Carver could hardly believe his eyes when they exited the elevator onto the second floor. A section of wall had been intentionally exposed. He touched the 1500-year-old brickwork with his fingers as he passed, admiring the finishing on the corners and artwork on the ceiling and the stucco finishing work on the walls. The entrance to their room was encased in a beautiful marble frame. Callahan beamed as he unlocked the door and let his guests into the spacious suite.
“A Salviati?” Nico exclaimed as he saw the artwork. “Seriously?”
Callahan looked at Carver. “You didn’t tell me Nico was also an expert on Renaissance art.”
Carver wasn’t paying much attention. He was too busy admiring an elaborate iron candelabra that hung over the dining table in their suite. It was a magnificent work of art, with the sign of the Vatican – the crossed keys of St. Peter beneath the triple crown – masterfully replicated at its center. “I hope you didn’t lay down your personal credit card for this room,” Carver said, “Because this candelabra is going to look great in my condo in D.C.”
He led Callahan to the master bedroom and shut the door, leaving Nico to salivate over the furnishings. Then the American began scanning the room for bugs.
The priest looked nervous. “You think your friend will be, uh, okay out there on his own?”
Carver nodded. “That chip in his arm is a strong deterrent against flight. Plus, I think he likes this place.”
The priest smiled, taking in Carver’s ripped form. “Still running several miles a day, obviously.”
“I try.”
The priest paused for a moment. “And now, a person with normal social skills would return the compliment by telling me how great I look.”
“To be honest, you look like you’ve seen some hard miles, Father. I thought Rome was supposed to be a cushy post.”
“To whom much is given, much will be expected,” Callahan said, quoting Luke. A brilliant student in his youth, Callahan had been recruited by the CIA almost as soon as he had entered the priesthood in Dublin, Ireland. Under the agreement, he was encouraged to fully pursue his ambitions in the Catholic Church in order to rise in the church hierarchy and broaden his intelligence-gathering capabilities. Over the years he had become a highly paid messenger, delivering information, technology and occasional surveillance services while still managing to keep his day job.
Four years ago he had been offered a role in Vatican Intelligence. With the organization having maintained close ties with the CIA, Callahan had become the primary linchpin in joint operations between the Vatican and American intelligence, as well as other organizations such as MI6 and the Mossad. He was officially a double agent. But the CIA hoped they would remain his true master.
Carver had finished his electronic sweep of the room, and now stood on the bed as he examined the light fixtures for bugs. “I think we’re okay. Let’s get on with business.”
Callahan opened his satchel. He unpacked a SIG P226 wrapped in cloth, along with several spare clips. It smelled freshly oiled. It looked every bit as good as the one he had been forced to leave in Johannesburg when airport police presented him with an 11-page declaration form that he had failed to fill out upon entering the country. As much as he hated to leave a weapon behind, it was better than missing his flight.
“No serial numbers,” the priest added.
Carver wrapped his fingers around the grip, then popped the clip into the handle and chambered a round into the barrel, testing the action.
“Perfect,” he said. “I assume you’ll take cash?”
The priest smiled. “It’s on me. My monthly stipend from the CIA more than covers little popguns like this. You should see the stuff my Israeli friends ask for.”
Callahan reached into his satchel again. This time, he produced a new satphone and handed it to Carver. He had gotten into the habit of switching phones every few days as a security precaution. Until recently, he had been content to simply switch SIM cards out of the same phone on a regular basis. That was no longer enough. It had simply gotten too easy to infiltrate other parts of the handset.
“There now,” the priest said. “You can communicate and you can defend yourself. Now can you tell me why you’re here?”
Carver sat down in a small, elegantly crafted chair made of wood and leather. Father Thomas Callahan had been a valued operative for years, and he had been the eyes and ears of Operation Crossbow for a handful of days. Still, Carver didn’t yet feel comfortable disclosing the ins and outs of the Gish and Preston assassinations.
“You contacted us, Father. Something about two bodies in the morgue?”
“Quite right. It seems there was a gunfight in the hotel parking garage where we last had a location on Adrian Zhu. Nothing I couldn’t have sussed out on my own.”
“Who are they?”
“They’re still John Does, as you say in America.”
“I need to see them immediately. Care to come along and offer last rites?”
“Since when did you care about the souls of strangers?”
“I’ve saved lots of strangers. Millions, even. They just don’t know it.”
Callahan’s eyes twinkled. “Aye, but you’ve also sent a few to meet their maker. And ever so humbly, I might add.”
Mayflower Hotel
“I have a message for Mary,” Ellis told Vera Borst. It was not what she had imagined saying to the sitting under-secretary-general of the United Nations. It was far from anything Speers would have approved. But it felt right.
As far as Ms. Borst was concerned, the government still considered her daughter missing. Ellis had decided not to let on that they had discovered her name on the passenger manifest of the Toronto-Rome flight the previous day. After Hank Bowers had been unable to secure a meeting with Vera, McLean had tapped her communications. So far, the log on the mission cloud showed absolutely no activity between mother and daughter.
“My daughter?” Borst said in Dutch-accented English.
“Yes,” Ellis confirmed.
“Who is this? How did you get this number?”
“My name is Haley Ellis. I was with Mary before the fire at Senator Preston’s house.” All true. All verifiable.
“I see. You two knew each other?”
“I have to tell her something important. Something Senator Preston was supposed to tell her.”
“I can’t tell you where she is,” Borst said without missing a beat. It wasn’t a denial. Just a statement.
“The messenger is a Level 19,” Ellis said. She was completely improvising now. There was very little to lose.
Borst was quiet for several seconds. Ellis thought she heard running water. “We shouldn’t discuss this by phone,” Borst said finally. “We should meet. Are you still in D.C.?”
“Yes.”
“Then you have to come now. I’m leaving for Europe tomorrow.”
Now? Not ideal. But a chance to question the mother of the only person of interest they had? She had to act. And her chances of finding the killers from a hotel room? Zero.
“I’ll have to check flights,” Ellis said. In her excitement, she had almost forgotten that she was confined to the hotel. How would she get past Jack?
“There’s an Alaska Airlines flight at 7:10 every night from Reagan National. With the time difference it puts you at Sea-Tac at about nine. If you miss that, there’s a Virgin flight a half-hour later.”
Given Borst’s role in world government, Ellis wasn’t surprised the under-secretary would have memorized the Washington to Seattle flight schedule. She imagined Borst was also fairly familiar with flights into and out of New York.
She checked her watch. It was already a few minutes past four. There might be enough time to get to the airport and get on a standby list for the 7:10. There was no time to ask Speers for permission.
Rockville, Maryland
Speers and Fordham watched from the back seat of a black sedan as the city gave way to suburbs and eventually, to a hilly, verdant Rockvill
e neighborhood populated by expensive cars and enormous mansions. “This is the address,” Fordham said into his earpiece as they rolled up outside the massive estate known as Eden. “Let us take the lead. Everyone else stay back until we give the signal.”
The property’s 15-foot walls were covered in ivy, except at the top, where loops of razor wire glimmered in the sun. Tiny cameras were mounted around the entire perimeter.
Speers got out of the car. Wincing at the pain from his ankle, he propped himself up on a cane that the nurses at Walter Reed had given him. The MRI had shown no broken bones, thankfully. They had given him something for the inflammation, wrapped the ankle, and discharged him. As he put weight on it, he regretted not getting a prescription for the pain.
He looked down the hill, noting no less than eight black sedans parked about 50 yards away. Their passengers had been instructed to stay put for now. Per the president’s request, none of Fordham’s agents except Hank Bowers were privy to the case details. They had been told only to seize all files, computers, strongboxes and weapons from the premises.
“Are those chemical toilets ours?” he said, noticing an outhouse trailer at the end of the caravan.
“Damn right,” Fordham said. “I took one look at the size of this place on the map and figured we’d be out here all day. I’ve also got a craft services truck coming at noon.”
Fordham pulled the federal warrant out of his pocket. Speers didn’t want to know how the FBI director had gotten it so quickly.
Suddenly, a grinding sound emanated from the front gate, which looked as if it was made of solid iron. The gate opened slowly. The FBI agents backed off, some of them ducking behind cars. Speers held his ground, mesmerized by the emerging view.
A long, winding driveway snaked up a sloping hill. It was covered with autumn leaves. A flock of ducks flew in perfect V-formation overhead and began to circle over the main house. Speers imagined a pond deeper on the property, or perhaps a gigantic swimming pool.
A real estate agent in black stockings and a conservative red dress stepped out to the street. Apparently oblivious to the G-men on the street, she began pounding a sign into the dirt with a rubber mallet. It read PRIVATE SHOWINGS BY APPOINTMENT ONLY.
Speers hobbled across the street with Fordham beside him, and called out to the woman so as not to scare her. “Excuse me.”
The woman turned. Her face was cragged with wrinkles and was much older than her shapely figure and blonde mane had conveyed from the rear. “Yes?” the woman responded.
“Just saw the sign going up.” Speers hoped to gain entrance without using Fordham’s warrant. “We’d like to see the property.”
The woman sized the two men up. Although they had stepped out of a new black Lincoln Continental, neither was wearing a luxury watch and their shoes were worth less than the bottle of wine she had bought for dinner last night. “I’m afraid there is a prequalification process in order to secure an appointment. With a property like this, one does have to screen out the looky loos.”
With the gates now fully open, Speers could see the white columns leading up to the enormous residence. Nobody seemed to be around, but it was easy to imagine world leaders being driven in and out of the property and squads of young students mowing the lawn and raking leaves.
“Happy to oblige,” Fordham said. “Can you tell me how long it’s been vacant?”
“Maybe a week?” she replied, seeming somewhat baffled by her own answer.
“You’re not sure?” Speers said.
She set the mallet down beside her and wiped her forehead. “I must admit,” she sighed. “This place has been a mystery for 43 years. I grew up in this neighborhood. I was a teenager when the new owners moved in one night and started putting up these big walls. Even though there always seemed to be big parties here, nobody really knew who lived here. You can imagine my shock when their attorney called me to sell the place.”
Speers nodded. “Leaving in such a hurry, they must have left some things behind.”
She shook her head. “The place is in cherry condition. Absolutely cherry. They didn’t leave so much as a box in a bedroom or a crumb in the kitchen. With a place this gigantic? That’s something you don’t see every day.”
Speers’ spirits sank. The odds of finding anything useful on the premises had just decreased dramatically.
“We’d like to look around,” Fordham suggested.
She folded her arms across her chest. “About all I can tell you without an application are the specs. Twenty-three bedrooms, 20 bathrooms and 16 fireplaces.” She paused, noticing Fordham surveying the cameras over the gate. “Now then. May I ask what business you and your friend are in?”
Fordham raised his left hand above his head and snapped his fingers. The woman’s jaw sagged as she watched 32 FBI field agents step out of their cars.
City Morgue
Rome
Detective Antonio Tesla was a distinguished-looking fellow, perhaps in his mid-50s, clean-shaven, with the short, curly hair that was seen on the busts of ancient Roman noblemen. He wore brown suit pants and a white button-down shirt under an unstructured jacket.
Carver let Callahan handle the introductions between him, Tesla and Nico. Tesla shook hands without a word, turned, and led them past the administrative offices and down some stairs, where the air was markedly colder. It seemed that morgues all over the world looked the same. Unflattering lighting. A series of gurneys with unclothed bodies in various levels of assembly. Rows and rows of drawers.
Tesla began talking in Italian at a steady clip as they entered a second, and much larger, room. Father Callahan began translating as he received the information. “He says the two victims were found four nights ago in the parking garage of the Hotel Angelico.”
“How did they die, exactly?”
Callahan started to answer, but it was all he could do to keep up with the detective’s quick tongue. “There was a shootout. The victims were found in and around the Mini Cooper, which was apparently rammed several times by a Range Rover with stolen plates. It was left on the premises.”
“Did you say, in and around the Mini Cooper? I thought there were only two of them.”
The priest clarified the point with Tesla. His revulsion was evident before he began translating. “It appeared that the men might have been attempting to escape the vehicle. Their extremities were smashed in the process, rendering certain, em, pieces of them outside the wreckage.”
“A regular demolition derby,” Carver remarked.
Tesla resumed talking.
“Yesterday,” Callahan translated from Italian, “He discovered that the car had been registered to a young couple in Florence who had driven it for four years before donating it to a local Monastery. It’s currently unclear how it ended up in the hands of the victims.”
A morgue employee in a hooded white uniform took note of Detective Tesla’s entrance and, apparently expecting his arrival, motioned in the general direction of a wall of drawers. He walked to one such drawer and opened it about three feet, revealing a black body bag.
“He says it’s going to be unpleasant,” the priest explained.
Nico looked away as Tesla unzipped the bag, revealing the decapitated cadaver. What remained above the neck was a twisted, ravaged lower jawbone covered in jerky-like flesh.
Tesla spoke rapidly. He went on nonstop for a minute, gesticulating with his hands. At last Callahan said, “He thinks the people in the Range Rover might have just walked away. There’s no accounting for their departure in the hotel security cameras. But he said it looked like they tried to blow up their own ride before they went.”
“Tried?” Carver said. “Was it armored?”
The priest nodded. “He says the Range Rover had a serious anti-terror package. The driver’s side glass alone took 20 rounds without giving. They managed to set the gas tank on fire, and the outside was scorched, but the interior withstood the blast.”
“There can’t be many vehicles
that tricked out in the world.”
“Tesla’s squad already looked up the plates. Stolen from a Fiat.”
The plates might have been untraceable, Carver thought, but surely there were only a handful of security companies in the world that could have outfitted the Range Rover to take more than 70 rounds of gunfire and also be resistant to self-sabotage.
They probably just changed vehicles, Carver thought. He was going to need to review the garage security footage for himself.
“Ask the detective if we can see their phones,” Carver said and then waited for the translation.
“He said you’re welcome to see them, but that the SIM cards had been removed by the time police arrived at the scene.”
SIM cards stolen from dead men? This was both strange and disappointing. Even if these men had used disposable handsets, the call logs could have exposed anyone they had communicated with recently. Carver could only conclude that whoever had kill these men wanted the data for the same purpose. Killing them wasn’t enough. They wanted their friends, too.
Meanwhile, Tesla was still talking. “They appeared to be firing MP5 submachine guns,” Callahan translated. “And they had plenty of time to shoot, apparently. They found 72 shell casings on the cement around them.”
By the time Callahan was finished translating for Carver, Tesla had already opened up a second drawer. He unzipped the body bag and turned the cadaver on its side. This one had a face, but was missing a foot. Carver crouched to see the man’s face. He looked no older than 25, with olive-tinted skin.
Tesla waved his hand, motioning Carver to the other side. As Carver came around, he pointed to a tattoo on the man’s back, just below the collar. It was a circular sun, with the block letters IHS in the center. A cross was above the abbreviation, with three nails below. Carver knew it well. It was the symbol of the Society of Jesus.
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