David Morrell - The Covenant Of The Flame

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.'

'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.'