'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 descriptio
ns 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! C ómo est á 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
The Covenant Of The Flame Page 40