The Covenant Of The Flame Read online

  The Covenant Of The Flame

  David Morrell

  Fatal attacks on polluters around the world are investigated by a writer and an NYPD lieutenant. By this environmental thriller's bloody climax, readers will be thoroughly tired of its padding and cardboard characters.

  David Morrell

  The Covenant Of The Flame

  To Barbara and Richard Montross in memory of Matthew,

  Saturday nights, and a castle in Spain.

  If a man abide not in Me, he is cast forth as a branch and is withered.

  And men gather them and cast them into the fire.

  And they are burned.

  The Gospel according to John

  PROLOGUE: A FURY SLINGING FLAME

  ASH WEDNESDAY

  Spain, 1391.

  Archdeacon Ferran Martinez, driven to excess by his fervent Catholicism, preached increasingly inflammatory sermons against all heretics. On 15 March, Ash Wednesday, his charismatic hate-filled oratory aroused his parishioners to such a frenzy that they stormed from his church toward the Jewish quarter of Seville. If not for the orderly minded civil authorities, a massacre might have ensued. Instead two leaders of the mob were seized and scourged. But their punishment, far from being a discouragement to fellow bigots, made the leaders martyrs and fueled the fires of their followers' hate. Anti-heretical fury spread from Seville to neighboring cities and finally throughout Spain with the terrible consequence that during the summer of 1391 an estimated 10,000 disbelievers were executed, most by beatings and stonings.

  Several, though, were put to the torch.

  GUARDIANS OF THE FAITH

  France.

  The religious mania in Spain was not unique. Since the start of the Middle Ages, a heresy derived from ancient Mideastern theology had attracted so many followers that the Church felt threatened. The heresy, known as Albigensianism, maintained that good and evil were balanced forces, that two Gods – not one -controlled the universe, that Satan was equal to, in combat with, and as cunning as the Lord. The body – flesh – was Satan's domain. The mind – the spirit - was the path to salvation.

  The thought of two Gods horrified the Church. Christ, the physical incarnation of the Blessed Father, could not have been evil. A version of God in the flesh, He could not have been part of the Devil's work when, crucified, He sacrificed Himself to redeem His decadent children. The heresy had to be crushed.

  The resultant crusade against the Albigensians was merciless. Tens of thousands died. But the heresy persisted. Thousands more died until at last in 1244 at the mountain fortress of Montségur in the Pyrenees of southwestern France, the last stronghold of the Albigensians was surrounded, assaulted, and set on fire.

  But there were rumors that the heresy – despite the crusade's brutality – had not been eradicated, that a small group of heretics had used ropes to descend from the mountain the night before the massacre, taking with them a mysterious treasure, and that this core of heretics had impossibly survived to disperse, to burrow deeply, their repulsive errors festering.

  THE PLACE OF BURNING

  Spain, 1478.

  The massacres at Seville and Montségur were but two examples of religious hysteria in the Middle Ages. Jews, Moors, Albigen-sians, and Protestants became the common target of a papally authorized purification of the Faith, its official title the Inquisition. The northern countries of Europe rejected the Inquisition's influence. But Italy, England, and France committed atrocities in its name.

  Nowhere else, however, was religious intolerance as extreme as in Spain. There the Inquisition, initially conducted by the sunken-eyed Dominican priest Tomas de Torquemada, resulted in tens of thousands of tortures and executions. The intent was to educate heretics and to guide them toward the true belief.

  Victims had their hands tied behind their back, from which a rope was raised, the pressure on their shoulders excruciating.

  'Confess!' they were ordered.

  'Confess? the victims moaned.

  'Your heresy!'

  'Heresy?' the victims wailed.

  'Raise the rope!' the Inquisitors commanded.

  Arms were strained. Shoulders popped.

  If the victims survived, they were stretched on the rack, and if they still survived but persisted in denying their theological error, the Inquisitors thrust a tube of cloth down their throat. Water was poured. When the victims came near to drowning, the tube forcibly extracted – brought with it not only water but blood.

  These victims had lost both their property and the right to question their accusers. Helpless, they had only two choices: to confess and beg for mercy but, more important, to implicate fellow heretics; or else to insist that they were innocent, that jealous neighbors had lied when informing against them. To confess, even if the victim was not a heretic, brought the chance for freedom. To insist that there'd been a mistake, to refuse to implicate others, caused the harshest penalty.

  At the quemadero, the place of burning, the accused were dragged from prison for their auto-da-fé or act of faith. All wore yellow robes and peaked caps. Those who'd been sentenced to death had black flames – pointing downward – on their garment. The others could still not be sure that they would survive. Only when they climbed to the scaffold would they be certain of the Inquisitors' judgment. Some, a few, were set free. Their confessions had been believed, although penance would have to be suffered. Others were sentenced to prison, a reprieve of a lingering death.

  Still others were strangled.

  But the worst offenders were burned alive at the stake. Their ashes were scattered, along with those of suspected heretics who'd died before the Inquisitors could question them. Even after death, those suspected heretics were not immune, their bodies exhumed and purified by flames.

  This zealous protection of the Faith persisted for a longer period of time than is generally realized. For centuries, from the close of the Middle Ages into the Renaissance and then to the so-called Age of Enlightenment, the Inquisition enforced its beliefs. Only in 1834 was the institution finally disbanded.

  Officially, at any rate. But there were rumors.

  ONE: CAUSES AND CONSEQUENCES THE LORD IS MY WITNESS

  ONE

  SENATE CLEAN-AIR BATTLE LOOMS WASHINGTON, DC, 10 June (AP) – In this year's most tense confrontation between Democrats and Republicans, the Senate today begins its debate on the controversial Barker-Hudson clean-air bill, which advocates that the nation not only adopt but exceed the stringent atmosphere-control policies recently adopted in California.

  'Our air's as foul as the smoke from a field of burning tires,' Senator Barker (Dem, New York) announced in a smoggy press conference on the steps of the Capitol Building yesterday. 'Take a deep breath. That is, if you're brave enough. Try not to gag. We ought to be wearing gas masks.'

  'And stay indoors,' the bill's co-sponsor, Senator Hudson (Dem, New Hampshire), added. 'My wife and I went out for a stroll last night. Five minutes was all we could bear. We rushed back home and made sure all the windows were closed. I gave up smoking a dozen years ago. Might as well not have bothered. According to my statistics, the atmosphere's so filthy we inhale the equivalent of two packs of cigarettes every day. If you don't care about yourselves, then at least protect your children. We've got to stop destroying their and your lungs.'

  The Barker-Hudson bill advocates a complete ban on smoking in all public places, an exorbitant fine for car and truck manufacturers if they fail to reduce emissions within two years, an equally exorbitant fine for industries that fail to reduce

  atmospheric pollution within the same length of time, a surcharge on automobile license fees for owners of more than one vehicle, a mandatory air-exhaust filtration system outside r
estaurants, dry-cleaners, and…

  TWO

  Georgetown, Washington.

  As was his custom, the Republican senior senator from Michigan, Roland Davis, woke at six a.m., careful not to disturb his wife. He went downstairs, made coffee, fed his cat, leaned out the front door to pick up the Washington Post, and carried the folded newspaper into the kitchen. The June sunrise shone dully through a smog-hazed bay window onto the table. Davis sipped his steaming coffee, put on his glasses, spread open the paper, and scanned it for any mention of his name.

  He didn't have to read far. The headline referred to the Barker-Hudson bill, and in the ensuing two-column story, Davis was frequently cited as the leader of the Republican party's opposition to 'an extreme, repressive, radical, and economically suicidal approach to a temporary, admittedly serious problem that requires time and care to be corrected.'

  Davis nodded, approving both his rhetoric and the reporter's accuracy in quoting him. He was fifty-eight, tall, with a full head of distinguished-looking gray hair, a patrician's face, and a photogenic slender body that he kept in shape by a half-hour daily workout on a stationary bicycle. Better get peddling, he thought. Got a busy day coming up. Besides, he was eager to watch the early morning news.

  But first he wanted to finish the story in the Post. Barker and Hudson made more apocalyptic statements about 'poisonous air pollution contributing to the greenhouse effect and the depletion of the ozone layer… increasing rate of skin cancer… risk of drought… melting polar icecaps… rising ocean level… state of emergency.' Sounded like a plot for a science-fiction movie'.

  Davis snorted. Those Democrats didn't stand a chance of getting their bill through the Senate, although he had to give Barker and Hudson credit – they knew how to get the attention of the media, and that wouldn't hurt come election time, at least with the liberals in their districts. Or maybe their tactic would backfire. Nobody wants to re-elect losers, and Barker and Hudson were sure to lose today. Clean air? Great idea. The trouble is, Americans didn't like making sacrifices. What they preferred was for the people down the street to make the sacrifice. Every smoker, multiple-car owner, factory worker worried about his job, everyone whose life style or pocketbook would be affected by the bill would urge his senators to vote against it.

  Hadn't Barker and Hudson ever heard of compromise? Was 'moderation' not in their vocabulary? Didn't they realize you had to approach a problem one step at a time instead of jumping on it all at once?

  Davis finished the story, pleased that he'd been quoted once more near the end, the voice of reason: 'I think we'd all agree, the air's not as clean as it could be. We've got a problem, yes, at least in some big cities, at least in June through September. Conditions will improve, though, when the weather gets cooler. That doesn't mean I recommend we sit on our hands. But we can't change society overnight, although my distinguished colleagues seem to want to do just that. What we need instead, and what I intend to propose as soon as I've evaluated all the statistics, is a balanced, moderate, carefully implemented, non-disruptive solution. Time. Air pollution took time to develop, and it requires time to be reduced.'

  Excellent, Davis thought. The Post gave me plenty of space, and I'm sure to get even more press in Michigan. The smokers in my constituency will feel less put upon. So will two-car families threatened with a surcharge on their license fees. But most important, Davis thought, the automobile manufacturers will be awfully grateful when they don't have to worry about meeting new restrictions on exhaust from their cars and their factories.

  Awfully grateful.

  And mighty generous. Yes, indeed.

  The doorbell rang. Davis frowned at the digital clock on the microwave across from him. 6:14. Who'd be here so early? At once the obvious answer occurred to him. An eager reporter. In which case, I'd better make sure I look presentable. Davis used his hands to neaten his hair, tied his housecoat securely, left the kitchen, and did his best to look cheery when he opened the front door.

  Abruptly he scrunched his eyebrows together, because no one was there. He scowled up and down the hazy street lined with elegant townhouses, but except for a car disappearing around a corner, he saw no activity.

  Who the-?

  Why the-?

  Suddenly an object on his doorstep attracted his attention. A large manila envelope. Frowning harder, Davis picked it up, peered once more along the street, went back inside his house, and locked the door behind him.

  Couldn't have been my assistant, Davis thought. Susan would have called first if she had something important for me to look at this early. Even if she didn't have time to phone, she wouldn't merely have left this envelope and rushed away without an explanation.

  Troubled, Davis unsealed the envelope and pulled out several documents. Too curious to wait to go into the kitchen and sit down to read them, he quickly scanned the first page but managed to complete only half of it before a moan escaped him.

  Jesus.

  Oh, dear Christ.

  He rushed to finish the page and flipped through the others.

  Fucking mother of-!

  The documents provided dates, places, names, and amounts, every bribe he'd ever received, every illegal campaign contribution, every expense- paid vacation, every…!

  And after the documents, there were photographs that made Davis grope for a wall to steady himself, afraid that his sudden chest pain meant he was having a heart attack. The photographs -clear, glossy, professional-looking black-and-whites – depicted Davis and his gorgeous young female assistant naked on the deck of a yacht and not simply having sex but performing several illegal versions of it, including sodomy and cunnilingus.

  Davis vividly remembered that exquisite summer afternoon. He and his assistant had been alone. Taking care that they weren't followed, each had traveled separately to the small private Caribbean island owned by one of Davis 's most powerful constituents. They'd been assured that the island would be deserted, but just to be extra cautious, Davis had taken the yacht out to sea, where no one could spy on them. No Gary Hart screwups for him.

  But someone had spied on them! From the downward angle of the photos, Davis concluded that they'd been taken with a long distance lens from a plane. And the photos were so sharply defined that Davis and his assistant almost appeared to be posing. Certainly their faces were easily recognizable, except when Davis had the back of his head to the camera while he hungrily burrowed his mouth between his assistant's legs.

  And damn it, there was more! After the photographs, which made Davis's chest heave no longer in pain but rage, he shuddered at the sight of an unsigned typed note, its implied threat as chilling as it was proportioned:

  WE SUGGEST

  THAT YOU RETHINK

  WHICH WAY YOU'LL VOTE

  ON THE BARKER-HUDSON BILL.

  Davis tore the documents, the photographs, and the note into halves, quarters, then eighths. The clumps became so thick that he had to subdivide them as he kept tearing. All the while, he cursed, with furious quietude so he wouldn't waken his wife.

  Cocksuckers! he thought, dimly aware of the irony that one cocksucker, the evidence about whom he wanted desperately to destroy, was his female assistant.

  At the same time, he was also aware that no matter how many times he shredded the damning evidence, his frenzy was useless – because whoever had sent this package wouldn't have been so foolish that they hadn't kept copies.

  Yes! Whoever! But there wasn't any doubt who they were.

  Barker and Hudson!

  Davis shook with indignation. Junior Democratic senators threatening a senior Republican senator? Had they no conception of the power that a seasoned politician like Davis could muster?

  I'll-!

  Yes? You'll-

  What? Exactly what will you do? Confront them? Reinforce the validity of their accusations? No matter what you do to them, it's nothing compared to what they can do to you if they decide to reveal what was in this package. Your career will be finished, ru
ined, a joke!

  Then what are you going to do?

  'Dear?'

  Davis flinched as he heard his wife coming down the stairs. In a rush, he shoved the torn evidence into the envelope.

  'Did I hear the doorbell?' Davis 's wife appeared at the bottom of the stairs. Her wrinkle-rimmed eyes were baggy. Her pudgy cheeks and belly sagged. Her white hair was in curlers.

  'Yes, love,' Davis answered. 'It was nothing. Just a messenger with some last-minute information about the clean-air bill.'

  'Oh, my, how tedious. I wish they wouldn't bother us this early.'

  'I know, sweet,' Davis said. 'But it was important. It made me rethink which way I'll vote. I'm beginning to sympathize with Barker and Hudson. The children, dear. We have to protect the nation's children. We have to insure them clean air so they can have clean lungs.'

  'But what about-?'

  'My generous supporters in Detroit? I guess I'll just have to make them understand, dear.' Davis thought about the photographs, about the arousing smell of his assistant. 'Yes, that's right. I guess I'll just have to make my generous supporters understand.'

  THREE

  The Amazon basin. Brazil.

  A haze filled the sky. Juanita Gomez, wearing a long black dress, fought to maintain her strength as she squinted through tears and a veil toward her husband's makeshift coffin. Yes, be strong, she thought, her soul aching. You must. For Pedro. It's what he would have wanted. Around her, she knew, her husband's mourning followers watched her as intensely as they did the coffin. If she lost control, if she gave them the least cause to suspect that her grief had weakened her resolve to continue her husband's work, then her husband's enemies would indeed have accomplished what they'd hoped to achieve by killing him. For Pedro! she thought. Be strong!