The Fellowship

by William Tyree

Carlisle exhaled frustration. “Considering the escalation of violence, I suggested to Director Speers that our governments collaborate in earnest without further delay. He was in full agreement, and has already gathered the necessary approvals. The only question is where.”

  Carver was in no position to refuse. He needed the help. But this time, MI6 was going to have to come to him.

  *

  Carver spent the next hour bringing Nico up to speed. Until now, he had kept his asset at arm’s length from the big picture. Carver had disclosed that some very important people had been killed in a very cruel manner, and that more killings were possible unless they were able to identify and locate the organization behind it. Now he provided background on why these things were taking place.

  He paced the hardwood floor of their suite as he talked, stopping occasionally to hydrate and stretch. When at last he had laid out all that he had gleaned from Drucker’s manuscript, the classified documents Speers had sent, and the crime scene details from Seattle, London and D.C., he noted something he hadn’t yet seen in Nico’s expression – panic.

  “You okay?” Carver asked.

  “How would anyone be okay after hearing all that?” Nico said. “This is epic! Who knows how high this goes? Is the Chinese premier in the Fellowship? How about the Queen of England?”

  Carver straightened up. “If Drucker’s org chart is any indication, I think the answers to those questions are no and no.”

  The wiry hacker stood up, using both hands to pull absentmindedly at his hair. “But you said yourself that Drucker had been exiled from the organization for several years. His org chart is out of date.”

  “We can’t worry about that now. The Black Order began killing the moment the ossuary was taken from the Vatican. We have no choice but to help them find it.”

  Nico’s eyes grew wide. “Help the Black Order? They’re terrorists!”

  “They may be evil, but they’re not terrorists.”

  “Oh come on! You said yourself that they killed a senator!”

  “A terror group would have settled for any congressman. It would have also sought publicity. The Black Order’s goals appear to be very defined. For now, they exist to repossess and safeguard the ossuary. If we can return it to the Vatican, then we have a chance at restoring security.”

  “I can’t believe you’re defending them.”

  Carver looked Nico directly in the eyes. “Believe me, Senator Preston’s killers will be brought to justice. Leave that to me. But the Black Order could be further radicalized if we can’t find the ossuary in time.”

  “In time for what?”

  Carver pulled his tablet up off the table and tapped to open a document that Arunus Roth had sent him. “It’s time that I shared this with you.” He handed it to Nico, who was immediately lost in dozens of rows of financials.

  “What am I looking at?”

  “The old accounting books of LifeEmberz, Adrian Zhu’s company. Early on, the company began experimenting with the extraction of mitochondrial DNA from exhumed bodies, some of which were hundreds or thousands of years old, then trying to clone offspring from it using stem cells. Highly controversial, obviously. A process that they were later rumored to have perfected after the company moved its offices to China.”

  “So?”

  “Remember the two bodies we saw in the Rome morgue? They were Black Order operatives sent to kill Adrian Zhu.”

  “Because of something in the company financials?”

  “No. Just listen. Until today, I believed Zhu might be working with Sebastian Wolf, but I had nothing to go on other than the octagon found on the gunmen and a strong hunch. Then I went back over the LifeEmberz files that the government seized after the company fled the U.S. Early on, LifeEmberz received a substantial seed investment, paid in cash. The company had originally told the IRS that it had been an anonymous gift. If you’ll look at the initials on the balance sheet, however, the source is marked FWI, which they originally explained as standing for ‘From Wise Investors’. After a second look, I think we know what FWI stands for.”

  “Fellowship…World…Initiative.”

  Carver nodded. “There was also a matching cash withdrawal from one of the Fellowship’s accounts.”

  “Wait, Wolf was behind Zhu’s research from the beginning?”

  “That’s right. And when the technology was perfected, he wanted to own it. That meant making Zhu a convert.”

  Nico collapsed in his chair at the realization. “He’s trying to reincarnate Christ.”

  Carver took the tablet, pulled up the prophecy from Drucker’s manuscript, and read. “And when I am reborn to the world, the knowledge hoarders shall be exposed as bearers of false idols.” He looked at Nico. “Not reincarnated, Nico, but born.”

  “This is crazy. It’s worse than crazy.”

  “People think Scientology is crazy too, but look how many powerful people are drawn to it?” He stood, looking down at the prophecy, then to Nico. “Well, now you understand the stakes.”

  “And what if we can’t find the ossuary in time?”

  Carver went to the window and rested his shoulder against the frame as he looked out. “Then the Black Order will be the least of our worries.”

  Somewhere Over The Northwest

  The Cessna Citation X leveled off at 43,000 feet, flying at a speed just shy of Mach 1. At this rate they would be back in D.C. in less than two hours. Ellis did not feel the speed. At her request, Speers had ordered the cabin lights switched off for the duration of the trip. Her eyes were unnaturally sensitive to light. A normal symptom of the concussion, the doctor had explained as he had begged her to remain under his care for another night.

  Half-circles, nearly dark as the bruises on her side and back, sat beneath her eyes. She was just as happy that Carver was still in Europe. The thought of facing him like this was humiliating. She hoped big sunglasses were in style this year, because she was going to be wearing them for at least a week.

  She reached into her bag and retrieved an energy drink that she had purchased at the hospital gift shop. She could easily sleep, but she was sick of that. She wanted nothing more than to clear the cobwebs from her mind. To puzzle the pieces together.

  She gingerly eased back into the cushy leather seat. The soreness wasn’t diminishing, but she was getting used to it.

  “Feel like talking?” Speers asked.

  “Okay,” she consented, although she could already tell that he was about to deliver some bad news.

  He told her that he had sent the passports of the men who had assaulted her in Seattle to Arunus Roth, at DNI Headquarters in McLean, as well as to Blake Carver, who was following up with leads on the ground in Rome. Then he told her about Suk Kenyatta, the UN envoy who had been murdered in Geneva. He paused a moment, worrying that he had overwhelmed her with too much information.

  “Nathan Drucker,” she said. It was not immediately clear to either of them why she said it.

  “What about him?” Speers said patiently.

  Her eyes rolled upwards, left and then right as she strained to piece the memory together. The association came to her slowly. “The name S. Kenyatta was written in one of Drucker’s notebooks. I’m sure of it.”

  Speers opened his attaché and began sifting through the stacks of loose notes. He couldn’t see anything. “Do you mind?” he asked, as his finger grazed over the reading light button. He had sent copies of everything to McLean and Rome, but had yet to process all the loose pieces they had gathered from Drucker’s house. Everything was happening so fast. In a perfect world, they would have weeks or months to piece together all the data points they had discovered over the past several days.

  He soon found them among the stack. Six pages of hierarchies. Hand-drawn, barely legible, with entire sections scratched out. Notes and Bible verses written in the margins. And even the names, most of them, were simply surnames. Only occasionally did they contain a first initial.

  Speers handed her the
pages. The feel of the yellow notebook paper between her fingertips seemed to jog her memory.

  “Drucker was trying to piece together a Fellowship org chart.”

  Ellis began telling him what she could remember. She sputtered, losing her train of thought frequently as she remembered what had led her to board the flight for Seattle in the first place. She found the name “V Borst” on one of the pages and pointed to it. It was near the top of Drucker’s power list, near Gish and Preston.

  “Okay,” Speers said. “And you thought she was in danger?”

  Her thoughts drifted for a moment. She felt weightless for a moment until the sound of Speers’ voice brought her back. “No,” she said. “How could I know that? I was hoping she could tell me who might have wanted Gish and Preston dead. I was hoping she could tell us where her daughter was.”

  “That would have been nice,” Speers agreed. “Unfortunately, we have no clue what happened to Mary Borst after her plane touched down in Rome. It’s like she vanished into thin air.”

  Speers switched on his phone and called McLean. Ellis listened as he told Arunus Roth that he wanted to match every name on the list to the identity of a public figure or scientist, and he wanted it by the time they touched down in Rome.

  Ellis’ head throbbed again. She shut her eyes. The vision of Borst’s body hanging overhead returned to her. She was talking. She was trying to tell her something important. Ellis concentrated hard, trying to push away the white noise of her mind. She reached deep, trying to access the memory. It was like reaching into a deep, dark space. There was something down there, but it was too slippery to pick up.

  Rome

  Father Callahan was late. Carver sat on a park bench overlooking the Tiber River, drumming his fingers on his knee. The priest had messaged him an hour earlier, telling him that he had new information about the Vatican break in. The American had quickly agreed. Anything that could lead him to the whereabouts of the Holy Ossuary, or the zealots trying to protect it, could be the break he needed.

  A cool breeze rustled the trees overhead. Carver eyed a couple holding hands on a park bench. Was it just him, or did they look a little old to be such enthusiastic lovebirds? When he watched them kiss, though, and saw the mutt-like mug on the guy, his doubts disappeared. They had to be in love. Not even the most dedicated spy could conjure up that much passion for a face like that.

  He went over the details of his conversations with Callahan in his head. Although the priest had always been short on details, they had at least confirmed his instincts about the Vatican Intelligence’s pecking order. The Vatican’s philosophy when it came to choosing popes seemed to be the older, the better. That way there was less chance of any real change.

  Apparently the same could be said for the Vatican’s choice of Intelligence chief. The only person Callahan could have gotten the name Sebastian Wolf from was his nemesis, Heinz Lang. And he was as old as the hills. In his 80s, at least.

  But he assumed that Callahan wouldn’t have shared any critical details with Lang. He would have given him only what he needed to show value. Such was the way of double agents. Likewise, he had thrown Carver not a steak, but a bone, and he would no doubt be hoping to get a scrap in return.

  He thought back to the morgue, when Detective Tesla had shown them the bodies of the gunmen. He remembered Nico’s observation: I thought it was curious that Father Callahan kept referring to the bodies as victims. Tesla never used that word to describe them.

  A black van cornered onto Villa Della Conciliazione, squealing its brakes as it accelerated.

  A chilling thought hit Carver. If Lang had given Callahan orders to locate Sebastian Wolf, why would Lang wait to see whether Carver would share the intel with him?

  He wouldn’t. He would just take the asset who could find Wolf.

  The priest was now nine minutes late. Suddenly concerned, Carver got up and began heading back toward the palazzo.

  The priest had arranged their hotel reservations. Carver had performed a bug sweep, but only on their initial check in. And it would have been easy enough to eavesdrop from an adjoining room.

  He pulled out his phone and dialed the palazzo. Nico answered on the third ring.

  “Hey,” Nico said, “Great news. I found the motherload on – ”

  “Not another word,” Carver said. “Power down. We’re checking out of the room.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve got a bad feeling. Pack your things. We have to relocate.”

  “Hang on a sec. Someone’s at the door.”

  He heard Nico’s footsteps as he laid the room receiver down. Carver shouted into the phone. “Nico? Wait! Don’t answer it!”

  Carver quickened his pace as he passed two bronze-winged victories at the Ponte Vittorio Emanuele’s north end. He now had a partial view of Villa Della Conciliazione, and its row of embassies, shops and the palazzo were on the other side.

  Nico had still not returned to the phone. The street was illuminated with a soft yellow hue. It wasn’t crowded like it had been in the morning, but there were still scattered groups of tourists, clergy and business people about. Carver pocketed his mobile and launched into a full-out sprint.

  He quickly reached the Vatican Radio Building near the east end of Villa Della Conciliazione. At a distance of two city blocks, he spotted Nico’s unmistakably lanky, pale frame as he was shoved into the black van. Carver ran at a blistering pace, focusing in vain on the license plate as the vehicle sped away.

  Macabre visions flashed before Carver’s eyes. Nico hung by his wrists. Blood pooling on the hardwood floor beneath him. Eyes bulging. Shoulders popping out of their sockets.

  He pushed the dark ruminations away. That didn’t fit the pattern. Nico was not in the Fellowship. He didn’t even know Sebastian Wolf.

  His senses heightened, it seemed as if he was suddenly aware of everything around him. A delegation of government types exiting the Brazilian consulate across the street. A group of clergy leaving the Antico Caffe. A monsignor stepping outside the Order of the Holy Sepulchre at the far end of the palazzo. A pair of Vatican policemen standing leisurely at the end of the street, smoking cigarettes. And just as it seemed that Carver was going to lose the vehicle for good, he spotted his saving grace – a large group of nuns crossing the Piazza Pio XII, the polygon-shaped arc directly in front of the massive oval of St. Peter’s Square.

  It was evident by both their zeal for their surroundings, and their pristine white habits, that they were not local nuns. They were pilgrims here on a trip of a lifetime. None of the roughly three dozen sisters paid any attention to the black vehicle careening their way. Only when it began to honk did any of them snap out of their wide-eyed wonder. Those that did see the vehicle froze in the crosswalk.

  Only someone with Carver’s conditioning could have heard the vehicle gearing down over the sound of his own breathing. Even if the driver was brazen enough to kidnap a felon in federal custody, they weren’t stupid enough to take out a bunch of nuns.

  As Carver gained ground on the SUV, he attracted the attention of the Vatican police. They stood upright, not quite understanding the situation, but clearly sensing the disturbance in their touristy atmosphere.

  He was just 30 yards away now, close enough to the SUV to see that it had no rear license plate. As it cleared the throngs and began to pull away, Carver had a decision to make. If he pulled his weapon from the shoulder holster under his jacket, he might be able to shoot out a tire, and if he was very lucky, kill the driver. But besides possible civilian casualties, there would be a cost to rescuing Nico by force – full exposure to the Vatican police.

  The policemen were armed, and there was a good chance that the armed policemen would take him for a madman, or a terrorist, and take him out. There was also a good chance he would be wounded and subsequently arrested. Speer’s voice popped into his head: Your status is completely deniable. That had been made very clear. The American government would not claim him. Even if he told
them that he was working for the Director of National Intelligence, Speers would have no choice but to deny it.

  One thing was clear. He wasn’t going to be able to find the Black Order from within a prison cell.

  The van accelerated as the police stepped in to guide the remaining nuns out of the path of oncoming traffic. The windows were tinted too dark to get a last glimpse of Nico Gold.

  *

  There would be no going back to the palazzo. Although Carver rather liked the new suits he’d bought in Munich, retrieving them was hardly worth a bullet in the brain. Besides, everything he needed to find Nico Gold existed on the mission cloud.

  He would have to ensure his freedom first. The Vatican police were moving across the square now, straining their necks to track Carver’s movements over a swarm of tourists. Callahan had been right. After the burglary in the Apostolic Palace, they were on high alert.

  Technically speaking, Carver had done nothing wrong. There was no crime in chasing a vehicle down the street. But if the police caught him, and chose to pat him down, they would quickly find an unregistered, concealed firearm under his jacket. By the time he talked his way out of the holding cell, Nico would be dead. And so would untold political leaders as the war between the Fellowship and the Black Order raged on.

  One of the policeman tapped his earpiece and looked up, motioning to a Swiss Guard stationed high on the city walls. The guard’s elevated position made him the perfect spotter. Carver had to get out of his line of sight, and fast.

  He changed directions and walked into the middle of a tour group that was moving toward an exit in the Vatican walls. Stooping slightly to blend in among them, he went with the flow until they passed underneath a massive archway. Several meters above him was the Passato, the elevated walkway where popes throughout the ages had fled the Royal Palace for the relative safety of Castel Sant'Angelo. Before him was Via del Mascherino, a bustling thoroughfare lined with restaurants, shops and apartment buildings.