David Morrell - The Covenant Of The Flame

'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 descriptions 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.'