force Base as soon as possible.'

'I wondered why you hadn't brought luggage. Don't worry. You won't have to rough it. We've got plenty of overnight kits – tooth brushes, shampoo, razors.' Kelly glanced politely toward Tess. 'More personal items. And a bathtub-shower. Whatever you need.'

'But…' Tess hesitated, aware of the miniature radio transmitter built into her shoe, conscious that Father Baldwin would be listening, that he'd be as anxious to know the answer to her question as she was. 'Where are we going?'

'Spain.'

The word made Tess feel light-headed.

Spain. Where Father Baldwin had said that the heretics, fleeing France, had found a new home after the attack on Montsegur in 1244.

Spain! Did that mean Gerrard was her enemy?

Or was her destination merely a coincidence?

Tess felt frozen. At once, regaining control of her muscles, she braced herself. All of her instincts made her want to turn and run.

But to where?

And howl The sentries would stop her. She'd never be able to get off the base.

She fidgeted.

'Is something wrong?' Kelly asked.

'No.' Tess tried to recover, to seem natural. 'I'm just surprised is all. Everything's happening so fast. Two hours ago, I didn't expect to be coming here, and now you tell me I'm flying to Spain.'

'I understand what you mean about feeling surprised,' Kelly said. 'Until just after midnight, I wasn't aware we'd be having visitors.' He checked his gold Rolex watch. 'We'd better hurry. In ten minutes, we're scheduled to be air-borne.'

Tess pivoted toward Craig, keeping her face calm but knowing that her eyes revealed her panic.

Craig squeezed her hand, his eyes communicating. We're stuck. We've got to go through with this.

Kelly gestured, leading them onward toward the brightly lit jet.

They reached a tall boarding ramp on wheels.

Tess climbed, counting twenty-six steps, and entered an open hatch behind a massive swept-back wing.

Once inside, sickened by her speeding pulse, she realized that there was no turning back.

Behind, below her, on the tarmac, air-force personnel pulled away the boarding platform. Inside the jet, a uniformed flight attendant shut the hatch and secured it.

She was trapped on Air Force Two.

FIVE

As she studied her surroundings, Tess noticed that the cabin's width was emphasized by its reduced length. Ahead and behind, bulkheads with doors restricted the space. The seats – she counted seventy – resembled first-class airline accommodations, except that they were even larger, more comfortable looking, and the aisles seemed wider than usual. Numerous phones were attached to the fore and aft bulkheads.

This must be where the press and the president's – in this case, the vice president's – team stayed, Tess thought, although she was puzzled that the cabin was empty, except for the uniformed flight attendant.

'We'll be taking off soon,' the attendant said, 'but I think you have time to enjoy a glass of champagne.'

'Mineral water will be fine,' Tess said.

'Same for me,' Craig said.

'What are you serving?' Kelly asked the attendant.

'Dom Perignon.'

'I'll have some.'

'Very good, sir.'

'In the meantime,' Kelly said, 'I'd better tell the vice president that his guests have arrived.' He walked toward the front of the cabin, knocked on the door, and waited.

A discreet pause later, he knocked again.

The door opened.

'Sir, they're here,' Kelly said.

'Excellent,' a sonorous voice said. The door swung quickly farther open.

Alan Gerrard stepped through.

Although Tess had seen Gerrard often at receptions at her parents' home, and sometimes at less formal get-togethers, she hadn't met him since he'd become vice president.

As he approached her, smiling, he looked the same – movie-star handsome, with a perfect tan, glinting teeth, photogenic features, and magnificent hair. The only difference was that six years had made him look more responsible, more wise, more seasoned, despite his reputation for caring more about tennis than he did about politics.

No matter. Regardless of her suspicions about him, Tess couldn't help responding to his aura of achievement. The vice president. In her mind, the words had magic. She almost surrendered to his influence.

But didn't.

She had to keep reminding herself that he was very possibly her enemy.

Gerrard wore casual but impressive clothes – hand-sewn loafers, finely pressed linen slacks, a custom-made Sea Island cotton shirt, greens and browns. Coming nearer, he held out his arms. 'Tess.' He embraced her, kissing her cheek with affection, reassurance, and sorrow.

'Your mother.' He shook his head. 'She's a great loss to everyone, to every politician, including me, who ever enjoyed her gracious hospitality. But most of all, she's a loss to you. She'll be a legend of strength, of generosity, in this jaded community that needs every example of excellence they can possibly find to show them the proper way.'

Tess stepped back, rubbing her tear-stinging eyes. She resolved that the best, least suspicious, most natural thing to do was to treat him the way she had before her father had died. 'Thanks, Alan, but don't you think the rhetoric's a little extreme? You're not campaigning, after all. Your sympathy is appreciated. Really. But a simple, straight-forward "I'm sorry" will do.'

Gerrard studied her, evidently not used to irreverence. At once, his eyes twinkled, blue, Tess noticed, although the one on the right looked irritated, streaked with red. 'Good. I'm glad to see you're keeping up your spirits,' he said. 'Still as feisty as the last time I saw you.'

'I guess I can't help it. I got it from my parents.'

'And God bless both of them. They're sorely missed. Lieutenant Craig, I understand you've been a tremendous help to Tess in her danger and her grief. You're welcome here.'

'Thank you.'

The uniformed attendant brought glasses of mineral water to Tess and Craig, Dom Perignon for Kelly.

Gerrard seemed slightly self-conscious while they sipped. 'Well' - he rubbed his hands together - 'before I explain, before we strap on our seatbelts for take-off, why don't I show you the rest of the plane? I'm very proud of it.'

Tess desperately didn't care, but she acquiesced. 'Lead the way, Alan.'

She hoped that her voice didn't tremble.

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

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

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

Tess pointed toward them, confused.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A servant took their glasses.

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

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

Tess and Craig did the same.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tess debated, then nodded in agreement.

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

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

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

'Your investigators are very thorough, Alan.'

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

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

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

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

She hadn't expected…

She couldn't believe…

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

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

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

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

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

The seatbelt light was extinguished.

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

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

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

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

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

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

'And did he?'

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

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

Tess's throat ached again from grief.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'True.' Craig frowned.

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

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

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

Craig searched and found a set of earphones.

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

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

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

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

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

Craig straightened nervously.

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

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

'I'll be waiting,' Craig said.

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

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

'More so,' Gerrard said.

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

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

'And now?'

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

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

'You'll understand when I finish.'

SIX

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

'That's right,' Tess said.

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

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

'As a matter of fact, they did.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Sounds good to me,' Tess said.

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

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

They nodded their thanks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'I will. I promise.'

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

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

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

He studied Tess, waiting for her reaction.

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

Gerrard nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SEVEN

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'To do what?' Tess asked.

'To get on another plane.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Craig winked, and that made all the difference.

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

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

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

Tess felt more helpless.

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

'Where are we headed?' She hoped she sounded casual.

'Toward Spain's northern coast,' Gerrard said. 'A district called Vizcaya. We'll land in Bilbao.'

'Bilbao?' She strained to make conversation, hoping that Father Baldwin was listening. 'Wasn't there a song about…?'

'"That Old Bilbao Moon"? Yes, but that goes back quite a while. I'm surprised you know it. I'm not sure that this Bilbao is the one in the song.'

'Is it far?'

'Just an hour or so.' Gerrard shrugged. Time enough for a nap.'

Craig leaned forward. 'Why didn't the president himself come for the funeral?'

'Normally he would have.' Gerrard turned. 'There'll be many European heads of state here, a chance for an unofficial summit. But his schedule's too complicated. He'll soon be leaving on a trip that he planned long ago and he can't postpone – to Peru, for a major drug-control conference similar to the one he went to in Columbia last year. You feel nervous, so imagine how he feels with all those drug lords determined to assassinate him. That's why he can't postpone the trip. The president refuses to make it seem as if the drug lords scared him off. His bravery's remarkable. No matter how much he and I don't get along, I hope to heaven that nothing happens to him.'

They settled back as the jet sped onward. Tess closed her eyes and, despite her uneasiness, tried to follow Gerrard's advice and nap. If her premonitions were justified, she knew she'd be needing all her strength.

EIGHT

The bump of the wheels touching down awakened her. Tess rubbed her sleep-swollen eyes and peered outside. Compared to the airport in Madrid, Bilbao's was small, its air less hazy. Perhaps a breeze from the nearby ocean dispersed the exhaust fumes of cars, she thought. Again they avoided the terminal and stopped at a remote section of the tarmac.

Outside, Gerrard spoke as enthusiastically as he had when they'd left Madrid. 'Are you ready for another flight?'

'Another? But I thought our destination was Bilbao.' Tess continued to hope that Father Baldwin was listening.

'Just so we could change to another aircraft. We'll be heading east now, past Pamplona.'

Tess repressed a cringe, remembering that Pamplona was close to where Priscilla Harding had said that she'd found images of Mithras hidden in caves, less sweated, wanting to run, but again Secret Service agents flanked her..

'My friend's estate doesn't have a landing strip,' Gerrard explained, 'so now we'll be using this.' He pointed.

The sight of the helicopter made Tess feel light-headed. Powerless, weak-kneed, disturbed by her lack of control, she was led aboard, and now with increasing panic, she discovered that there was space enough only for a pilot, Gerrard, Hugh Kelly, Craig, herself, and two Secret Service agents. Her protection kept dwindling, her isolation increasing. No matter the confidence that her attraction to Craig had earlier inspired in her, she suddenly felt doomed.

The helicopter's blades whined, turning, spinning, increasing speed until their sound was a whump-whump-whumping roar. With a mighty surge, the helicopter lifted straight up, and Tess, who directed a despairing glance toward Craig, noticed that his expression was equally intense.

He didn't wink this time, and she didn't smile in return. What she did was swallow something hot and bitter.

She forced herself to pay attention to her surroundings, knowing that every detail was important and that she had to regain her discipline.

Study the landscape, her mind insisted. If you get in trouble, you'd better know where you are.

In contrast with the arid, flat, middle portion of Spain, this area along the country's northern coast was lush and hilly. The valleys below her were occupied by farms in which stoop-shouldered men and women wielded scythes to cut tall grass. The men wore trousers, long-sleeved shirts, and wide- brimmed hats. The women had long dresses and handkerchiefs tied around their heads. The absence of motorized farm machinery, combined with the slate roofs and stone walls of the buildings, made Tess feel as if she was experiencing a time warp, that she was witnessing a scene from a previous century.

But those impressions were fleeting – brief, ineffectual attempts to distract herself from her terror.

'That's Pamplona past those hills on the right,' Gerrard said matter-of-factly. 'You can just make out a few tops of buildings. Northeast of us is the French-Spanish border. We're now in a district called Navarra, and those mountains ahead are the Spanish Pyrenees.'

Tess wondered fearfully how close the helicopter was to the Pyrenees in France, to the burned-out ruins of the heretic stronghold on Montsegur, to the site of the slaughter that the European crusaders had inflicted and from where more than seven hundred years ago, after a group of determined heretics had escaped with their precious statue, this insanity had begun.

The mountains were spectacular: high, rugged, limestone cliffs, their deep gorges churning with narrow, swift rivers, their slopes thick with pines and beeches.

The helicopter thundered nearer. The peaks seemed to grow, their outcrops more jagged, their steep drops more wild. How high must they be? Tess wondered. At least seven thousand feet, she concluded – not as tall as the ranges she was familiar with, those in Switzerland and Colorado where her father had sometimes taken her to ski. But these had sharper inclines that made them seem taller, and their ravines were more forbidding. Rugged, she'd thought earlier. Wild. The words gained emphasis as she stared at a rapidly looming gorge, feeling dizzy as she lowered her gaze.

Below, amid tangled woods, a narrow dirt road wound past random gigantic boulders, entering the gorge. Abruptly she glanced up and stiffened as the helicopter also entered the gorge, the whump-whump-whump of the rotors intensified by their deafening echo off the craggy wall of rock on each side, the passage so seemingly narrow that she feared the blades would collide with an outcrop.

At once, the gorge ended. She exhaled, relieved, then exhaled again when the helicopter began to descend. A small valley appeared. Dense forest encircled grassland, and at the center, surrounded by a maze of fenced enclosures, small buildings flanked a commanding structure toward which the helicopter quickly dipped.

The structure had stone walls and a slate roof, the same as the farmhouses that Tess had seen in the fields near Pamplona. But that was the only similarity. Because those farmhouses had been small and modest. But what she stared at now, her uneasiness aggravated by the increasing downward tilt and thrust of the helicopter, was so wide and tall, so impressive…

'It's a castle,' Gerrard explained. 'Not the kind you see in England or in France or for that matter, anywhere else in Europe. This is Spanish castle. In the south, they used a Moorish design, but this type that's common in the north. It doesn't have the turrets, the parapets, the moat, and the drawbridge that you'd expect. It's more like a cross between a manor house and a fortress. The stone and the slate are barriers against an attack by fire. The only exterior wood is…'

'At the windows.' Tess strained to make herself heard above the roar of the sharply descending helicopter. 'Shutters. Even from here, they look thick.'

Gerrard nodded. 'And inside each room, there's a set of doors. Equally thick. A farther barrier to keep flames from reaching inside. But in theory, no one could torch the shutters because as we get closer, you'll see narrow slits in the five-foot-thick stone walls. The slits are so narrow that an outside archer couldn't cross the open area around the castle to shoot flaming arrows without being hit by archers within the castle, and those defending archers, concealed behind those narrow slits, were impossible targets.'

As the helicopter slanted lower, approaching a landing pad, Tess noticed animals in the fields, horses in some while in others there were… 'Your friend's a rancher?' she asked.

Gerrard looked puzzled. Then the wrinkles in his forehead relaxed. 'Ah, I understand. You think those are cattle. They're not. They're bulls. My friend breeds them as a hobby. Some of them will be used next month in the famous bullfight festival of San Fermin in Pamplona. I'm sure you've read descriptions of it, the skyrocket each morning, the frantic bulls being forced to run through the streets, the villagers testing their bravery by trying to race ahead of the frightened herd, some of the young men falling, being trampled and often gored. Eight days and nights of parties. Eight afternoons of ritualized death.'

Tess indeed had read about it, and now that she was close enough, she was able to distinguish the characteristics of the animals, their muscular flanks, their broad humped backs, their long curved horns projecting from thickly boned foreheads.

Bulls.

They were so much a part of Spain's culture that Tess didn't make further connection right away. But then she suddenly noticed one particular bull that had been separated from the others.

Magnificent, it grazed alone in a field, and any doubts Tess had about whether Gerrard could be trusted, any lingering hopes that Gerrard was not her enemy, were instantly dispelled. Her mind envisioned the photograph in her purse, the image of Mithras slicing the throat of a bull. A white bull. Just like the bull that grazed alone in the field. A bull that was white.

The last of her ambivalence about Gerrard was resolved. Terror possessed her, made all the worse because as her heart pounded and her breathing quickened, she didn't dare let Gerrard notice her abrupt panicked understanding. It was clear now. Absolutely certain. Except for Craig, everyone in this helicopter was a threat, including the two Secret Service agents – she had to assume – because Gerrard must have had a reason to choose these two agents from all the others. She cursed herself for having allowed herself to be swayed last night by Gerrard's charisma and the environmental concerns that they shared. She shouldn't have permitted herself to be tempted to believe that he meant her no harm. She should never have spoken so vehemently against the heretics when he tried to convince her that the heretics' motives possibly justified desperate measures, that the moral issues were complicated. Gerrard had been trying to make a bargain with her, to test and perhaps convert her, but she'd been so emotionally involved in the conversation that she hadn't grasped its true purpose. His attempt to appeal to her logic having failed, he now had only one remaining course of action – to kill her.

Her terror increasing, Tess felt her stomach heave as the helicopter set down, the wind from its rotors bending grass. The roar of the engines diminished to a whine and finally silence. Gerrard escorted Tess outside. Hugh Kelly and the two Secret Service agents stayed near Craig.

What do they think we're going to do? Tess thought. Run?

To where? We'd never reach the trees. The time to run or at least to back off was when we were still at Andrews Air Force Base.

But the plan to determine if Gerrard was one of the heretics had seemed so necessary that she'd obeyed Father Baldwin's instructions, and now it was too late to try to get away from Gerrard. She and Craig were stuck here, and their single chance was to try to make a deal.

Tess mentally shook her head. No, there was another chance – that Father Baldwin and his men would manage to follow the signal from the homing device in her shoe and find her. Again she prayed.

Pay attention, she told herself. Concentrate. Be aware of everything.

The air smelled sweet. She savored the fragrance of meadow grass and mountain flowers. As well, the air was amazingly clear, the sky an impressive pure blue. She couldn't remember the last time she hadn't breathed smog. But these impressions were fleeting. What she noticed most was that this circular valley was enclosed by peaks, with only one entrance, the gorge through which the helicopter had approached.

We're trapped, she thought in dismay. All the same, she refused to give up hope. Damn it, there must be something that Craig and I can do to protect ourselves.

At once Gerrard spoke. 'My friend has been waiting. He's eager to meet you.'

Tess swung. A half-dozen laborers had been leaning against a wooden fence, examining a group of bulls. Now one of them stepped away and quickly reached the helicopter. He wore dusty boots and sweat-stained work clothes, a red bandanna around his neck. But no matter his common outfit, his bearing was unmistakably aristocratic. A tall man, heavy but in no way fat. His arms, legs, shoulders, and chest looked solid, well-exercised. His face was rectangular, tawny, with the texture of leather, strong more than handsome, his broad forehead reminding Tess of the bulls. She judged him to be in his late forties and shifted her gaze to his thick, dark, sheeny hair. His eyes – they were brown, Tess made a point of noticing – glinted when he reached his visitors. His smile gleamed.

'¡Señor Gerrard! ¡Buenas tardes! ¡Mucho gusto! Cómo está usted?'

'Muy bien. Gracias,' Gerrard said. 'Y usted?

'¡Excelente!'

The two men embraced, slapping each other's back.

When they separated, the stranger abruptly changed to English, his voice deep and resonant, a politician's voice. 'You've stayed away much too long. You know you're always welcome here.'

'I'll try to visit more often,' Gerrard said.

'I look forward to it.' The stranger ignored the two Secret Service agents and faced Hugh Kelly. Smiling warmly, he shook his hand. 'It's a pleasure to see you again, Señor Kelly.'

'The pleasure is mine.'

'Bueno. Bueno. And Alan, these are your friends?'

'Forgive me for being rude,' Gerrard said. Tess, Lieutenant Craig, this is José Fulano. He has a title and a formal version of name that's extremely long, but when we're not at the conference table, we like to keep things unofficial. I phoned José while we flew to Madrid and told him you'd be coming here with me.'

Fulano shook their hands with delight. 'To borrow your American expression, any friends of Alan are friends of mine. You're very welcome. My home is at your disposal. Mi casa, su casa. Whatever you need, please don't hesitate to ask.'

Sure, Tess thought. What do I need? Like, how the hell do I get out of here? But she pretended not to be terrified and gave him her most pleasant smile. 'We appreciate your hospitality, Señor Fulano.'

'Please, I'm José.'

'Your home is magnificent,' Craig said. 'I've never seen a more beautiful setting.'

Fulano turned and joined them in their admiration of his property. 'I spend too much time in Madrid. If I were sane, I'd never leave here.' He sighed. 'But as Alan understands too well, the pressures of responsibility don't give us much time to enjoy the truly important things, the beauties of life.' Fulano glanced at Tess. 'When Alan phoned me from Air Force Two, he explained that you're an environmentalist. You'll be pleased to learn that there isn't any pollution here.'

'I realized that when we got off the helicopter. I feel like I'm breathing pure oxygen.'

Fulano smiled. 'You must be exhausted from your journey. You'll want to rest, to bathe. I'll show you to your rooms. I'm sure you'd also appreciate a change of clothes.'

Thank you,' Tess said.

'De nada.' Fulano guided them proudly past an outbuilding toward the castle.

A cobblestone road, bordered by grass, led toward it. Close, the building looked less tall than from the air, perhaps six stories, but its width and depth remained considerable. The rocks that made up its walls were huge. Most of the shutters were open, revealing tall spacious windows. On the upper floors, each window had a balcony with pots of colorful blooming flowers and a wrought-iron railing, the bars of which were bent into ornate shapes. Two thick stone slabs formed steps toward a huge, arched, double door made of rich, dark wood.

Fulano pushed one heavy side open and gestured for Tess and Craig to enter ahead of him. More fearful, Tess complied, but not before she noticed armed sentries at each corner of the building.

Although they pretended to study the road and the fields, what they really cared about, with surreptitious glances, were she and Craig.

The moment Tess crossed the threshhold, her first impression was of sweat cooling on her brow. Evidently the temperature outside had been warmer than she'd realized. The stone of both the walls and the floor made the interior at least ten degrees lower.

Her second impression was of shadows. After the bright sun, she needed several moments for her eyes to adjust. A long, sturdy, antique, wooden table occupied the middle of the entry room. Complex tapestries depicting woodlands and mountains hung on two walls. Another tapestry portrayed a bullfight, the matador thrusting his sword. An ancient suit of armor stood in the far left corner.

The ceiling amazed her: dark, polished, foot-square beams joined perfectly, anchored into the stone walls, supported by pillars and occasional transverse beams. She'd never been in a building that felt more solid.

'This way,' Fulano said graciously. He led them across the room, up three more slabs of cool stone, turned left in a muffled corridor, and walked with them up a staircase that was made from the same thick beams that formed the ceiling. The echo of their footsteps was absorbed by the substantial wood and stone below and around them.

The second level was equally amazing, a high, large, open area with a floor and ceiling of massive beams and another long, sturdy, antique table. More tapestries. Wooden throne-like chairs along the walls. Between each chair, a door.

'This is your room,' Fulano told Tess, 'and this is yours,' he said to Craig.

The doors were widely separated.

'Fine,' Craig said. 'But not to be indelicate, Tess and I are…'

'Yes?' Fulano asked, puzzled.

'Together.'

'You're telling me that you've…?' Fulano raised his eyebrows.

'Reached an arrangement.'

'Yes,' Fulano said. 'By all means. Forgive my manners. This room,' he told Craig and Tess, 'is yours. You've had a long journey. You'll no doubt want to rest. But at eight o'clock, please join us in the dining room. It's down the staircase, then left along the corridor. We have a surprise for you.'

'I'm eager to see it. We'll clean up and join you at eight,' Craig said.

'Bueno.'

NINE

Tess and Craig entered the room, which was lofty and wide, with antique Spanish cabinets, open doors at the window, and an oversized bed. Its tall headboard matched the rich, dark beams of the floor and ceiling.

Craig locked the door.

Tess gripped his arms. 'Thank God, you-!'

Craig forcefully put a finger on her lips. 'I bet the view from this room is magnificent. Those flowers. Did you notice them on the balcony? Why don't we take a look?'

It wasn't as if she had a choice. Craig's hand pressed against her back and urged her toward the balcony.

Past the open doors, leaning against the wrought-iron railing, they had a view of the cobblestone road and the outbuildings, beyond which there were fields – bulls in some, horses in others – then the forest, then the towering mountains. A scented breeze widened Tess's nostrils, but that pleasure was irrelevant.

'I'm sure the room is bugged,' Craig murmured. 'But I don't think the microphones can hear us on the balcony. Did you notice the sentries?'

'Yes.'

The white bull?'

'Especially.'

'We're screwed,' Craig said. 'Father Baldwin's plan is a disaster.'

'Maybe not. He could still-'

'You're dreaming,' Craig said. 'We're on our own. I don't understand why Gerrard and Fulano haven't killed us yet, but from now on, we forget about Father Baldwin and depend on ourselves.'

'Gerrard and Fulano must have a reason for letting us live.'

'So far.'

With a tremble, Tess agreed. 'So far. Something else is going on. Maybe the surprise Fulano mentioned.'

'Whatever it is, it's not in our favor.'

'So what do we do?' Tess asked. Try to run?'

'With those sentries? God damn that Father Baldwin,' Craig said. 'He didn't want to help us. He used us. We'd have been safer if we'd never listened to him.'

'That was yesterday. We have to deal with now.'

'All right,' Craig said. 'For the moment, we have to go with the flow. When it's dark, maybe we'll find a chance to escape. Through the woods. Into the mountains. At night, when everyone's asleep, I think we can climb down from this balcony. If anyone tries to stop us I'll do my best to distract them. In that case, you go on without me.'

'No way,' Tess said. 'It's both of us or none.'

'Tess…' Craig gently gripped her cheeks, lowered his mouth, and kissed her. 'They'll hunt us. There's no point in both of us dying. If it comes to a choice, I'd rather that you escaped instead of me.'

She kissed him gently in return. 'You weren't exaggerating when you told Fulano that we'd reached an arrangement. We've just never really discussed it. I want to spend the rest of my life with you.'

She tugged his arm.

Craig resisted. 'What are you…?'

'Going back inside. And from now on, we talk like lovers, or else the people listening to the microphones will be suspicious. In Washington, you called me "babe". You said that was what your father called your mother. Well, babe, let's complete what we planned to start. If we're going to die, let's…" She suddenly hugged him, sobbing. This is all the time we have. Gerrard and Fulano expect us at eight. Let's use that time. I very much want a bath, and I very much want you to join me.'

She began to unbutton his shirt. She kissed his nipples, her warm tears trickling down his chest.

'You're sure?' Craig asked.

'I don't plan to die without making love to you. Touch my breasts. Oh, Jesus, Craig, I'm so scared.'

'I know. I'm frightened, too.'

'I don't want to die. I… Yes! That feels so good. I'm so scared, Craig! Lower. Touch me lower.'

Tess had mentioned taking a bath together. Now they headed in that direction, pausing frequently to kiss, to remove each other's top, but they never got past the bed. Unsteady, light-headed from passion, Tess tumbled with Craig across it, pressing her body onto him. Their kisses became more urgent, their hands more insistent. Moaning, squirming, they continued to undress each other, Tess pulling down his zipper, Craig undoing her belt.

She reached through the open zipper, finding Craig's swollen penis. As she pulled it free, Craig arched his back, shuddered, and cupped her breasts, their nipples rising, hardening. She kicked off her jeans, Craig licking her breasts, then her stomach, shifting lower, pulling down her underwear, kissing her thighs. She yanked off the last of his own clothes and twisted, turning, Craig now on top of her, both of them pressing against each other, exploring every portion of each other's skin. Their tongues met, thrusting. She tasted him, her vagina tingling, warm and wet with greater arousal. She thrust her tongue deeper into his mouth, wanting to enter him, to be one with him, and when Craig finally entered her, Tess didn't care about the microphones, the strangers listening. She wailed in hot flooding ecstasy. It went on and on, one climax after another, and as Craig's penis lengthened unbelievably, his semen erupting within her, she wailed again, this time in unison with him. They lay back, their bodies filmed with sweat.

She struggled to catch her breath. Her heartbeat thundered, then gradually stopped racing. Neither spoke for several minutes.

They kissed again, this time slowly, tenderly. Craig gently stroked her breasts. Fifteen minutes later, they amazed each other by making love a second time. At last, in exhaustion, their apprehension returning, they did what they'd planned at the start. In a tub that was unexpectedly large, they shared a warm soothing bath.

TEN

The time they'd been given was gone.

'Are you ready?' Craig asked.

'No. But if you can think of an alternative, I'd like to hear it.'

'I'm sorry. I can't.'

Then let's do this with style.'

'I love you.'

'And I love… Kiss me. Yes, that's so much better.'

When Tess and Craig unlocked and opened the door, they found the two Secret Service agents seated across from them, watching, waiting. Without a word, the agents followed them downstairs, to the left along the muffled corridor, and into a spacious dining room. There, Gerrard and Fulano sat at another antique table. When they smiled and stood in greeting, Tess noticed that Fulano had changed from his work clothes into slacks and a sport coat.

She and Craig had received fresh clothes as well, a servant having arrived ten minutes before they were expected to leave their room. Craig's outfit was similar to Fulano's.

Her own, however, had not been to her liking. Granted, the garments were attractive: a blue scarf, a matching silk blouse, a red cotton skirt, and soft leather sandals that fit as comfortably as slippers.

But Tess had never liked wearing skirts, especially this one which came down to her ankles, interfering with her stride, and the sandals meant that she'd been forced to take off her sneakers and more important the homing device in one of the heels. She'd put the sneakers into her ample burlap purse, but she couldn't help suspecting that the outfit Fulano had chosen for her was intended to make it difficult for her to take the opportunity, when night came, of running with Craig toward the forest and attempting to escape across the mountains. Again she felt vulnerable, helpless.

'You look lovely, Tess,' Fulano said.

'Gracias, 'she told him, trying to look modest.

Fulano laughed. 'You're learning Spanish.'

'I'm afraid it's the only word I know. But really, thank you. These clothes fit me perfectly. They're gorgeous.'

'My pleasure.'

The doors to the windows of the dining room had been opened. The lowering sun tinted the room with crimson.

'I'm sure you're curious about the surprise I mentioned,' Fulano said.

'It sounds like a birthday party. I've always been fond of surprises.' As she smoothed her skirt and sat at the table, controlling her fear, Tess noticed that the two Secret Service agents positioned themselves near the door through which she and Craig had entered. She also noticed that outside the windows, armed guards patrolled a stone patio.

Gerrard and Fulano sat when Craig did.

A brief explanation,' Gerrard said. 'I get the impression that neither of you has been to Spain before.'

'Regrettably, now that I've seen it,' Craig said.

'One of the first things you have to understand,' Gerrard said, 'is that the Spanish have a daily schedule that's pleasantly different from what we're used to in America. They work from nine till one. Then they take a long break for lunch and what I'm sure you know is called a siesta.' He shrugged. They relax. 'Nap. Make love. Whatever. Then they come back to work at four and stop around seven, after which they greet their neighbors, eat, drink, and discuss the day's activities. What they eat is really a snack, because their main meal occurs very late compared to American customs. Around ten. The snacks they eat earlier are called tapas, and those snacks are one of the many glories of Spanish culture. The surprise we referred to is that you're about to experience tapas.'

Confused because she expected a confrontation, Tess watched Fulano tap his knuckles on the table. At once, three servants appeared, carrying trays from which they set down numerous dishes.

Not having eaten in a while, Tess couldn't help salivating from the aroma of the food on the ornate plates. It wasn't just that she was hungry. She knew she had to eat as much as she could in order to muster her strength in case she and Craig managed to find a chance to escape.

'First,' Gerrard said, 'calamari. Are you familiar with-?'

'They're deep-fried squid. Delicious.'

'Good,' Fulano said. 'And these are olives, and these are sardines. Not what you're used to in America. They're fresh and beyond compare.'

'And these,' Gerrard said, 'are delicate pieces of deep-fried chicken. And these are shrimp, and of course there's bread, and deep-fried potatoes with mayonnaise, and…"

'Enough!' Craig chuckled, although Tess knew that his enthusiasm was forced. 'If this is what you call a snack, I can't imagine what the main meal could possibly be.'

'You'll be amazed,' Fulano said.

'I bet.'

Beyond the windows, Tess continued to notice the sentries patrolling. She quickly pretended to pay attention to the row of various foods. That stack of plates. How do we…?'

'One type of food to each plate,' Gerrard said. 'It's important to separate each taste.'

'Then let's get to it. I'm starved.'

There wasn't any red meat, she noticed, a significant omission given the dietary beliefs of the heretics. With pretended delight, she nooned olives, calamari, and whatever else appealed to her onto various plates, spreading them in a row before her. The tapas indeed were delicious, perfectly prepared, each complementing the other.

'Would you like some vintage wine?' Fulano asked. 'Spanish wine is superb. Or perhaps some excellent cerveza.'

'Excuse me?' Tess looked confused.

'The Spanish word for "beer".'

'Thanks.' Craig swallowed hungrily. 'But I'd prefer water.'

'The same with me,' Tess said. 'Alcohol and I don't get along. It makes me groggy.'

'I have the same reaction. Interesting,' Fulano said. He filled her ceramic cup from a pitcher.

Tess didn't drink until Fulano filled his own cup and drank the same water.

'My God, I think I'm full,' Craig said.

'Exactly when to stop.' Fulano chewed and swallowed an olive, placing its pit at the side of his plate. 'Remember, the main course is later.'

'And now we have another surprise.' Gerrard touched a napkin to his mouth.

Here it comes, Tess thought. The condemned have had their final meal.

'Oh?' Craig lowered his fork. 'Another? This valley. This castle. These tapas. We've been surprised several times already. And now you're telling us there's more?'

'Something truly special. Extremely unusual. It happens only one time each year,' Fulano said. 'But it does require another helicopter ride to see what I mean. I'm sure you're still tired from your trip, but I promise you won't be disappointed. Indeed you'll find it remarkable.'

'In that case, being tired doesn't matter. Let's go.' Craig stood.

Uncertain about Craig's strategy, Tess followed his example.

The Secret Service agents stood as well.

With another rap of his knuckles on the table, Fulano summoned his servants. While they gathered the remnants of the tapas, Fulano Pointed Tess and Craig toward the corridor that led outside.

Five minutes later, as the sun touched the rim of the mountains, its glow more crimson, they reached the helicopter. When Tess climbed inside, carefully watched, she felt troubled that she hadn't seen Gerrard's assistant, Hugh Kelly, since they'd arrived.

Where was he? Why hadn't he joined them?

She had almost no time to analyze the possibilities. A minute later, as if on an urgent schedule, the helicopter lifted off, veered upward, and sped toward the northern mountains. The sun was now behind the peaks, its blood-red glow reflecting off a purple sky.

Her stomach already tense despite the energy-renewing meal, Tess clutched her tight, criss-crossing shoulder belt and expected that at any time the two Secret Service agents would grab her, unbuckle her restraints, and throw her, twisting and turning, into the valley.

Instead everyone stayed in position, the helicopter rising higher, nearing the shadowy mountains.

'Alan tells me that you've been threatened in America,' Fulano said. 'If it helps, I want to encourage you that what you're about to see will help take your mind off your troubles.'

The helicopter crested the northern mountains. Beyond, the sun had almost completely set behind farther ridges. A murky valley lay below them.

'We're approaching the Spanish-French border,' Gerrard said. 'We won't cross it, of course. Without advance diplomatic clearance, even I don't have the authority to violate French air space. But the surprise we want you to see is a custom in southern France that centuries ago drifted down to this area of Spain. It's quite remarkable.'

The helicopter sped over more jagged ridges, crossing another dark valley.

But something was different. As Tess peered down, she realized, puzzled, that this valley wasn't completely dark. Hundreds of isolated lights flickered throughout the murky basin.

'What are those…?' She shook her head. 'They can't be from villages, not with the lights so small and so widely separated. I can't see anything else, but it's almost as if… I'm sure of it. The lights are coming from fields.'

That's correct,' Fulano said. 'What you see are bonfires. The local farmers and villagers are conducting a festival.'

Gerrard pressed against his shoulder harness, leaning toward her. 'Do you know what day this is? I don't mean the day of the week. I mean the date.'

Tess had to think a moment. 'June twenty-second?'

'Very good. And some time between today and yesterday, the summer solstice occurred, the beginning of summer. What you're seing are flames in honor of the new precious season, the growth of the crops, the fulfillment of the fertile promise of spring.'

'The ritual is extremely ancient,' Fulano added. 'It's much older than Christianity, although of course like Easter, the true meaning of which is the resurrection of nature, Christian elements have been layered onto it. Those villagers are praying to Saint John.'

Tess felt an inward jolt. In turmoil, she didn't know if the saint Fulano referred to was John, the Baptist, or John, the Disciple of Christ, but she was betting on the latter, the same John who'd written the final gospel in the Bible, numerous epistles, and the Book of Revelations.

Her mind focused on the photographs in her purse, particularly the photograph of the Bible she'd found in Joseph's bedroom, a Bible from which Joseph had cut out everything except the works of John and the theories that so matched those of the heretics, especially the war between good and evil at the end of the world.

'The farmers and villagers are praying around those flames,' Gerrard said. They're holding crosses made from wild flowers and wheat.'

Yet again Tess felt jolted. Flames. Wheat.

She recalled the grotesque statue: the torch bearers, Mithras slicing the throat of the bull, its blood cascading to fertilize the earth, the dog straining to intercept the blood, the serpent lunging to destroy the wheat that the blood caused to sprout from the soil. A war between good and evil, and depending on which side won, nature would live or die.

With shock, she understood that the sacred festival in this valley was a remnant of Mithraism, that the heresy was more deeply rooted, more widely spread than she'd ever anticipated.

Nests. Father Baldwin had said he'd been searching for nests, particularly in Spain, although his attention was directed toward the Picos de Europa to the west, not the Pyrenees to the east. What he didn't know was that the nests existed not just in the Picos but all along southern France and northern Spain, and that the villagers had so absorbed Mithraism into Catholic traditions that they perhaps didn't even know the true origin and meaning of the fertility ritual they now performed

Or perhaps they did know its true origin and meaning, and that made the ritual all the more awesome as well as terrifying. Like the villagers and farmers around the bonfires in the valley, Tess had devoted herself to nature, but Gerrard and Fulano – who'd devoted themselves to Mithras, the god of nature – controlled her, and maybe she and Craig would be the next sacrifices to the god.

The helicopter began to descend, approaching the isolated flames in the valley.

'We're not going back?' Craig asked.

'Not just yet,' Fulano said.

'Why?' Craig's voice deepened.

'We have a further surprise,' Gerrard said.

'This evening is full of them. I'm tired. I don't know if Tess and I can take any more,' Craig said.

'Believe me, this surprise is worth it,' Gerrard said.

The helicopter kept descending into the murky valley, and immediately Tess realized that some of the flickering bonfires had been arranged in a special pattern. They form a landing pad! she thought.

In the darkness, the helicopter's pilot used the squared-off section of flames to guide him toward a level section in the valley. As the bonfires flickered, the pilot eased the helicopter onto the grass, then shut off the engines.

'And now?' Craig asked.

'Something so sacred that very few have ever seen it,' Gerrard said.

'You worry me. I'm from New York. Mountains, valleys, bonfires? To me, they're like Mars.'

'Then we invite you to look at Mars,' Fulano said. 'I guarantee you'll be impressed. I correct myself. You'll be astonished. Open your mind. Prepare yourself for what will be the greatest memory of your life.'

'Since you're my host,' Craig said, 'I take for granted that I can trust you. I also assume that as a host you feel an obligation to your guests.'

'That goes without saying.'

'All right, then, as long as we've agreed, let's see the surprise that'll be my greatest memory.'

'Follow.'

They stepped from the helicopter.

ELEVEN

Tess felt cloaked with oppressive darkness while in a square that enclosed the helicopter, brilliant bonfires blazed. Their drifting acrid smoke conflicted with the fragrance of the grass and flowers in the night-shrouded valley.

Numerous villagers and farmers, all wearing festive garments, stood next to the flames, holding impressive crosses, woven from flowers and stalks of wheat. As the light flickered over those crosses, Tess faltered, stunned by the memory of what Priscilla Harding had told her. Before Christianity, before the tradition that the cross represented the execution of Christ, a prior tradition had associated the symbol of the cross with the glory of the sun. And now, with chilling certainty, Tess watched the flames reflect off the wheat of the crosses and knew absolutely that those crosses, composed from nature, were devoted to the sun – and to Mithras, the god of the sun.

Fulano took a torch from one of the villagers and gestured for Tess and Craig to walk to his right across the field. Gerrard took another torch and accompanied them as did the two Secret Service agents. But unexpectedly the group became larger, other men joining them from beyond the fires. These newcomers did not wear festive garments. They didn't carry crosses woven from flowers and wheat. What they wore instead was rugged outdoor clothing, and what they carried were automatic weapons.

Beyond the bonfires, the field became disturbingly black, illuminated in patches only by the torches that Fulano and Gerrard held before them. Tess fearfully recalled the torchbearers in the statue that she'd seen in Joseph's bedroom. Her feet and ankles felt cold, the dew on the knee-high grass soaking her sandles and the lower portion of her long skirt. Panic made her want to tug at Craig and run. They might be able to escape in the darkness, she hoped. But despair took charge, making her realize that the guards would hunt them, that the villagers would join in the search, and the odds were that she and Craig would lose their sense of direction, running in circles in this unfamiliar valley, trying to avoid the bonfires until they were captured.

The field began to slope upward. Guided by the torches, she and the rest of the group passed beech trees, veered around boulders, and continued climbing, the dampness making Tess colder. The hill angled higher, and now she smelled the resin of pine trees.

At once the slope leveled off. Grass became rocks. She peered ahead toward where the torches revealed a narrow gap, concealed by bushes, at the base of a cliff. Stepping closer, she saw that the gap was the entrance to a cave. But a few feet into the cave, a rusted iron door formed a barrier.

Fulano handed his torch to a guard, removed a key from his pocket, and released a padlock on the door. With effort, leaning his shoulder against the door, he shoved it open, its hinges creaking. The night became eerily silent, the only sound the crackling torches and Fulano's footsteps as he disappeared beyond the door. Five seconds later, the silence was broken by the sound of something being cranked, then the sputter of an engine, then a roar as the engine came to life. The interior of the cave was abruptly illuminated by a dim bulb attached to the ceiling, and Tess saw that the engine was a kerosene-powered generator.

Someone nudged her back. Turning, Tess blinked in surprise at Hugh Kelly, who must have joined them during the trek up the slope. Where had he been? What had he been doing? Like the guards, he too wore outdoor clothing.

'Go in,' he said. 'You'll find shoes and a jacket. The cave can be slippery. It's also cold.'

'I brought my sneakers,' Tess said. She took them from her purse and pulled them on, her feet at last secure.

No matter, she trembled. The torches were set on the ground, twisted among the rocks, and extinguished. When she and Craig entered the cave, followed by Gerrard, Kelly and the guards, she noticed woolen coats opposite the generator and put one on, buttoning it. Despite its insulation, she continued to tremble.

The narrow passage was barely head-tall. Proceeding, she stopped ten yards ahead just beyond a curve, frowning at another iron door.

While Fulano unlocked it, Hugh Kelly shut and locked the first door.

That's it, she thought. We're finished.

'Don't look so nervous.' Despite the roar of the generator, Fulano's voice reverberated off the damp limestone walls. 'That locked door is strictly for security precautions. After all, we're here at night, and remember, you're not the only ones at risk. Alan and I are attractive targets for assassins. I trust the villagers, but the darkness could very well hide enemies who may have kept track of our movements and would like nothing better than to catch us alone in this isolated area. Three guards have stayed outside to make sure that no one attacks us when we leave. As you may have noticed, Alan's Secret Service agents don't look happy about this trip.'

'I did notice.' Tess remained convinced that the guards cared more about Craig and herself than they did about Gerrard and Fulano. All the same, she pretended to follow his logic. 'But what if something goes wrong outside? What if your guards are overpowered?'

'We try to contact them with walkie-talkies. If they don't respond,' Gerrard explained and gestured off-handedly, 'we use a different exit.'

'You've thought of everything,' Craig said.

'We try to.' Fulano nudged the farther door, forcing it open, its hinges screeching, its iron bottom scraping against rock. 'And now the surprise.'

'One of the greatest wonders in the world,' Gerrard said. 'Few people have seen it. Only those who deserve to, who have the capacity to appreciate it, who care about the planet, about its soul, and you, Tess, have the right. Because you do care. With a passion. You've proven that in your articles.'

'So now' – Fulano shoved the door completely open – 'you're about to see a mystery. Perhaps the greatest mystery. Something so sacred that after you see it, you'll never be the same.'

'I can't imagine what-'

'No,' Gerrard said. 'Don't imagine. Don't anticipate. Just witness it. Just stand back and appreciate. You're about to be changed.'

'The way my life has been going, I'm due for a change. For the better, I hope.'

'For the better,' Fulano said. 'No question. You have my word. Absolutely.'

Tess followed them through the door, clutched Craig's hand, and felt the guards behind her. Fulano paused to lock the second entrance.

It's getting worse, Tess thought.

Crude steps carved into the limestone led down to a deep, wide, towering cavern. Dim lightbulbs next to the primitive stairway Sustened off moist rock and guided the way.

Tess reached the bottom, overwhelmed by the vastness of the amber. In awe, she stared this way and that at intricate rock formations. Stalactites hung from the ceiling, water dripping down from them, forming pools which she avoided. Stalagmites projected upward from the pools, their contours vaguely resembling the snouts of animals.

Her rapid breathing appeared as vapor.

'This cave has a constant temperature of fifty-five degrees,' Fulano said. 'Winter or summer. Thousands of years ago, a rock-fall buried the original entrance, preserving the interior. In all that time, the secret of the cave was hidden. But during the eighteen hundreds, another rockslide opened a gap in the cliff. A local farmer, searching for missing lambs, wandered up the slope, discovered the gap, and decided to investigate, less out of curiosity about the cave – after all, such places can be dangerous – than out of concern that his lambs might have wandered inside. He soon reached a farther gap so narrow that his lambs could never have gotten past it. Dim sunlight from the entrance showed him that the cave was much larger beyond the narrow passageway, and he mentioned it to his family, then to other farmers after he'd found his lambs in a meadow later that day. Word gradually spread and eventually reached my valley, where my great-great-grandfather had an interest in caves. He decided to mount an expedition, came to this valley, and ordered his workmen to use picks and sledgehammers to widen the passageway. The limestone was brittle enough to allow them to accomplish his orders. He then used torches to investigate farther, and when he found what we're about to show you, he swore his workers to secrecy. As quickly as possible, he had an iron door secured into the rock walls at the entrance, and he alone carried the key to its padlock. Later a second door was added farther along. Those doors are not the ones through which we passed. Years ago, the originals rusted and disintegrated, replaced by others. In recent times, improvements were made, steps chiseled into slopes, light-bulbs strung, their wires attached to the kerosene generator.'

'But what did he find?' Craig asked. 'And why did he want to hide it?'

'Not so much to hide it as protect it,' Fulano said. 'In a moment, you'll understand.' He led the group across the chamber, entering a dimly illuminated corridor that twisted to the right, then the left, and took them lower.

Tess felt smothered by the dampness and the sense that the confines of the cave created a pressure, making the air around her heavy. She stepped over pools of water, sometimes hearing water trickle from the ceiling. On occasion, cold drops pelted her head. One passage led to another, maze-like.

She rounded a bend. Another huge chamber opened before her. Fulano and Gerrard waited ahead, smiling with joy, their eyes glinting so intensely that reflection from the dim bulbs along the floor couldn't have caused the radiance in their expressions.

Craig stopped beside her. In back, Hugh Kelly and the guards emerged from the corridor, joining them.

'And now?' Craig sounded apprehensive. 'Why are we stopping?'

'Because we've reached what we came to show you. Don't you see?' Gerrard asked, laughing. 'Don't you see? Look around!' His laughter swelled, echoing throughout the cavern, his gleeful outburst magnified. 'Look!'

Confused, Tess obeyed, slowly turning, directing her gaze in the direction of Gerrard's outspread arms.

Abruptly she did see, and the vision that awaited her caused her to clutch her chest, then to step back in astonishment, awestruck.

'Oh, my God.' At once she said it again, louder, overwhelmed. 'My God!'

Her knees became weak. She struggled to keep her balance, stunned to the core by what she was witnessing.

'They're magnificent!' she blurted. They're…! I've never seen anything like…! It's almost impossible to believe…! They're so beautiful I want to cry!'

Craig shook his head in astonishment, so overpowered with surprise and rapture that he was speechless.

All around and above them, on the walls and across the ceiling, animals seemed to race or graze, to swim or leap or simply pose to be admired. Paintings on the rock, so many that Tess couldn't count them or comprehend their complex flowing pattern, the animals frequently overlapping, their images static yet somehow in motion, a huge eternal rampant herd.

'Yes,' Gerrard said, his voice sounding choked, 'so magnificent, so awesomely beautiful that they make me want to cry. I've been here innumerable times, and their effect on me is always the same. Their splendor makes me ache. You realize now that I wasn't exaggerating. They're one of the greatest wonders in the world. To me, they represent the soul of the planet.'

Deer, elk, bison, horses, ibex, bears, lions, mammoths. More, many more, including species that Tess could not identify, Presumably because they were extinct.

Some were engraved in the rock, the figures outlined with charcoal. Others were silhouetted in red, the lines either solid or composed of large dots. The animals were life-size. On the ceiling, an eight-foot-long deer had racks of spreading, many-pronged antlers that were almost equally long. The contours of the ceiling had been used to indicate bulging muscles in the deer's back and legs.

The style of the paintings was eerily realistic as if the animals were alive and any moment could leap off the walls. At the same time, the style was surreal, causing the magnificent creatures to look oddly distorted, some foreshortened, others elongated, a distortion that added paradoxically to the powerful effect. The animals curved gracefully around projections in the rock. They rippled dramatically in and out of cracks and fissues. An elk appeared to be swimming. A horse appeared to be falling. Moisture in the limestone made them shimmer. Breathtaking.

'Who painted these?' Craig managed to ask. 'When? You said this cave was discovered in the eighteen hundreds. But before then, rocks had barricaded the entrance. How old are-?'

'Twenty thousand years.'

'What?'

'These paintings come from a time when human beings had only recently appeared,' Fulano said. 'Who painted them? Our immediate evolutionary ancestors. A type of human called Cro-Magnon. Obviously their sense of beauty, their admiration for nature, was immense. In that respect, compared to our own disrespect for nature, perhaps our species hasn't evolved but regressed. Sometimes you hear these people referred to as "cave men, " an absurd expression because the Cro-Magnons never lived in caves. How could they have tolerated the chill and the dampness?' Fulano shook his head. 'No, they lived outside the caves. But for reasons that anthropologists haven't been able to determine, they sometimes went into the caves, deep within, and in chambers similar to this one, they painted the glory of the animals. It's my opinion that these chambers were their churches, that they came here on special occasions, perhaps at the vernal equinox and the summer solstice, to worship the miracle of rebirth and growth, to initiate children about to become adults and show them the mysteries of the tribe. The greatest mystery – life. A place of adoration, of sublime appreciation for what this planet is all about.'

Gerrard added to Fulano's explanation. 'This wasn't the only such sanctuary to be discovered during the eighteen hundreds.'

Tess nodded. 'I've heard about, although I've never seen, the paintings at Lascaux in France, and many others, including those at Altamira here in Spain.'

'But Lascaux was discovered in the nineteen forties,' Fulano said. 'As far as historians believe, Altamira – three hundred kilometers west of here – was the first to be explored. In eighteen seventy-nine. But my ancestor discovered these paintings ten years before. He knew instinctively that no expert in pre-history would believe in their authenticity. How could primitive human beings have produced such exquisite beauty? Scholars would conclude that these brilliant paintings were recent, cleverly forged. To prevent his discovery from being ridiculed, he kept it to himself, placing a door across the cave, preserving it for himself, his family, and special friends. His instincts served him well, for when Altamira was discovered, the experts scoffed. Only when other caves with paintings were discovered in France did anthropologists admit their mistake and accept the images at Altamira as authentic. Lascaux and Altamira are so impressive that they're often referred to as the Sistine Chapels of paleolithic art. But I've seen Lascaux, and I've seen Altamira, and I tell you that they can't compare to what you've been privileged to witness. This is the true Sistine Chapel of paleolithic art. My ancestor was wise in another respect as well. He understood that this cave, after tens of thousands of years of not being disturbed, was so delicate that if people flocked to see these images, the warmth from their bodies would affect its ecology. The soil on their shoes would leave contaminants. The breath from their mouths would add to the humidity on the walls. These paintings, preserved by a blessed accident of nature, would be destroyed by fungus and the soot from torches. Only a few special witnesses could ever be allowed inside. The twentieth century proves that he was correct. So many tourists entered Lascaux that the paintings became covered with destructive green mold. The cave had to be sealed again, only experts allowed to enter and even then only after special precautions were taken, for example a disinfecting pool through which the limited observers had to step in order to kill the contaminants on their shoes. At Altamira, only a few can enter each day, and only then by appointment. But here, in this isolated cave in this isolated valley, even fewer are allowed to enter. The double doors provide an extra buffer, a way of keeping the outside air filled with pollen and seeds from entering the inner chamber. You were told that this would be the greatest memory of your lives. I assure you that, after a hundred years and more, your memories are shared by a precious minority.'

'And you haven't even seen the best part,' Gerrard said.

'There are other paintings?' Craig raised his eyebrows in amazement.

'Yes, one more chamber,' Fulano said, his dark eyes gleaming. 'The best for last. Come. Appreciate. Worship.'

'Believe me, I already have.'

'Worshipped? Not completely. Not yet. It's just around this bend,' Fulano said. 'Prepare yourselves. The next-to-ultimate revelation will stun your… Well, why should I tell you what to expect? See for yourselves.'

He led. They followed, and as Tess rounded the bend, she gasped, not only in awe but fear. So did Craig.

The chamber, like the previous one, was filled with paintings, images, life-like portrayals of animals. But here the animals were exclusively bulls. Everywhere. And unlike the paintings in the previous chamber, the bulls weren't outlined in charcoal or red. These were multi-colored, not merely silhouetted but completely detailed. Totally realistic. Their hoofs were black, their haunches brown, their humped backs red. Their tails curved as if in a photograph. Their slanted pointed horns, too, were black. And their eyes were so vivid that they seemed about to blink in rigid anger, furious that they'd been captured eternally on the walls and the ceiling, their legs thrusting, their muscles straining, their bodies arching, an example of – a celebration of – the strength of nature, the strikingly beautiful surge and power of the universe, which twenty thousand years later was on the verge of being destroyed.

'The colors come from powdered carbon, ochre, and iron oxide, mixed with animal fat and blood. The technique is known as polychrome,' Gerrard said, 'and there are only two other sites, Lascaux and Altamira, where it was used to such a degree. Immensely sophisticated. Superbly executed. The greatest artwork that human beings have ever created. Because the message is the greatest – the enormous vitality of nature. But as the green mold on the paintings at Lascaux makes clear, our interference with nature has caused its vitality to be weakened to the point of extinction. We have a sacred responsibility. At any cost, the sickness of the planet must be reversed.'

Tess felt increasingly overpowered by what she was seeing.

And increasingly fearful.

Bulls. Like flames and crosses, so much of this nightmare had to do with bulls, and while her gaze pivoted along a wall, across the brilliant multi- colored bulls, she suddenly froze at the sight of one bull that was larger than all the others. Instead of having been portrayed in red, black, and brown, it was monochrome, the white of chalk, like the bull in the statue, and its head was raised in agony, a spearlike barbed line projecting through its neck.

Tess followed the direction of the white bull's anguished expression and whimpered when she saw another locked iron door.

What had Gerrard just said? We have a sacred responsibility. At any cost, the sickness of the planet must be reversed. And earlier, Fulano had said that this chamber was the next-to-ultimate revelation. What was behind the door?

'This is the only example of a violent image in the cave.' Fulano interrupted her urgent, panicked thoughts. 'But my ancestor wasn't puzzled. He understood the necessity for the violence in the painting, and he also understood that the color of the bull, its whiteness, was a sign. He knew precisely what he had to do.'

Tess gripped Craig's hand, watching Fulano unlock the door, then shove it open, the shriek of its hinges making her spine quiver.

'Somehow I don't think we're going to see more paintings,' Craig said.

'You assume correctly,' Fulano said. 'What you're going to see is the truth.'

Tess gripped Craig's hand much harder. In dismay, she hesitated. But Hugh Kelly and the guards urged her onward. With dread, her stomach cramping, she had to step through the door.

TWELVE

The cavern was dim, illuminated sparsely not by lightbulbs but by torches. The cavern became darker when Fulano shut and locked the door, blocking the light from the bulbs in the chamber of the bulls.

'The floor is damp but level. You shouldn't have trouble maintaining your balance,' Gerrard said, reassuringly. Their footsteps echoed. As Tess approached the first of the torches, she saw that it was made of stone and anchored into the cavern's floor. At the top, a basin was filled with flaming oil. The tongues of fire wavered as if her approach had caused a subtle breeze.

She stepped toward a second torch, and beyond in the darkness, she heard Gerrard and Fulano walking. Something scraped. A match flickered. She saw Gerrard lower it toward another torch, from which flames soon rose. Fulano did the same, lighting a farther torch. The two men moved around the chamber, continuing to light more torches until the darkness was almost completely dispelled. Even so, when they passed the torches, their shadows wavered eerily.

Fulano had described the cave paintings as the Sistine Chapel of paleolithic art. But now, in shock, Tess found herself staring at a true chapel. She tried to retain her presence of mind, to analyze what she was seeing. The chapel's design, its columns and vaulted ceiling, looked Roman, but given what Fulano had said about the cave having been discovered in the eighteen hundreds, Tess suspected that no matter the chapel's design, it wasn't ancient but instead had been built within the past hundred years.

It was chiseled from limestone and divided into three sections. To the right, three steps led up to an arched entrance and then an aisle with a bench carved out of the wall. On the left, three other steps led up to an identical aisle and bench. In the middle, a more lofty arched entrance provided access to a long open area, lower than the aisles and visible from the benches. The design was intended to focus attention toward a prominent object on a large square altar at the rear of the central area, and that object – Tess's heart faltered – was a bas-relief statue of Mithras straddling a white bull, slicing its throat. She wanted to scream. Her mind swirled. She feared that she'd go insane.

The statue was twice as large as the one she'd seen in Joseph's bedroom. Its white marble was weathered, cracked, and chipped, and she knew in her soul that this wasn't a copy, as Joseph's had been. No, this was the original. This was the statue that the small determined group of heretics had managed to take with them when they used ropes to escape down the mountain the night before the massacre at Montsegur.

'As I promised,' Fulano said. The truth.'

'Come. Look closer,' Gerrard said. He shifted between Tess and Craig, spread out his arms, and conducted them toward the chapel's central area. Before he entered, he stopped at a basin mounted on a pedestal and dipped his right hand within it. Water glistened on his fingers as he touched them to his forehead, his chest, then his left and right shoulder, making the Sign of the Cross.

But not the cross of Christianity, Tess knew. This cross was that of the sun god.

'A holy-water basin?' Her fear gave way to bewilderment.

'No doubt, it reminds you of Catholicism,' Gerrard said. 'But the ritual predates Catholicism. Like so many of our rituals, this one was borrowed – stolen - from us after Constantine converted from Mithraism to Christianity during the fourth century. After they persecuted us, the hypocrites then pretended that they'd also invented communion, the consecration of bread and wine, the sharing of the sacred meal. But unlike their false religion's bread and wine, which supposedly represents the body and blood of Christ, our bread and wine represents the fertility of, the bounty of, the earth. Similarly this water – which doesn't need to be blessed because simply by being water it's already holy – represents the glory of the rains and rivers that satisfy nature's thirst.'

'Or used to,' Fulano said, 'before poisons in the atmosphere turned the rain into acid. That water comes from a stream in this valley that hasn't yet been polluted.'

They neared the altar. Tess shuddered at the sight of the dog, the serpent, and the scorpion trying to stop the sacrifice that would bring life back to nature. On the left of the dying bull, the blood of which was supposed to fertilize the soil, a torchbearer's flame pointed upward while that of the torchbearer on the right pointed down. Good and evil in conflict.

'So now it's time,' Gerrard said.

Fulano joined them.

The vice president continued, 'I'm sure that despite the carefully constructed sequence of our revelation, the revelation itself is not a surprise. It was obvious to me that when you boarded Air Force Two, you suspected I was one of the heretics – to use the term you prefer – although for us Christianity is the heresy. It was also obvious to me that you suspected that I knew you suspected. So we engaged in word-games, clever dialogues in which each tried to fool the other. But neither of us was convincing. Even so, the things you said affected me, Tess. Your profound environmental concerns, your obvious commitment to the planet. In Washington, when I heard that you threatened us, I agreed with a plan to have you guided toward me so I could personally arrange your death. At José's estate, your execution could easily have been accomplished. However, I'm no longer convinced that you ought to be killed. I see possibilities in your attitude. I think that your passionate skills as a journalist could be a help to us. You feel justifiably furious about your mother's death. As do I. That murder was senseless. Clumsy. Needless. But it happened. It can't be undone. So the question I need to ask is, To preserve your life, are you prepared to subdue your grief and work with us? Think carefully. It's the most important question you've ever been asked.'

'Murder, blackmail, terrorism? Your methods are wrong,' Tess said.

'But they're necessary, since no other methods have been successful,' Gerrard said. 'However, I appreciate your honest response. For the first time, you're not deceptive. You were tempted to lie, given the weapons aimed behind you, but you didn't. Remarkable. Perhaps there's hope, and I really would hate to order your death. You're a vital, healthy, athletic, well-intentioned, young woman – a perfect example of the life force we're trying to save. I'd sincerely regret destroying you.'

Craig coughed.

'You have something to add, Lieutenant? Remember that the only reason you've been tolerated is your romantic association with Tess. If you were killed, she'd never cooperate.'

'Exactly,' Craig said. 'Because we love each other, Tess and I very much want to stay alive. But suppose I manage to forget that I work for NYPD. Suppose Tess manages to forget that you bastards killed her mother.'

Gerrard stiffened. 'Proceed.'

'If we agree to your terms, how would you know we weren't lying? How would you know you could trust us?'

'You've already answered part of your question,' Gerrard said. 'You and Tess love each other enough that you wouldn't jeopardize your future over something you can't control. The plan that our ancestors formulated hundreds of years ago has been achieved. We've infiltrated every major government and corporation, not to mention every important communication network and financial institution. You and Tess could never escape our attention. Our operatives would watch you constantly. You'd be killed the moment you tried to reveal our existence and urge non-believers to move against us.'

Tess couldn't surmount her fear, remembering in turmoil that the night before, Father Baldwin had made the same threat. If you attempt to reveal the secret that the Inquisition never ended, our operatives – constantly watching you – will guarantee your silence. She felt trapped between one side and the other. Good and evil. But which side was good, and which side was evil? Both used similar, vicious, lethal tactics.

'All right,' Craig said. That makes sense. But according to you, I answered only part of the question. What's the rest of it? If Tess and I promise to cooperate, how would you know you could trust us? How could we be confident that we'd be safe?'

'Yes,' Gerrard said. 'How indeed? At this point, I have to defer to José's judgment. My power is limited, even though I'm America's vice president. But José is the direct descendant of the leader of the heretics who escaped from the massacre at Montsegur. He makes the final life-and-death decisions.'

Tess and Craig spun toward Fulano.

The Spaniard narrowed his eyes. 'You appreciated the paintings, the chapels of the animals?'

'Despite my terror, yes. They were unbelievably awesome,' Tess said.

'And you understand their significance?'

'I do,' Tess said. They represent the soul of nature.'

Fulano assessed her. Then despite our differences, we may be more alike than you realize. Perhaps an accommodation can be reached.' He frowned. 'But in order to gain our trust, you need to make a sign of good faith.'

'How do we manage that? What do you mean? What kind of sign?'

'You have to be baptized.'

'What?'

'You need to convert.'

To Mithraism?'

'It's the only way,' Fulano said. 'If you become one of us, if you experience the mystery, if you respond to the powerful rite, you'd never dream of betraying us.'

'Baptism?'

Fulano nodded.

Tess thought quickly, Anything to get out of here. Having my forehead splashed with water? A few prayers being said? That's nothing compared to what I've been through. She forced herself to appear to hesitate, to ponder, and finally said, 'All right.'

'Don't think you can fool us,' Gerrard said. This baptism isn't the type you're familiar with. It's not the same as Christianity's. I warn you. It's primordial, much more profound than you can imagine.'

What could it possibly be? Tess thought. How different from the baptism of Christianity? Total immersion in an ice-cold underground spring? Her fear of dying from hyperthermia or of being suffocated was certainly profound. But baptism by total immersion was practised by several Christian fundamentalist groups, she knew, and Gerrard had insisted that this baptism was totally different from Christianity's and by definition from fundamentalist versions of it.

At once, however, Tess remembered that total immersion wasn't limited to fundamentalist Christians. Various sects in India also practised total immersion, and Priscilla Harding had explained that isolated groups devoted to Mithraism were known to have survived and to practise their rites in present-day India.

Total immersion? Tess grimly decided, As bad as that would be, the cold, the tug of the water, the feeling of helplessness, it still can't compare to what I've already been through.

'I appreciate your warning,' she said, 'but I've thought about it, and I agree. I'll do my best. I'll be baptized. I'll join you if that's what it takes for Craig and me to be left alone, to live without fear.'

'Without fear, yes, but you'll still have to help us,' Gerrard said.

'But only in non-violent ways.'

'Of course,' Gerrard said. 'As a journalist committed to protecting the planet.'

'Nothing could stop me from doing that.'

'Lieutenant, do you agree as well?' Gerrard asked.

'I'm with Tess,' Craig said. 'We share the same decisions.'

Then please step through that archway.' Fulano pointed toward the rear of the chapel, toward an exit on the right beside the statue of Mithras on the altar.

Tess tried to demonstrate total resolve as she walked, muscles quivering, toward the right of the altar. Abruptly she faltered, hearing what at first was an inexplicable sound in the darkness beyond the archway.

With a clomping echo, something stomped.

Tess jerked toward Fulano, her face contorted with fright and confusion. 'What was that?'

Immediately the stomp was followed by a violent snort. 'What is it?' Craig's husky voice became guttural. 'It sounds like-'

'-an animal.' Tess breathed.

'You were warned,' Fulano said. 'This baptism is more unusual than you expect.'

'Primordial.'

'Yes. Depending on your reaction, you'll live or die,' Fulano said. 'We'll know at once if you're converted because it'll be obvious whether you've accepted the baptism's power.'

The mysterious unseen animal stomped what sounded like a massive hoof a second time and scraped it over the cavern's floor, the powerful echo reverberating from the archway into the chapel.

Then the animal snorted again, a gruff, moist, angry outburst.

Tess became paralyzed with terror.

But Hugh Kelly and the guards broke her paralysis, crowding relentlessly against her and Craig, pressing the two of them onward, forcing them through the archway.

Gerrard and Fulano had quickly entered before them, striking matches, lighting more torches, and as the flames rose, shimmering, they revealed what the cavern behind the chapel held.

Tess barely managed not to scream.

THIRTEEN

Trapped in a narrow pen carved from gray stone but with an iron gate at one end, stood the huge white bull that Tess had seen isolated in a field this afternoon as the helicopter descended toward Fulano's estate.

Tess suddenly knew where Hugh Kelly had been and what he'd been doing since the helicopter had landed and why he'd gotten here ahead of them, mysteriously joining them on the slope outside the cave. He'd been ordered to arrange this. As the torches flared, wavering from a breeze apparently created y the group's approach, the majestic white bull swung its angry head in Tess's direction, its blood-red gaze revealing its fury at having been imprisoned here for so long in the dark. Its nostrils widened, spewing moisture as it snorted once more in outrage.

The animal strained its neck and thrust with one horn, as if despite the distance it believed with proud desperation that it could reach and impale its captors.

'Dear God,' Tess moaned.

'Yes,' Gerrard said. 'Dear God. That's the meaning of the statue. This white bull represents the moon, and because the moon brings light to the darkness, it symbolizes the triumph of good over evil. Obviously the moon is a counterpart to the sun, and so, too, this bull is a counterpart to – a substitute for – Mithras, the God of the sun.'

Tess couldn't stop moaning.

'Your fear is understandable,' Gerrard said. 'But I hope that you also moan in reverence. After all, sacred rites have no effect if they don't induce profound emotion. Obviously this is a test. The two of you are about to be changed. I guarantee it. By all means, one way or another, life opposed to death, agreement opposed to defiance, you're about to be changed.'

Tess trembled.

'Step closer,' Fulano said. 'Over here. Facing the bull.'

Tess and Craig didn't move.

'Your hesitation doesn't encourage me,' Fulano said. 'You have to prove yourselves.'

Hugh Kelly and the guards crowded Tess and Craig closer to the pen, compelling them to obey Fulano's orders. Ten feet from the face of the bull, Tess stared at its wrathful eyes.

But this time, when the animal snorted in outrage, hot mucus from its widened nostrils struck her face.

In horror, Tess rubbed at her cheeks, frantic to remove the burn of the acidlike specks. But something else horrified her even more.

Her bladder muscles threatened to fail. Peering down, she saw that a narrow stairwell had been carved within the cavern's floor and that murky steps descended toward a dark enclosure beneath the bull.

Gerrard rubbed his right eye, which was weeping again, the irritation having returned. He pulled a small plastic container from his pocket, bent his head, and propped open his eyelids, dropping contact lenses onto one palm. After placing the lenses into the plastic container, he raised his head.

His formerly blue eyes now were gray, glinting from the reflection of the torches.

Tess shuddered.

'Another secret. An inheritance from our ancestors,' Gerrard said.

'Recessive genes. I know.'

'Then you've learned a great deal. More than I expected. But now you'll learn even more. Much more. It's time. Step into the pit,' Gerrard instructed.

Fulano had also removed contact lenses, revealing that his brown eyes actually were as gray as Gerrard's. They gleamed as brightly.

Tess shuddered with greater force.

'Take off your clothes,' Fulano said.

'What?' Craig scowled. 'Now just a minute.'

'I assure you, the request isn't prurient,' Gerrard said. 'We have no interest in sex. It's an impure impulse that contaminates the spirit. We indulge in it reluctantly, only for the sake of producing children. To us, your nakedness would be no more arousing than seeing the natural nakedness of animals. But we do respect modesty. There's no need for you to undress before us. Take off your clothes away from our sight. In the darkness of the pit. Then throw your clothes up the steps. Otherwise they'll be sullied when you put them back on.'

'Sullied? Why?' Craig glowered. 'What are you talking about?'

'Because of your baptism,' Fulano said. 'Your reluctance continues to disturb me. Prove yourselves. Prove that you're worthy. Do what you're told. Step into the pit. Remove your clothes.'

Hugh Kelly and the guards continued to crowd against Tess and Craig.

'We don't need your men to force us,' Tess said. 'We agreed. We told you, we want to stay alive.'

'But only if you respond to the power of the baptism, and whether you do will soon be obvious,' Fulano said. 'Either you'll understand and appreciate the significance of the ritual, or else…'

'We'll be killed,' Tess said.

Mustering her courage, Tess descended, leaving the wavering light of the torches.

Too soon, pressed against Craig, she reached the bottom. The pit was black, damp, and cold. Narrow. Constricting. Their arms bumped against each other as they reluctantly took off their clothes and tossed them up the steps.

Her eyes adjusting to the darkness, Tess raised her head, seeing reflecting light from the torches tnrough gaps in the top of the pit. Thick bars in an iron grate, wide enough so that the bull's hoofs couldn't drop through them, were braced securely in the limestone rim.

Craig murmured, 'What's supposed to happen? What kind of baptism…?'

'You've seen the statue.' Tess strained to keep her voice low. 'Don't you realize?'

Abruptly Craig did.

She felt him tremble with horrified understanding.

One of her breasts bumped against his arm as she stared apprehensively upward. Despite her effort at a muted whisper, Gerrard must have heard.

The blood of the lamb,' Gerrard said above her. 'According to Christianity, you have to be washed in the blood of the lamb. That's something else they stole from us. Their version of baptism. Then they substituted water for blood. But the blood of the lamb was originally the blood of the sacred bull. The white bull. Regardless of Christianity's changes, our tradition is pure. We still retain the sanctity of the age-old rite. It goes back to ancient Iraq. It reappeared in Greece, particularly in Crete, where legend has it that a pure-white bull arose from the sea and was eventually sacrificed by Theseus to the sun god – they called Him, Apollo – on the mainland at Athens. Later, in Roman times, converts were initiated into Mithraism through this baptism. Here, in Spain, the bullfight is a latter-day version of the sacrifice. In fact, at Merida, a bullfight ring was constructed above an ancient Roman chapel devoted to Mithras, and in the bowels of that chapel, there existed a pit similar to this one, called a taurobolium, in which Roman centurions disrobed and were rebaptized before each battle – to give them strength in their fight with their enemy. The rite persisted in secret beyond the fourth century despite Constantine's conversion to Christianity. It persisted in the Middle Ages despite the efforts of the Inquisitors. It still persists. As long as nature endures, the rite will endure. Because of the rite's eternal majesty and power.'

'Then do it!' Tess screamed. 'Get it over with!'

Fulano's voice echoed, interrupting. 'As the direct descendant of the man who guided his small group of survivors from Montsegur, I take the place of my ancestor. I take the place of Mithras. I sacrifice the counterpart of Mithras.' His voice became a chant.

Above, Tess heard the white bull rear and stomp in fury. She couldn't see but knew what was happening. Fulano – at the risk of his life – had mounted the imprisoned bull.

Gerrard's voice intruded, so calm that it was dismaying. 'At the vernal equinox, this sacrifice represents the return of life to the planet. At the summer solstice, however, the sacrifice intitiates youths from our sect into its mysteries. And on occasion, rare converts. They experience the power of baptism, and if they're worthy, they understand the necessity of the baptismal sacrifice.'

The frightened bull continued to snort, stomp, and rear in outraged protest.

Tess imagined Fulano straddling the bull, struggling to avoid its thrashing horns, to grab its twisting snout and thrust its head upward, exposing the neck, to plunge his blade in and slice it across, severing arteries, spewing…

A shower of blood cascaded. Hot, repulsive, thick and heavy, steaming, pungent, salty, bitter. It flooded in an unbelievable quantity through the bars of the grate. It plummeted, viscous, scalding, drenching, drowning, suffocating.

The bull roared, even though its throat had been slit. It bellowed in a final outburst of pride and bravery. Its knees buckled.

In terrified awe, Tess heard its legs thunk onto the metal grate, its huge majestic body topple, sinking, thunking even harder onto the grate.

More blood gushed, soaking her hair, filling her ears, drenching her face, slicking her naked body, her bare feet immersed in a horrifying, ankle-deep, steaming pool.

She lost control. She sank to the floor. Craig tried to stop her, but he too was powerless, sinking from the force of the deluge.

'Oh, my God,' he said.

'Now do you understand?' Fulano demanded, his footsteps clattering as he rose from the corpse of the bull and clambered over the side of the limestone pen.

Assaulted by insanity, her body immersed in blood, no longer shivering because the sacred bull's steaming life force warmed her, Tess blinked upward through sticky crimson fluid and struggled to focus her desperate thoughts.

She couldn't speak.

'Tell me!' Fulano shouted.

'The sacrifice' – her throat didn't want to work – 'is supposed to teach us that life is precious.' Her voice became hoarse, her words an extended groan. The blood of the bull is so shocking that forever afterward we'll remember how truly final death is, and that nothing in nature should ever be killed unless it's absolutely necessary.

That's why you don't eat red meat. That's why you're mostly vegetarians, because the crops come back in the spring, but an animal, each and every animal, is one of a kind, and if it's killed, it won't come back in the spring. If we kill enough of them, entire species won't come back in the spring. The planet is finite. Its bounty can be exhausted if we don't take care.'

The chamber became terribly silent.

Blood dripped down Tess's body.

'You do understand,' Fulano said. 'Welcome. You're one of us.'

Tess wiped at her blood-streaked mouth, tasting the salty crimson fluid, nearly gagging. When she inhaled, blood spewed up her nostrils. She fought to breathe. Furious, she remembered the painting of the white bull with the spear through its throat. After the glory of existence comes death, and because that glory can never be replaced, death must always be respected. That was the message.

But death, she thought. You bastards had no regard for death when you killed my mother!

You're hypocrites!

You're goddamned-!

A far-away echoing whump interrupted her furious, vengeful thoughts.

The whump, although distant, had sufficient force to waver the rock floor beneath her, although at first Tess thought it was just her knees that were shaking.

'What happened?' she heard Gerrard ask above the pit. 'What was-?'

Whump! A second jolt, closer, sent shock waves through the cavern. Somewhere a rock fell, clattering.

'It sounds like…' Fulano gasped. 'A cave-in!'

'No! Explosions!' Gerrard sounded frightened.

'Find out!' Fulano ordered the guards. 'Here's the key! Unlock the door! Tell me what's happening!'

Numerous footsteps raced toward the chapel.

At once Craig grabbed Tess's arm and lunged toward the steps. She charged after him, slipped on blood, and fell. Her gymnastic training made her tuck in her arms and twist her body to absorb the impact. Even so, she banged her shoulder, wincing. Immediately she scrambled to her feet and continued charging upward, joining Craig at the top.

The blood cooled on their bodies. Naked, they shivered and hurriedly dressed, shivering worse as the blood soaked their clothing.

Ignoring the pathetic corpse of the white bull in the pen, they spun toward the entrance to the chapel.

Fulano, Gerrard, and Hugh Kelly were grouped at the archway. A gap allowed Tess and Craig to see the guards race across the chapel to unlock the cavern's door.

But the moment a guard used all his might to tug it open, he turned in dismay. 'The lights are out!'

'Two outside doors, two explosions.' Fulano clenched his fists. 'The first explosion must have blown the generator.'

'Whoever did it,' Gerrard started to say.

'You know who did it! Inquisitors!' Fulano said.

'But if the entrance isn't blocked, if they're coming for us, they won't be able to find us without the lights in the tunnels,' Gerrard said.

'They'll be prepared! They'll carry flashlights!' Fulano said. 'All they have to do is follow the trail of bulbs.' He straightened and shouted to the guards, 'Get into the tunnel! Close the door so the glow from the torches won't show where you're hiding! Shoot when you see their flashlights! They'll be easy targets!'

The guards snapped into motion, lunged through the door, and pulled it shut.

'Inquisitors!' Fulano said as if cursing. 'How did they find us? How did they know where-?'

Gerrard spun toward Tess and Craig. 'You! Somehow you brought them here!'

'How?' Craig demanded. 'You know we couldn't have. You kept us prisoners from the time we left Andrews Air Force Base. If we used a phone on the plane, you'd have known about it. Then we boarded the other plane. Then we used the helicopter. There's no way we could have passed a message. We've done everything you asked, even to the point of being baptized. We've gone to the limit to prove we want to cooperate.'

'No, somehow…' Fulano stalked toward them, his gray eyes bulging. 'You were searched for weapons. You were scanned with metal detectors. How did-?'

'Look at her feet! She's wearing the sneakers she had when she boarded Air Force Two!' Gerrard said. 'She brought them with her. She carried them in her purse and put them on when she entered the cave. That's how they tracked us. That's how they found us. The sneakers must contain a homing device.'

'Take them off!' Fulano said. 'I want to see them!'

Tess stepped backward.

'I'm right!' Fulano shouted.

Tess stepped farther backward.

'Kelly,' Gerrard told his assistant.

'Yes, sir?'

'Shoot them. We gave them our trust. They didn't deserve it. Don't just shoot them. Blow them apart.'

'Yes, sir.' Hugh Kelly pulled back a bolt on the side of his automatic weapon, then raised it, aiming.

In a frenzy, Craig dove toward Tess, shoving her into a pool behind a stalagmite. Stunned by cold water, they crouched protectively behind the rock.

But the shots they heard didn't come from Hugh Kelly's weapon.

Instead the shots came from other automatic weapons, rattling, muffled, distant, behind the door that led into the chapel.

Beyond it, men screamed in agony.

Abruptly the door scraped open, guards surging through, firing behind them, leaning their combined weight against the door, shutting it, locking it.

'They didn't use flashlights!' a guard yelled.

Fulano rushed toward the rear entrance to the chapel. 'Then how could they have followed us here? How could they have seen the trail of bulbs in the dark?'

'They're wearing night-vision goggles! It didn't matter where we hid! They could see us, but we couldn't see them!'

'Take cover!' Fulano ordered.

The guards retreated, lunging toward the protection of torches and pillars. Some left a trail of blood. Tess heard their strident breathing.

Something banged on the opposite side of the metal door.

'They're trying to get through!' Gerrard said.

Something banged again. The lock held firm.

'They'll use explosives!' Fulano said. 'Get down!'

Hugh Kelly had turned to view the commotion.

Taking advantage, Craig surged from the pool of water behind the stalagmite. Kelly heard him and whirled but not in time. Craig reached him before he could raise his weapon and fire. Slamming Kelly, twisting him, Craig grabbed Kelly's chin from behind and jerked it upward. At the same time, Craig dropped to one knee, propped up the other knee, and banged Kelly's spine across it.

Sickened, Tess heard two brutal snaps – from Kelly's neck and spine. As Kelly's lifeless body sank to the cavern's floor, Craig grabbed the weapon and aimed toward Gerrard and Fulano.

Too late. The sound of the struggle having warned them, they ducked through the entrance into the chapel before Craig had a chance to fire.

He cursed and started after them. But instantly he stumbled back, the force of an explosion making him fall. The blast was deafening, the metal door flying off its hinges, banging onto the floor. More rocks dropped from the ceiling.

Tess's ears rang. Nonetheless she heard guards shoot toward the entrance to the tunnel. From the darkness beyond the entrance, from the chamber of the painted bulls, other weapons returned fire.

Tess heard another explosion. Then another. In the cold pool behind the stalagmite, she winced and pressed her hands against her ears. Grenades! The Inquisitors were throwing grenades! The chapel filled with smoke and flames. Although her hands were pressed against her ears, the screams of dying men assaulted her.

The gunshots persisted, gaining in volume. More explosions rocked the cavern, more rocks falling. Through the entrance to the chapel, Tess saw a torch break, toppling, spewing its fiery oil across the floor. Bullets chipped pillars, ricocheting, rockshards flying.

As the shooting intensified, dark-clothed figures charged from the cavern of the painted bulls. Through the smoke, Tess saw that the figures wore goggles and that their faces were smeared with black camouflage grease. They held automatic weapons and fired in every direction, pausing only long enough to throw more grenades. The explosions shattered pillars. Guards dropped, blood bursting from their heads and backs. Others were crushed by cascading rocks.

In a rush, the survivors – Gerrard and Fulano among them – scrambled into the cavern behind the chapel. A few returned fire, but most fled in panic.

Tess tripped a man as he raced past the stalagmite. His chin banged hard against the floor.

Too terrified to resist the impulse of adrenaline, she lunged from cover and grabbed his weapon. Her father had never taught her how to use this type of gun, but she remembered that Hugh Kelly had pulled back a bolt on the side of his before he prepared to snoot. Evidently the bolt was a cocking mechanism, and assuming that the guard had already cocked his weapon, she responded defensively, aimed at the guard when he stuggled to rise, and shot him, slamming him flat.

The spray of blood combined with the weapon's stuttering recoil unnerved her. The force of the volley yanked the barrel upward. She urgently told herself, Remember to hold it down, to keep it level.

Spinning, determined, she looked for other targets. Craig? Where was Craig? In the chaos of the shots, the smoke, and the flames, she didn't dare pull the trigger for fear of hitting him. Then she saw him, flat on his stomach, shooting. Guards jolted backward, slamming into others, knocking them off balance, coating them with blood.

Tess fired above Craig, hitting other guards. Meanwhile, in the chapel, the smoke and flames grew stronger. The gunshots came closer. Craig and Tess kept firing.

To her right, Tess noticed sudden motion. There, Fulano rose from beside the pen in which he'd slaughtered the sacred bull.

He reached beneath his sport coat, pulled out a pistol, and aimed toward Craig.

Tess fired sooner, stitching Fulano's chest with bullets. The direct descendant of the leader of the heretics jerked repeatedly, staggered, and toppled over the side of the pen, lying on the corpse of the great white bull.

But again Tess hadn't been able to control her weapon's recoil. Its barrel heaved upward. Her finger – still on the trigger -reflexively kept squeezing. Propelled, she twisted, and suddenly Gerrard was in her line of fire.

The vice president wailed, holding up his arms as if to shield his chest, but the bullets struck higher, blasting holes across his handsome face, blowing apart his gray eyes. Viscous matter spurted. His head appeared to explode.

Then actual explosions threw Tess on the rocky floor, grenades detonating fiercely at the rear of the chapel. She fought to stand, knowing that there'd be more explosions, and that they wouldn't be in the chapel. They'd be closer. They'd-! She saw a grenade arc through the entrance to the cavern.

Abruptly she felt the breath knocked out of her, a figure hurtling against her, Craig who tackled her and dropped with her, and the next thing, Tess struck the steps to the pit and tumbled down them, Craig twisting over her. She walloped her knees, her back, her skull, and hit the dark bottom, stunned, splashing into thick pungent blood that heaved and splattered over her.

Immediately, as she regained sufficient presence of mind to clamp her blood-smeared hands against her ears, feeling Craig raise his arms and do the same, the grenade erupted with a stunning roar, its shrapnel splintering off the cavern's walls, a few fragments striking the upper steps of the pit, the thunderous echo swelling against the walls of the cave, more rocks cascading.

Immersed in blood, Tess raised her dripping head and listened to the burp of automatic weapons strafe the cavern. Above, there was only darkness, the grenade's rush of air having extinguished the torches.

'I think we finished them,' a husky voice said.

'Make sure,' another voice said.

Tess recognized its deep-throated resonance.

Father Baldwin. We're safe! she thought. She raised her face higher, about to shout to him, when Craig clamped a hand across her mouth and pressed her head down. Her instincts made her want to scream. But her love for Craig made her comply. She understood. He was trying to tell her something.

More important, he was trying to protect her. She acquiesced, slackened her muscles, quit struggling, and nodded. For whatever reason, his motives – however puzzling – were in her best interests.

Heavy footsteps entered the cavern.

'No sign of survivors,' a taut voice said. 'Those that weren't shot or killed by grenades were crushed by rubble.'

'Keep checking!' Father Baldwin ordered.

The Inquisitor's voice was so muffled that Tess realized, her arms around Craig, that slabs of rock had fallen over the bull and Fulano's corpse and had fallen as well over the entrance to the steps that led to the pit.

'Complete kill,' the taut voice said.

A rock toppled.

'But this ceiling's about to collapse.'

'Rig the charges,' Father Baldwin said. 'Everywhere.'

'I've already started.'

'The statue's my priority. I'll set a bomb and blow it to hell. Thank God, at last we found the central nest. There'll be other nests, but this one's the most important.'

'What about the woman and the detective? I still haven't found them.'

'Probably buried beneath the rubble. They might even still be breathing. Five minutes from now, it won't matter,' Father Baldwin said. 'If they're somehow still alive, they'll die when the explosions bring down the ceiling. We owe them a debt. But they can't be allowed to know our secrets. Their reward for their service will be in Heaven. The charges?'

'I just finished.'

'And I just finished planting a bomb at the foot of the statue. Like it, the bodies of the vermin will be blown to hell.'

'Let's go.' The taut-voiced man lunged from the cavern into the chapel.

Other footsteps scurried.

The rest of the charges?' Father Baldwin demanded, his voice receding.

'Ready. We'll need five minutes to get out of the cave. That's how long I've set the timers.'

'Hurry,' Father Baldwin again demanded, his voice even farther away. 'Set more charges as we leave. I want these caverns completely destroyed.'

'No problem. We'll be able to see the fireworks from the bottom of the outside slope.'

A final far-away scurry of footsteps.

Craig removed his hand from Tess's mouth. Their clothing soaked with blood, they squirmed up the steps and reached a slab of rock that lay across the exit. Groping, Craig found a gap and squeezed through, followed by Tess, who scraped her back on the rock. Although the chamber was dark, flames from burning oil in the chapel provided sufficient reflected light for them to be able to make their way through the rubble. Their wet clothes caused them to shiver.

'We have to get out of here,' Craig said.

'How?' Tess hugged her gore-drenched chest. 'Even if we reach the exit before the bombs go off, Father Baldwin's men will shoot us.'

'We can try to dismantle the bombs.'

'No. We'd never find them all.'

'But we can't just stay here and wait to die,' Craig said. There has to be a way to-'

'I just thought of something.' Tess gripped his arm. 'Remember when we entered the cave and Fulano locked the doors. He left three guards outside.'

Craig nodded. 'And if the guards were overpowered, if they didn't respond to a message from a walkie-talkie' – his voice quickened – 'Fulano said we could use another exit. There's another way out of here!'

'And it has to be close!' Tess said, heart pounding.

Craig sank against a rock.

'What's wrong?'

'In the dark, we'll never find the exit.' He suddenly straightened. 'Just a minute. I think I can get us some light. Stay here.'

Desperate, confused, Tess watched him climb over rubble, searching. 'What are you looking for?'

'A body. My clothes are too soaked,with blood. My jacket won't burn.'

'I don't understand.'

'You will. Here. I found a…" Yanking a jacket off a corpse, Craig left the cavern and reached the flames in the chapel. There, he touched one of the jacket's sleeves to a blaze, igniting it. Hurrying, he returned, the fire spreading up the sleeve of the jacket. The grenades knocked over the torches back here and extinguished the flames. But there has to be oil all over the floor. I can smell it.' He dragged the burning sleeve across the floor, trying various places among the rubble, and suddenly flames grew, oil igniting among the fallen rocks.

The flames spread. Tess and Craig backed away. The chamber became illuminated.

'Over there. On the left.' Craig pointed. 'A tunnel.'

As the ceiling groaned and more rocks fell, Tess scrambled over the rubble, frantic to reach the tunnel.

'Go slower,' Craig said. 'If you break an ankle…'

'I'm more worried about the bombs.' A section of roof collapsed, its impact thunderous. 'And being crushed.'

They came to the tunnel.

'This is probably where Kelly and his men brought the bull in,' Craig said. The entrance from the chapel is too narrow for the animal to have gotten through. And the bull would have been so difficult to handle that whoever designed this tunnel would have made the passageway as straight and short as possible.'

Craig was right. The fire from the oil in the cavern reflected into the tunnel and showed an exit twenty yards ahead. But Tess moaned when she saw that the exit was blocked by a metal door. She moaned ever worse when she and Craig strained to open the door but couldn't.

The damned thing's locked.' Angry, exhausted, Craig leaned against a wall, blood dripping from his clothes. 'We wasted our time. There's so little left.'

'Maybe there's another exit.' Jess's voice shook.

'Don't count on it. And even if there is, those bombs will go off before we find it.'

'We've got to try.'

Craig studied her with resolve. 'Yes.'

They rushed back along the tunnel, reaching the cavern. Another section of roof crashed. The force of its impact jolted them and made the flames from the oil waver.

'Over there. In back,' Tess said. 'Another tunnel.'

'Any minute now, those bombs will-'

'The flames, Craig! Look at the flames!'

'What about them?'

They're still wavering! They're leaning toward that tunnel. When we first entered the chapel, I noticed the torches waver, but I thought that was just because our movement created a breeze. Air's flowing into that tunnel. It has to be going outside.'

Craig nodded. 'But what if the hole's too small for us to-?'

'It's our only choice!' The roof groaned again. 'Let's go! Before-!'

They scrambled toward the tunnel at the rear. The moment they entered, another huge slab of rock fell, barely missing them.

They stumbled forward, the light diminishing.

'If this tunnel branches out into other tunnels, we don't have a chance.' Craig breathed hard.

The light from the flames in the cavern became so weak that Tess had to grope along the walls. 'Do you feel a breeze? Does it seem to be getting stronger?'

'Yes! But what am I hearing?'

Ahead, something roared, constant, louder as they approached.

The tunnel curved and slanted down, blocking the light from the flames. In total darkness, they kept groping along the walls. The roar gained volume, so loud that Tess could hardly hear what Craig shouted.

'What?' she yelled.

'I think it's a-!'

The blackness was absolute. She couldn't see him, grabbed for his hand, took another step, and abruptly lurched forward, the shock waves of repeated explosions shoving at her. The ceiling cracked, about to collapse. Propelled, she stepped into nothingness. With air instead of rock beneath her, she plummeted. The ceiling gave way, slamming down behind her. She screamed. Her stomach rose as she dropped. Clutching Craig's hand, she swooped toward the black, louder, closer, continuous roar.

The roar, she discovered, was an underground stream. Its icy current stunned her, drowning her scream. She went under, panicked, powerless, unable to see or breathe. Dimly, she understood that concussions behind her were slabs of rock hitting the stream, but the current's force sucked her away before the rocks could crush her. She tumbled beneath,the rushing surface, straining to raise her head, hoping frantically that the breeze she and Craig had followed meant that the stream had an open space above it. But no matter how hard she fought, she couldn't reach the surface.

The stream gained speed. She banged against a polished curve in the channel, twisted, slammed against another curve, lost her grip on Craig's hand, struggled again to reach the surface, and suddenly felt herself dropping. Oh, Jesus, she prayed, unable to hold her breath, about to inhale reflexively.

The stream kept falling. At once, she burst through an opening, was hurled from the water, and flipped through air. The pressure of dropping made her chest heave. She gasped uncontrollably. Her lungs expanded, air rushing down her throat. The next thing, she struck a pool, propelled beneath it by the thunderous thrust of a waterfall. When she clawed to the surface, her arms thrashing weakly, she breathed in desperation and gradually realized that there were stars above her, that she was outside in the sweet spacious night, that she was close to the rim of the pool.

A moment later, in a frenzy, she pivoted to search for Craig. His body floated toward her. Urgent, she swam and grabbed him. He raised his head, coughing, spitting out water, while she tugged him toward the rim of the pool. They lay on a grassy bank.

But Craig kept coughing, choking. He vomited water. In a rush, she turned him onto his chest, moved his head sideways, checked to make sure that there were no obstructions in his mouth, and pressed her hands on his back, squeezing his lungs, sensing water escape from his mouth. He coughed repeatedly. Then gradually his spasms diminished.

He began to breathe freely.

Only then did she slump back, exhausted. The air smelled fresh and clear. The moon and the stars were glorious. Despite the thunder of the waterfall, she heard a nearby stream flowing from the pool, trickling over rocks toward the valley.

Craig moved his head to study her. He coughed again and clutched her hand. 'Thanks.' He managed to smile.

'Hey, it took two of us to get out of there.' She returned his smile, her heart swelling with relief that he was alive.

Then she, too, coughed up water. She shivered so bad that her teeth chattered.

Side by side, they held each other, trying to regain their strength.

Five minutes later, Craig roused himself. That water was so icy…' He shook uncontrollably.

'Hyperthermia?' Tess frowned.

hat's right.' He continued shaking, worried. 'In these wet clothes, even on a warm night in June, we're both so chilled we could die from exposure. We have to get warm and dry. Soon.'

Realizing the danger, Tess hurriedly glanced behind her toward the valley. No, she thought, we can't have survived what we did, only to freeze to death. At once she mentally thanked God. 'Everything's fine. No problem.'

'What? The nearest village is probably miles away. We'd get delirious, fall asleep, and die before we managed to walk there, assuming we could even find it.'

'I still say no problem.' Painfully cold, Tess trembled from her head to her feet.

'You think all we have to do is rub two sticks together and build a fire?'

'No. Someone already did that for us. In fact a lot of people.'

Puzzled, Craig turned to follow her gaze and let out his breath in wonder. Below them, across the fields in the valley, dozens and dozens of bonfires glittered in the darkness. Their glow was splendorous.

'The feast of Saint John. I'd forgotten,' Craig said.

'Like tiny pieces of the sun. For once, flames are going to help us.' Tess managed to stand, trembled, and reached for his hand. 'Bright flames. Not dark. Come on, babe.'

It took all her strength to raise him. Arm in arm, huddled against each other, clinging for warmth, they staggered down a grassy slope toward the fires.

'At least the stream washed the blood from our clothes,' Tess said. 'I guess in a way… It was like a baptism. Except that the second baptism canceled the first. The second was truly purifying.'

'The thing is, our problems aren't over,' Craig said.

'I know. Father Baldwin. What made you realize that he didn't want us to escape?'

'Just a hunch, but in my line of work, you learn the hard way to respond to hunches. I figured we ought to wait and see how much he wanted to find us in the rubble. Obviously he thinks we're a threat because of the secrets he told us.'

'Right now, I don't care about his damned Inquisition. All I want to do is keep holding you. It feels so wonderful to be alive.'

'Good fighting evil.' Craig shivered. 'In this case, it's hard to tell the difference between them. Both are evil. I'm sure of this – as soon as the Inquisitors learn we're still alive, they'll come after us.'

Tess hesitated. 'Maybe not.'

'You've got a plan?'

'Sort of. I'm still thinking it through. But if they do decide to come after us, I'm ready to fight them. As far as I'm concerned, they committed an unforgivable sin.'

'Because they turned against us?'

'No. Because they blew up the paintings. I'll always remember them – the deer, the bison, the horses, the ibex, the bulls. So awesome, so magnificent, so irreplaceable.'

At the bottom of the slope, Tess noticed shadowy figures and realized that they were villagers huddled around a fire, holding their crosses woven from flowers and stalks of wheat. The villagers frowned at Tess and Craig, suspicious. But she raised her right hand, still wet from the stream, and touched it to her forehead, her chest, her left and right shoulder. The villagers nodded and motioned for Tess and Craig to sit.

The fire quickly warmed them, drying their clothes. Tess and Craig continued to hold each other lovingly and remained there throughout the night, sometimes dozing, only to waken and stare again, as if hypnotized, toward the power and magic of the flames.

FOURTEEN

Alexandria, Virginia.

With Craig's comforting presence beside her, Tess stood in a cemetery near the city's outskirts and stared at her mother's grave. Tears misted her vision. The funeral had been yesterday, six days after she and Craig had escaped from the caverns and two days after they'd returned from Spain.

Much had happened. Following the night at the bonfire, their Spanish companions had escorted them across the valley to the nearest village. There, with great difficulty because of her unfamiliarity with the language, Tess had managed to use a phone and eventually contact the American embassy in Madrid. Her report had caused a half-dozen helicopters to arrive by mid-afternoon, American and Spanish officials accompanied by armed guards hurrying out. From then on, she and Craig had been questioned repeatedly. They'd shown the investigators the obliterated, former entrance to the caverns. They'd taken the investigators to the waterfall that had saved them.

Soon other helicopters had arrived, bringing more investigators and guards. The interrogation had continued well into the night. After a few hours' sleep and a meager breakfast, Tess and Craig had wearily answered further questions, continuing to repeat the story that they'd agreed on before Tess had phoned Madrid.

The story was the core of Tess's plan to protect themselves from both the Inquisitors and the heretics. More than anything, she wanted to tell it to reporters, to make sure it was publicized, but when reporters did arrive, she and Craig were taken under guard via helicopter to Bilbao and then to Madrid, where the questioning continued at the headquarters of Spain's intelligence service, distraught American CIA officials joining in.

Reporters managed to learn enough from unnamed sources to publish and broadcast the story. It spread quickly around the world. Under pressure from numerous governments, Spanish and American officials finally admitted the truth of what they'd dismissed as rumors. America 's vice president and the presumed future president of Spain indeed had been assassinated by terrorists while showing two American guests various cultural and geographical features in the province of Navarra in northern Spain.

The terrorists remained unidentified.

What the accounts did not include, of course, was the increasing frustration with which the grim investigators questioned Tess and Craig.

'Why the hell did you come to Spain? How did you enter the country? You don't have any passports.'

'My mother was recently murdered,' Tess continued to repeat what she'd answered so often. 'Alan Gerrard is – was – a longtime, close, family friend. He invited my fiance and me to accompany him on Air Force Two to Spain in the hopes that the trip would take my mind off my sorrow. His invitation was sudden. We didn't have time to get our passports, and I was too stunned by grief to think clearly, to refuse a request not just from a friend but from the vice president of the United States. Would you have turned him down?'

'But what were you doing in – how did you get to – northern Spain?'

'Before Alan began his official duties, he wanted to visit José Fulano at his estate near Pamplona. The two were friends. But I suspect that they might also have had some business to discuss. At any rate, we were taken along. Alan was quite enthusiastic, still trying to distract me from my grief. He claimed that he'd never forgive himself if we didn't have a chance to see that dramatically beautiful area of the country.'

'A cave? At midnight?'

'Because of the feast of Saint John. Both Alan and José insisted on showing us the bonfires in the valleys. Then they ordered the helicopter to land so they could also show us the cave. It was special, they said, because it had Ice-age paintings that very few people had ever seen.'

'Ice-age paintings?'

'Yes. They were beautiful.'

'And that's when the terrorists struck?'

'The attack was sudden. I don't know how the assassins knew we were in the cave, but all at once there was gunfire. Explosions. I saw Alan and José shot several times. My fiance and I raced down a tunnel. The explosions weakened the cavern's ceiling. It collapsed but not before we managed to find that stream and escape.'

'Seems awfully damned convenient.'

'We were lucky. What would you prefer – that we'd been killed as well? There'd be no one to tell you what happened.'

'The assassins. Who were they?'

'I have no idea. They wore masks. I could barely see them in the dim light in the cave.'

And on and on. Although the interrogators tried to find inconsistencies, Tess and Craig stuck to their story. Much of it was true, and the vice president's aides along with the Secret Service agents he'd left in Madrid verified those parts. What couldn't be verified and what the investigators had to take on faith was that Tess and Craig weren't able to provide information that could help identify the assassins.

Meanwhile efforts to retrieve the bodies proved useless. The interior of the mountain had completely collapsed. Leveling the mountain was out of the question. The corpses would have to stay entombed there forever with the massive peak as their gravestone.

Unidentified assassins. No hint of anything except the Ice-age paintings in the cave. Those two pieces of disinformation – a term she'd learned from her father – were the key to Tess's plan to protect her and Craig, and that disinformation was what she read in a newspaper as she and Craig were flown in Air Force Two back to America. The interrogation would continue in Washington, she'd been told, but she had no doubt that the investigators would soon release them, that she and Craig would be dismissed (presumably with lingering suspicions about them) as two innocent bystanders.

The newspaper she read on the flight to America was the international edition of USA Today, and in the economic section, she noticed an article that roused her spirits. Public outrage against the slaughter of elephants for their tusks had resulted in an international trade ban on ivory, with the consequence that the price of ivory had plummeted from $200 per kilogram to less than $5. Poachers no longer considered elephants valuable enough to massacre them. The species had a chance to be saved. At the same time, the article noted, other species were disappearing at the alarming speed of 150,000 per year.

Nonetheless the salvation of the elephants gave Tess hope, just as the brilliant sky, unusually free of smog, also gave her hope as she now wiped her tears at her mother's graveside.

She turned to Craig, her voice deep with mourning. 'There's something I never told you. The night we sat at the fire in the valley?'

Craig put his arms around her.

She leaned her head against his chest and managed the strength to continue. 'I began to understand why the followers of Mithras worship flames. The blaze rises from things that are dead. Old branches. Dry leaves. Like the phoenix.'

Craig nodded. 'Out of death comes life.'

She raised her head. The trouble is, the flames aren't immortal anymore than the branches and leaves were. Eventually the blaze has to die as well, turning into, becoming…' With a sob, she stared again at her mother's grave. 'Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.'

Craig didn't respond for a moment. 'Sprinkle ashes on a garden, though, and the earth becomes more fertile. The cycle of death turning into life continues.'

Her voice sounded choked. 'The miracle of nature. Except that my mother's gone forever.'

'But you're still here. And you're the life she created.'

'I'll try to do what I hope would have made her proud of me,' Tess said. 'So many years, I avoided her, and now I wish so much that she and I could spend time together.'

'Do you think she'd have minded being buried here instead of next to your father in Arlington National Cemetery?'

'No.' Tess had trouble speaking. 'My mother was a diplomat's wife. She knew the bitter rules. My father's career came first. She always had to stay in the background. But she didn't object. Because she loved him.'

Craig kissed her tear-swollen eyes. 'And I love you. And I promise you'll always be first, the most important part of my life.'

Holding each other, they walked from the grave.

'I wanted revenge so bad,' Tess said. 'But when I killed Gerrard and Fulano, I didn't do it to get even. I didn't enjoy it. It didn't give me satisfaction. I hated it. I only did it to save us. That makes me feel clean somehow, or at least as clean as I'm able to feel under the circumstances. All the men I shot. All the blood. The ugliness. I keep having nightmares.'

'I'll be there to share them with you.'

They passed other graves, approaching their rented car.

'At least no one knows who really killed Gerrard and Fulano,' Tess said. The Inquisitors think they did. The heretics will think so, too. We won't be blamed.'

'But you still believe they won't come after us?' Craig asked.

'It's a calculated risk, but yes, that's what I believe. When we were questioned, we never mentioned Father Baldwin and the Inquisition. We never talked about the heretics. We never revealed that there was a chapel in that cave. Both sides must have informants who know what we told the investigators. I'm hoping they realize that our silence about them is an act of good faith.'

'You want to leave it at that?' Craig asked. 'You don't want to try to stop them?'

'We'd never be able to. I'm not sure which is worse, the heretics using terrorism to try to save the planet, or the Inquisitors using vigilante tactics to stop what they think is theological evil. Let the bastards fight it out. With luck, maybe they'll destroy each other, and people will get smart enough to save the world the right way, with love.'

They passed the final row of graves and reached their car. As they drove from the cemetery, Craig turned on the radio, and a news announcement made Craig stop abruptly at the curb.

Two days ago, when Tess's mother had been buried, there'd been a state funeral for Alan Gerrard. Earlier, as the constitution dictated, the president had nominated a new vice president, subject to approval by both Houses of Congress. Despite the nation's turmoil, President Garth had decided that he didn't dare postpone his trip to Peru to attend a major drug-control conference. After all, as he said with deep tones of bravery in a nationally televised speech, he couldn't allow the drug lords to think that the vice president's assassination made him afraid of possibly being assassinated himself. So he'd flown to Peru, and now the news announcer reported with barely subdued shock that Air Force One had been blown apart by portable ground-to-air missiles as the plane came in for a landing at Lima 's airport.

Tess listened, stunned, struggling to absorb what she was hearing. A terrible question assaulted her consciousness. There'd soon be both a new president and vice president. But would either of those men have gray eyes?