The Covenant Of The Flame

by David Morrell

  He cleared his throat.

  Their conversation faltered.

  Even so, Tess found that the silence was comfortable.

  Soothing.

  She admired the lilies.

  How I wish I could stay here forever, she thought. How I wish that my world wasn't falling to pieces.

  'Professor, can we talk about art for a while?'

  'My pleasure. As you're aware, apart from my lilies, I've always enjoyed a discussion…'

  'About a bas-relief statue? I'd like to show you a picture of it.'

  Apprehensive, Tess withdrew the packet of photographs from her purse, taking care to conceal the handgun.

  'But why…? You're so somber.' Professor Harding narrowed his white, sparse eyebrows. 'Have you lost your enthusiasm for the subject?'

  'Not for the subject,' Tess said. 'But as far as this goes…' She showed him the photograph of the statue. 'This is another matter.'

  Professor Harding scowled, creating more wrinkles on his forehead. He pushed up his glasses, then raised the photograph toward them. 'Yes, I can see why you're disturbed.'

  He shifted the picture forward, then backward, and with each motion shook his head. 'Such a brutal image. And the style. So rough. So crude. It's certainly not something I care for. Certainly not Velazquez.'

  'But what can you tell me about it?' Tess held her breath.

  'I'm sorry, Tess. You'll have to be more specific. What exactly do you need to know? What's your interest in this? Where did you find it?'

  Tess debated how much to tell him. The less the old man knew, the better. If the killers found out that she'd come here, ignorance and infirmity might be the difference that saved Professor Harding's life. 'A friend of mine had it in his bedroom.'

  'That doesn't say much for his taste. His bedroom? This doesn't belong even in a tool shed.'

  'I agree. But have you any idea who might have sculpted it? Or why! Or what it means! Are there any sculptors you know or you've heard of who might have done it?'

  'Dear me, no. I can see why you're confused. You think this sculpture might relate to a contemporary school of… I don't know what I'd call them… neo-primitives or avant-garde classicists.'

  'Professor, forgive me. I'm still not a very good student. What you just said… You've lost me.'

  'I'll try to be more enlightening. This photograph. It's difficult to tell from the image, but the sculpture seems to be in perfect condition. Distinct lines. No missing sections. No chips. No cracks. No sign of weathering.'

  'I still don't…'

  'Pay attention. Pretend you're taking notes.'

  'Believe me, I'm trying.'

  'The object, its craft, its execution, are recent. Very distinct. But the image itself is…' Professor Harding hesitated. 'Old. Very old. This is a copy, Tess, of a sculpture from as long ago as… oh, I'd guess… two thousand years.'

  'Two thousand years?' Tess gaped.

  'An approximation. It's not my specialty, I'm sorry to say. Anything before the sixteen hundreds is outside my expertise.'

  Tess slumped. 'Then there's no way you can help me understand what it means?'

  'Did I say that? Please. I merely admitted my own limitations. What you need is a classical scholar with training in archaeology.'

  Tess glanced at her watch. Half-past twelve. Craig would be at LaGuardia by now. He'd soon be flying to Washington. She had to meet him at two-thirty. Time. She didn't have much time!

  'A classical scholar with…?' Tess breathed.' Where on earth am I going to find...?'

  'Young lady, I'm disappointed. Have you forgotten the marvelous woman I'm married to? She's the brains of the family. Not me. And until five years ago, she belonged to the Classics Department at Georgetown University. Come.' Professor Harding leaned on his cane and stood from the redwood bench. He wavered for a moment. 'Priscilla's been taking a nap. But it's time I woke her. It really isn't good if she misses lunch. Her diabetes, you know. Perhaps you'd care for a bite to eat.'

  'Professor, I don't mean to be rude. I'm really not hungry, and please – oh, God, I hate this – I'm in a hurry. This is important. Terribly urgent. I need to know about that statue.'

  'Well.' Professor Harding studied her. 'How mysterious you make it seem. Good. I can use some stimulation.' The old man shuffled unsteadily along a path, the fragrance of his lilies tainted by smog. 'But if it's that urgent, if you don't mind the familiarity, you'd better put your arm around me so I can walk a little faster. I confess I'm curious. So let's wake Priscilla and stimulate her. Let's find out what that odious image means.'

  EIGHTEEN

  Kennedy International Airport.

  The Pan Am 747 from Paris arrived on time at 12:25. Among the four hundred and fifty passengers, six men – who'd sat separately in business class – were careful to leave the jet at intervals, and with equal care took different taxis into New York. They were all well-built, in their thirties. Each wore a nondescript suit and carried a briefcase as well as an under seat bag. None had checked luggage. Their features were common, ordinary, average.

  Their only other shared characteristic was that while they'd been pleasant to the flight attendants, their polite remarks had seemed to require effort as if each man had urgent business that preoccupied him. Their eyes communicated the gravity of their concerns: distant, pensive, cold.

  In Manhattan, at diverse locations, each man got out of his taxi, walked several blocks, took a subway at random, got off a few stops later, hired another taxi, and arrived several minutes apart on avenues west of the Museum of Natural History. After assessing the traffic, parked cars, and pedestrians in the neighborhood, each approached a brownstone on West Eighty-Fifth Street and rang the doorbell.

  A matronly woman opened the door, blocking the narrow entrance. 'I don't believe we've met.'

  'May the Lord be with you.'

  'And with your spirit.'

  'Deo gratias.'

  'Indeed.' The woman waited. 'However, a sign is required.'

  'Absolutely. I'd feel threatened if you didn't ask.'

  The last man to arrive reached into his suitcoat pocket and showed her a ring. The ring had a gleaming ruby. The impressive stone was embossed with the golden insignia of an intersecting cross and sword.

  'Deo gratias,' the woman repeated.

  Only then did the woman open the door all the way, stepping backward, bowing her head, respectfully allowing the visitor to enter.

  In an alcove to the left of the door, a grim, intense man in a Kevlar bullet-resistant vest lowered an Uzi submachine gun equipped with a silencer.

  The woman closed the door. 'Did you have a good flight?'

  'It didn't crash.'

  'The others arrived not long ago.'

  The visitor merely nodded, then followed the woman up narrow stairs to the second floor. He entered a bedroom, where the five other members of his team had already changed into unobtrusive clothes and now were taking apart and reassembling pistols laid out on the bed.

  The weapons, Austrian Clock-17 9 mm semiautomatics, were made of sturdy polymer plastic, their only metal the steel of the barrel and the firing mechanism. Lightweight, dependable, their main advantage was that metal detectors often failed to register them, and when disassembled, the pistols frequently weren't noticed on airport X-ray machines.

  'Your street clothes are in the bureau,' the woman said.

  'Thank you, sister.'

  'Your flight was long. You must be tired.'

  'Not at all.'

  'Hungry?'

  'Hardly. My purpose gives me energy.'

  'I'll be downstairs if you need anything. You will have to hurry, however. The schedule has been increased. You have tickets for a three o'clock flight to Washington National Airport. The bait is in motion.'

  'I'm pleased to hear that, sister. And the enemy? Have the vermin taken the bait?'

  'Not yet.'

  'They will, however.' His voice became an ominous whisper. 'I have no doubt. Thank
you.' He guided her from the bedroom. 'Thank you, sister. Thank you.' He shut the door.

  The matronly woman gripped the banister, proceeded hesitantly down the stairs, then paused before the guard at the entrance. 'They make me shiver.'

  'Yes,' the haggard man with the Uzi said. 'Once before, I worked with enforcers. For a day afterward, my marrow still felt frozen.'

  NINETEEN

  Tess waited, squirming impatiently on a chair at Professor Harding's kitchen table. The spacious room, in back of the Victorian house, was clean and uncluttered, painted blue. A large window provided a magnificent panorama of the thousands of glorious, many-colored lilies, but she was too preoccupied to pay attention to them. Some time ago – too long – Professor Harding had left her here while he'd gone upstairs to wake his wife.

  Tess kept glancing nervously toward her watch. It was five after one. She fidgeted. Unable to control her anxiety, she stood and paced, locked the back door, abruptly sat down again, and continued fidgeting.

  Hurry! Craig's plane would be in the air by now! He expected her at the Marriott hotel near Washington National Airport in less than ninety minutes!

  I won't be able to stay here much longer!

  But I can't just leave.

  I've got to know!

  At once she exhaled, hearing muffled footsteps on a staircase at the front of the house.

  The next thing, she heard murmured voices. The footsteps shuffled along a corridor, approaching the kitchen.

  Tess bolted to her feet as Professor Harding escorted his wife into view.

  But at the sight of the woman, Tess felt her stomach turn cold.

  No!

  So much time! I've wasted so much…!

  Priscilla Harding looked even more infirm than her husband. She was tiny, thin, and stoop-shouldered. Her wispy white hair was mussed from her nap, her face wrinkled, pale, and slack. Like her husband, she needed a cane. They clung to each other.

  'Professor,' Tess said, trying not to insult their dignity by revealing her alarm. 'If only you'd told me. I'd have been more than happy to go upstairs with you and help bring your wife downstairs.'

  'No need.' The old man smiled. 'Priscilla and I have managed to get along without help for several years. You wouldn't want to spoil us, would you? However, I appreciate your consideration.'

  'Here, let me…' Tess hurried around the table, gently gripped Priscilla Harding, and helped her to sit.

  'Good,' the professor said, breathing with difficulty. 'Our little exercise is over. How do you feel, Priscilla?'

  The woman didn't answer.

  Tess was alarmed by the lack of vitality in her eyes.

  My God, she isn't alert enough to…

  She can't possibly answer my questions!

  Professor Harding seemed to read Tess's mind. 'Don't worry. My wife's merely groggy from her nap. It takes Priscilla a while to regain her energy. But she'll be fine as soon as…'

  The old man opened the refrigerator's gleaming door and took out a syringe. After swabbing his wife's arm with rubbing alcohol, he injected her with what Tess assumed was insulin, given the professor's earlier remarks about his wife's diabetes.

  'There,' the professor said.

  He returned to the refrigerator and removed a plate of fruit, cheese, and meat that was covered with plastic-wrap.

  'I hope you're hungry, my dear.' He set the plate on the table, took off the plastic-wrap, then shifted unsteadily toward a counter to slice some French bread. 'I suggest you start with those sections of orange. You need to maintain your-'

  'Blood sugar?' Priscilla Harding's voice was thick-tongued, surprisingly deep. 'I'm sick of…'

  'Yes. That's right. You're sick. But in a few moments, after you've had something to eat, you'll feel much better. By the way, that navel orange is excellent. I recommend you try it.'

  With a weary glance toward her husband, Priscilla Harding obeyed, her arthritis-gnarled fingers raising a slice of the orange to her mouth. As she chewed methodically, she shifted her gaze, puzzled now, toward Tess.

  Again Professor Harding seemed to read thoughts. 'Forgive my rudeness, dear. This attractive young woman is a former student of mine, but of course her beauty can never compare to yours.'

  'You bullshitter.'

  'My dear. Tsk, tsk. And in front of company.'

  Priscilla Harding scrunched her wrinkled eyes in amusement.

  'Her name is Tess Drake,' the professor said, 'and she has a favor to ask. She needs to make use of your scholarly abilities.'

  Priscilla Harding's eyes rose, much less vapid. 'My scholarly…?'

  'Yes, it's a bit of a mystery we hope you can solve,' the professor said. 'I tried to assist my former student, but I'm afraid her questions are beyond me. They're not at all related to my field of expertise.'

  Her eyes gaining brightness, Priscilla ate another section of orange.

  'The sliced beef is very good. Try it,' the professor said.

  'What kind of favor?" Priscilla asked and continued eating, her eyes even more alert. 'What sort of questions?'

  'She'd like you to examine a photograph. The photograph shows… or so I believe… a modern reproduction of an ancient bas-relief statue. A rather brutal one, I should add. So prepare yourself. But when you feel your strength coming back, if you'd…'

  'Richard, the older you get, the more you avoid the point. A photograph? A modern replica of an ancient sculpture? Sounds fascinating. By all means, I'll be happy to look at it.'

  Tess felt tense from the pressure of speeding time. 'Mrs Harding, thank you.'

  'Please, there's no need to be formal. I'm Priscilla.' She munched on a piece of bread, wiped her hands on a napkin, and reached toward Tess. 'The photograph?'

  Tess took it from her purse and slid it across the table.

  Mrs Harding pulled glasses from a pocket in her dress and put them on, peering down at the photograph.

  She kept chewing the bread.

  Stopped chewing.

  And swallowed hard. Her jaws assumed a grim expression.

  She didn't speak for several moments.

  What is it? Tess thought.

  Hurry!

  Priscilla nodded grimly. 'I've seen something like this, a very similar image, several times before.'

  Muscles rigid, Tess leaned forward. 'But why do you look so troubled? The knife, the blood, the serpent, the dog. I know they're repulsive but…'

  'And the scorpion. Don't forget the scorpion,' Priscilla said. 'Attacking the testicles of the dying bull. And don't forget the flame bearers, flanking the victim, one torch pointing upward, the other down.' The old woman shook her wrinkled face. 'And the raven.'

  'I thought it was an owl.'

  'My God, no. An owl? Don't be absurd. It's a raven.'

  'But what do they mean?' Tess feared her control was about to collapse.

  Priscilla trembled. Ignoring Tess, she directed her attention toward her husband. 'Richard, do you remember our summer in Spain in seventy three?'

  'Of course,' the professor said with fondness. 'Our twenty-fifth anniversary.'

  'Now don't get maudlin on me, Richard. The nature of that occasion – however much I enjoyed it – is irrelevant. What is, what's important, is that while you stayed in Madrid and haunted the Prado museum…"

  'Yes, Velazquez, Goya, and…'

  'But not Picasso. I don't believe Picasso's Guernica was exhibited then.'

  'Please,' Tess leaned farther forward, her voice urgent. 'The statue.'

  'I'd seen the Prado many times,' Priscilla said. 'And I'm a classicist, not an art historian. So I sent Richard on his merry way while I went on my own way. After all, I like to believe I'm a liberated woman.'

  'You are, dear. How often you've proven that.' The professor shrugged with good nature and nibbled on some cheese.

  'So I went to ancient Spanish sites whose artifacts intrigued me.' Priscilla's eyes became misted with favorite memories. 'Merida. Pamplona.'

  'Pamplona?
Isn't that where Hemingway…?'

  'With apologies, Tess, pretend you're in my husband's classroom. Be polite, and don't interrupt.'

  'I'm sorry, Mrs…'

  'And don't make polite noises. I told you I'm not "Mrs". Not when you're my guest.' Priscilla concentrated. 'How I loved those… In ruins outside each village, I found etchings, engravings, and in a small museum outside Pamplona, I found a statue, like this. Weathered. Broken. Not clean, with perfect engravings. Not distinct in its outline. But it was the same as this photograph. And later, in my fascinating travels, while I waited for Richard to exhaust his compulsion for Velazquez and Goya… Apparently I'm like Richard. I'm so old I fail to get to the point.'

  'But what did you find?' Tess tried not to raise her voice.

  'More statues.' Priscilla shrugged. 'Further engravings.'

  'Of?'

  'The same image as this. Not frequent. In situ, they were always hidden. Always in caves or grottoes.'

  'Images of-?'

  'Mithras.'

  Tess jerked her head up. 'What or who the hell is…?'

  'Mithras?' Priscilla mustered energy. 'Are you religious, Tess?'

  'Sort of. I was raised a Roman Catholic. In my youth, I believed. In college, I lapsed. But lately…? Yes, I suppose you could say I'm religious.'

  'Roman Catholic? Ah.' Priscilla bit her lip, her tone despondent. 'Then I'm afraid your religion has…'

  'What?'

  'Competition.'

  'What are you talking about?'

  'Ancient competition. Stronger than you can imagine. It comes from the start of everything, the origins of civilization, the roots of history.'

  'What the hell…?'

  'Yes, hell.' Priscilla's face drooped, at once haggard again. 'Heaven and hell. That's what Mithras is all about.'

  'Look, I can't take much more of this,' Tess said. 'You don't know what I've been through! My mother's dead! People are dying all around me! I'm supposed to be at National Airport to meet someone in an hour! And I'm scared. No, that's an understatement! I'm terrified.'

  'About Mithras? I sympathize.' Priscilla clutched Tess's hand. 'If this photograph… if this statue's related to your problems… you have reason to be terrified.'