The Covenant Of The Flame

'Veto?'

'Good for you. You're paying attention. Now do your best to stay alert. When the Senate reconsiders the bill, this time you'll urge them to vote against it. Open your ears and listen. Against. Is that clear enough?'

'Very clear.'

'Then don't screw up again!'

Gerrard seethed, although outwardly he tried to seem humble. 'Of course, Mr President. Your logic is clear. And indeed I understand your motives. After all, business is what this government considers most important.'

'You bet your ass. Business is what keeps this country going. Never forget it.'

'Believe me, Mr President. I don't intend to.'

EIGHT

Three minutes later, after the president finished cursing Gerrard, his parents, his wife, his movie-star good looks, and even his tennis abilities, Gerrard was finally allowed to leave the Oval Office.

Again, the Secret Service guards kept a stolid expression, not simply because of professional detachment but as well because they sensed the political weather and realized that Gerrard now had even less importance than when he'd entered the president's office.

Or so Gerrard concluded as he pulled a handkerchief from his suitcoat pocket and wiped his apparently clammy brow, walking with equally apparent uncertain steps along the White House corridor.

Presidential aides turned away, attempting to conceal their embarrassment for him but clearly showing their relief that they weren't considered expendable.

Gerrard didn't care. He had no pride. What he did have was a mission, and it struck him as ironic that the president's last insult – about his tennis abilities – related directly to Gerrard's next appointment, a tennis match at an extremely private Washington club. He took an elevator down to the White House garage and was driven in his limousine – with two cars containing Secret Service agents, one before and one behind him – to a fashionable suburb. There, he entered a low, sprawling, glass-and-glinting-metal building that had won an architectural award three years ago. Even from the front, the pock-pock-pock of volleyed tennis balls was audible. Gerrard's driver and his Secret Service guards remained outside, as he instructed. They kept a discreet watch on the parking lot and the entrance to the building, although they didn't maintain a maximum level of vigilance. After all, who'd consider Gerrard a sufficiently important target to want to harm him?

In the tennis club's luxurious locker room, he changed from his suit to a fashionable athletic top and designer shorts. His four-hundred-dollar tennis shoes were Italian, their leather hand-stitched, a gift from a diplomat on one of Gerrard's so frequent good-will missions. His custom-made racket, constructed from space-age materials and worth two thousand dollars, had been a present from his wife. He grabbed a monogrammed towel, checked a mirror to make sure his movie-star hair was perfectly in place, then strolled from the rear of the club and squinted in the smoggy sunlight, facing eight chain-link-fenced courts, seven of which were occupied. In the eighth, a lean, tanned, distinguished-looking man of forty, dressed in tennis clothes, was waiting for him.

Gerrard stepped through the court's open gate, closed it, and shook hands with the man. 'How are you, Ken?'

'Troubled. And you, Alan?'

The same. I just had what the columnists would call a chewing-out from the president.' Gerrard massaged his right eye.

'Anything you couldn't handle?'

'As far as my ego goes, no big deal. But strategically…? I'll tell you about it later. I mean, we're supposed to be here to play tennis, after all, and to tell the truth, I need to get rid of some stress.' Again, Gerrard massaged his right eye.

'What's wrong with-?'

'Nothing important. The smog's so gritty it irritates my eyes. If the itch gets any worse, I'll have a doctor give me some ointment.'

'But you're sure it won't interfere with your game? I've been looking forward to beating you today. The thing is, I'd prefer to do it on even terms,' Ken said.

'No matter. On even terms or not, you'd still have trouble beating me.'

'Okay, then, challenge accepted. Serve.' With a smile, Ken walked to the opposite end of the court.

Ken's last name was Madden, and he was the Deputy Director of Covert Operations for the Central Intelligence Agency. He and Gerrard had gone to Yale together, had both belonged to its influential, secret society of Skull and Bones as well as Yale's tennis club, and had kept in touch over the years. Their friendship was long and well-established. No political commentators gave it much attention. Once a week, since the present administration had come into power, the two former fraternity members had made a habit of this game, at least when Gerrard was in town and not exiled by the president on yet another international good-will mission. The critical factor was that playing tennis was exactly what the media and the public expected Gerrard to be doing, and in so exclusive a setting where reporters and minor diplomats were refused admission, the weekly game – like so much about Gerrard – had become invisible.

As a rule, Gerrard's and Madden's skills were equal, their matches won by a very close margin. If Madden was victorious one week, Gerrard would be victorious the next. But today, despite Gerrard's confident challenge, the irritation in his right eye did impair his ability. He lost the first set, managed with difficulty to win the second, but didn't have a chance in the third. That was all they had time for.

Gerrard bent over, breathing heavily, surprised by his exhaustion. The smog, he thought. The damned smog. 'Sorry.' He reached the net, shook hands with Madden, and toweled his sweaty face. 'I apologize for the clumsy match. I'll try hard to be more challenging next week.' As he had repeatedly, he rubbed his right, weeping eye.

'Yeah, since we started, that eye's gotten worse. It's red now. You'd better do something about it.'

'Maybe if I rinsed it with water.'

'Why not?' Madden shrugged. 'Give it a try. At least the club's got a reverse-osmosis purification system. Otherwise the chemicals in the water would make your eye even worse.'

They walked toward the side of the court while in the background other players continued their matches.

'So tell me,' Madden said. They stood with their backs to the clubhouse, taking care to block their conversation in case they were being monitored by directional microphones. Tell me about the president.'

'He plans to veto the clean-air bill.'

Madden shook his head. 'Dear Lord. The stubborn fool.'

'I guarantee I gave him my best arguments,' Gerrard said. 'But he just wouldn't budge. According to him, when the problem gets bad enough, American businesses will suddenly come up with a miracle cure.'