Covenant Of The Flame

by David Morrell

  'Vision?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  FOUR

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

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

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

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

  'No. I'm expecting someone.'

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

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

  Sure. Anytime now.

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

  Two-thirty.

  Two thirty-five.

  Two-forty.

  She must be having problems with traffic.

  Any minute now, I'll see her.

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

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

  Craig's muscles hardened.

  Two forty-five.

  He breathed heavily.

  Tess!

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

  FIVE

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

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

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

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

  'What about it?'

  '... looked strange.'

  Priscilla leaned suddenly forward. 'How?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Gold Cross.r />
  Tess now knew what those words had meant to Joseph.

  The symbol for the sun god.

  SIX

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

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

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

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

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

  'Keep watching! Keep searching for them!'

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

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

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

  SEVEN

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

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

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

  'Is your name Craig, sir?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Thank you, sir. I appreciate your-'

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

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

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

  'Thank God, you waited,' she said.

  Craig exhaled at the sound of her voice.

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

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

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

  'Where?

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

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

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

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

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

  EIGHT

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

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

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

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

  Enforcers?

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

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

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

  NINE

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

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

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

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

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

  'On that pad, you say?'

  'That's correct, sir.'

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

  'A woman. Her name was Tess, sir.'

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

  'That's really not necessary, sir.'

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

  'Not at all, sir.'

  'Very good.'

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

  TEN

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

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

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

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