Speers sighed. “We’re going to need to ask you to fully document every conversation between the two of you.”
Eva sipped her coffee slowly, and then set it down on the table. “No. That’s not going to happen.”
“Come again?”
“This will go no further than this room. I’m telling you this in complete confidence so that we can pivot our tactical situation as needed. I have no intention of having these details unearthed in a declassified document decades from now.”
The two intelligence chiefs eyed each other. “Madam President,” Speers said, “This has the potential to compromise our strategy.”
“As I understand the situation,” Eva said, “The outcome of the war between these two secret societies could adversely impact more than just national security. That’s why I’m asking you to solve the situation in the shadows, without the need for us to retract our public statements or otherwise undermine our authority.”
Speers leaned forward, lowering his voice. “I don’t mean to be insensitive, Madam President, but the solution may require eliminating Mr. Wolf.”
“Then I need to remind you that he’s an American citizen who is permitted to practice freedom of religion.”
“Yes ma’am. But – ”
“Has Mr. Wolf been formally accused of a crime?”
“Not formally, Madam President. But we strongly suspect –”
“My understanding is that the Black Order, not the Fellowship, has been responsible for the violent aggression, as well as the crimes against Americans.”
Speers wanted to tell her about the Nathan Drucker murder, but it was purely speculation at this point. They still had no leads on who had operated the nanobot that had killed him just blocks from the West Wing.
“That’s largely true,” Speers consented, “but there are dead on both sides of this. I can’t tell you more without getting into a lot of detail.”
Eva stood, signaling that the meeting was over. “Gentlemen, I want this matter brought to a quiet close. I want the satisfaction of knowing that those who killed Americans and our allies are avenged. I also want your assurances that the civil liberties of our citizens will be upheld, no matter how far away they may be.”
The security chiefs thanked Eva for her time and exited through the dining room en route to the hallway. Speers removed his pocket square and dabbed the sweat from his face as they passed the cabinet room.
“Civil liberties upheld?” Fordham said, scratching his head. “What the hell was that all about?”
“It means she’s not going to authorize lethal force against Wolf or the Fellowship.”
“So where does that leave us?”
“In the same position we were an hour ago. Balance must be restored. And this is why you have a guy like Blake Carver. His status is deniable.”
Castel Sant’Angelo
Carver, Seven Mansfield and Father Callahan stood at the south end of Ponte Sant’Angelo, the bridge connecting the Vatican district with old Rome. The bridge was studded with enormous white marble angels holding instruments of the Crucifixion. Whips. Nails. A lance. A cross. A crown of thorns. On the opposite side of the Tiber River, Castel Sant’Angelo, the Vatican’s ancient fortress, seemed to bristle against the late afternoon skyline.
They stood on the sidewalk, all three wearing clerical robes, virtually indistinguishable from many of the other religious tourists along the river. A cold wind blew, threatening to blow back the hood Seven had pulled over her scalp.
“Don’t make eye contact,” Callahan warned her. Even without makeup, what showed of her face was unmistakably feminine. “God help me, if I survive this, I will flog myself mightily for giving you those costumes.”
A hunch told Carver that Castel Sant’Angelo – which was rumored to have light security – was the entry point that the Fellowship had used to breach the wider Vatican complex. It was linked to the Apostolic Palace by the passato borgo, the 800-meter elevated walkway. It was the same route, in reverse, that popes over the centuries had used to flee danger. During the sack of Rome in 1526, Pope Clement VII had fled from the Vatican Palace to Castel Sant’Angelo while 147 Swiss Guard were said to have perished on the steps of St. Peter’s Basilica.
Callahan had divulged an even more secretive way in, which made use of the underground tunnels linking Castel Sant’Angelo with the Apostolic Palace. Carver hoped he was right. Their lives depended on it.
Like so many truth-seeking pilgrims before them, they began their trek toward the Vatican by crossing the Ponte Sant’Angelo. Much like the marble angels Bernini had sculpted, bearing the instruments of death, the bridge had been, for centuries, one of the Vatican’s favorite execution sites. Enemies of the state had been hanged, burned, bludgeoned, beheaded and even quartered by the hundreds. If they failed to reach Lang tonight, a new wave of bloodshed would wash over Europe, and for that matter, the world.
They passed high over the Tiber River and neared the circular hulk of brick and limestone at the end of the bridge. Carver spotted Via della Conciliazione – where they had stayed until Nico’s abduction – to the left. At the far end he could see the massive dome of St. Peter’s Basilica, and the Vatican Palace, the seat of power for one billion Catholics worldwide.
Soon they stood directly in front of the imposing structure. At the top, a bronzed Archangel Michael drew his sword. Circular battlements were perfectly positioned to defend attacks from land or water.
A brown circular ditch stood where a moat had once encircled the structure. Carver imagined the carnage that had ensued when the Goths had come with an attack so fierce that the Roman soldiers had been forced, out of self-defense, to push priceless marble statues down upon them.
Castel Sant'Angelo had begun as a tomb for the Emperor Hadrian in 135 AD. Over the years it had morphed into a prison with an interior courtyard reserved for executing scientists and heretics. During World War II, Sebastian Wolf himself had been briefly imprisoned here.
No one bothered to search their packs as they entered. Callahan had been right. For a place holding so much priceless art, security was amazingly light. The palace, of course, would be another story.
Apostolic Palace
Heinz Lang’s lip curled into a sneer as he entered his office. He paused at the door as he took in the vision of Father Callahan sitting behind his desk, surrounded by the portraits of Ignatius of Loyola, Francis Borgia and Everard Mercurian.
Carver stepped out from behind the door and shut it, caging the wizened Vatican Intelligence chief in his own office. Lang spun around at the speed of a much younger man, his black vestments swirling with his movements.
“Your Excellency,” Callahan said, “allow me to introduce Blake Carver.”
Lang did not appear to be intimidated. “Agent Carver,” he said, “I had a feeling our paths would cross eventually.”
Seven stepped out from a shadow at the other end of the room, where she held a loaded Beretta. The shapeless black cassock hid her feminine curves.
“And may I introduce my counterpart,” Carver said. “Seven Mansfield.”
She slid the hood back, revealing her face. Lang’s face filled with disgust at the sight of a woman in clerical clothing.
“Your revulsion is nothing compared to the way I felt yesterday,” Callahan said.
“Oh, Father!” Lang mocked. “Did you have an unwanted house guest?”
“Judging by the sound suppressor screwed onto the end of his gun, he didn’t drop by to chat.”
“You give me far too much credit,” Lang objected. “When it comes to creating dangerous enemies, you are hardly in need of my help.”
He went to a sitting area at the far end of the room with a billion-dollar view of St. Peter’s Square at night. He rested his bones in a purple-upholstered chair, picked up a decanter emblazoned with the Society of Jesus emblem, and poured a crystal chalice full of Chianti.
“I would offer you one, Agent Carver, but I understand you always decline
alcohol. An unfortunate result of your Mormon upbringing, no doubt. And on the other hand, puritanism is a habit Father Callahan would be wise to pick up, given his legendary weakness for drink.”
Carver joined him, sitting in another of the purple chairs. “If wine is the secret to your longevity,” he said, “Maybe I should reconsider.”
“Oh, the Vatican is full of spritely old goats like me. The secret to a long life, as far as we are concerned, is plenty of walking, prayer, and yes, wine. Fortunately, the Vatican grounds offer plenty of opportunities for all three.”
“Which makes your high-risk activities all the more perplexing.”
“Must we play riddles? Out with it.”
“From what I’ve seen, membership in the Black Order seems to diminish one’s lifespan considerably.”
The former Jesuit chief sipped his Chianti, focusing his eyes on Carver. “You need to get your history straight, Agent Carver. Pope Alexander VII dissolved the Black Order in 1655. He was a man of great reform. He sought to cleanse the empire of its brutality and prejudice, and by most accounts, he made remarkable progress.”
“Until they were called to reform,” Carver countered. “After Napoleon invaded Rome, he took the pope and the Vatican Archives to France. Their return two years later was said to have been brought about by relentless guerilla attacks by Black Order operatives.”
“Friars.”
“What?”
“The original operatives of the Holy Alliance and its more specialized units were Jesuits. Those who fought to return power to Rome in the time of Napoleon were friars, acting independently, ready to sacrifice their lives in Jesus’ example for the glory of God.”
“You’re suggesting this was an organic movement, acting independently from the Vatican.”
“Precisely.”
“But even a rogue order must have a leader with connections. When did they recruit you? Was it that first trip to Paris, when German Intelligence had discovered that the ossuary had been right under their noses the whole time?”
The corners of Lang’s mouth turned up slightly. “Impressive. Even if you don’t quite have all the pieces figured out.”
“Or maybe they recruited you even earlier. The Black Order was waiting for you in Notre Dame, weren’t they? Someone had tipped them off.”
Lang set the crystal glass on a wooden coaster. He went to a shelf, where he took up an angel figurine that looked, as evident by its imperfection, homemade.
“When I was 10 years old,” he said, “Just before Christmas, my mother was decorating the house. One of her hobbies was making crafts out of clay, and she had recently finished making new figurines for the Christmas manger. She had spent several days perfecting them. In our tradition, the angels were the first to appear, and the baby Jesus and Mary and Joseph and animals were not typically put out until the days and weeks after Christmas, according to the biblical calendar. But that year she was so proud of what she had made that she put them out early. That night, a high-ranking party member from the Ministry of Propaganda, with whom my father did business, came over for dinner. The moment he saw the new clay pieces, he was outraged. Deeply put out by them, he was. My mother asked our guest whatever was the matter. He told her that the figurines did not look Aryan enough.”
Lang turned, handing the clay angel to Carver. Apart from a chipped wing, the angel felt smooth in his hands.
“My father, of course, apologized,” Lang continued. “He asked my mother to kindly put the manager away, but our guest was still not satisfied. He ordered her to smash the figurines into pieces. My father, who probably feared losing the man’s business, quickly retrieved a mallet from the shed. My mother refused, and so he did it himself. The wise men, Joseph, the Virgin, the baby Jesus. All destroyed into a thousand broken bits. The angel you hold in your hands now is all that remains of the original set.”
Father Callahan swung his feet up on Lang’s desk. “Touching. I almost cried.”
“The next day, a package was delivered from the Ministry. New Virgin, Joseph and baby Jesus figurines. They were all blonde. As a little boy who had worshipped both Jesus Christ and Adolf Hitler, I was devastated to realize that the two prominent forces in my life were at odds. I decided that I would have to be very careful from then on. But I knew that my loyalties rested with God. So I confided in one of my Jesuit teachers, Father Leo Kruger.”
“And Kruger was Black Order,” Carver said.
Lang nodded. “A descendent from the original line, apparently. And even then, he knew the Gestapo was watching him. He taught me the old ways.”
Callahan rose from behind the desk. “You talk about service to God? You’ve ordered the assassinations of world leaders, potentially destabilizing entire regions. Is that how you demonstrate your faith?”
“The Kingdom of God must be defended at all costs. And unfortunately, our friend Mr. Wolf still holds onto the myth that Himmler programmed within his twisted heart. The legend of the so-called Holy Ossuary.”
Carver leaned across the desk, his face only 12 inches from Lang’s. “The blood trail leads to you. Give me one reason why I shouldn’t kill you here where you sit.”
“Here in Vatican City? I doubt this is the type of international incident the American government is prepared to explain.”
Carver’s answer came without hesitation. “My status is deniable. The White House won’t be on the hook for your death. I will. And that’s just fine by me.”
“My death would not solve your problem, which, as you stated, is to eliminate the threat. My mission is merely to ensure the preservation of the Church and the righteous path of its believers.”
The American straightened up. “And how is it that killing Senator Preston preserved the church?”
“Let me relate this to you in terms that an American can understand. In Texas, there are ranches where hunters pay top dollar to kill the dama gazelle. This is animal that is nearly extinct in Africa, yet paradoxically, flourishes in Texas. On the surface, it is oxymoronic to kill an animal in order to save it. It is about as sensible as building nuclear stockpiles to achieve peace. And yet both tactics, while counterintuitive, are equally effective. In Africa, the animals were nearly hunted into oblivion. But the Texans are very smart. They understand that the game must be managed. The money paid by the hunters to kill only a few gazelles is used to save the entire species. And by doing this, they can restore balance to the ecosystem worldwide.”
“You’re not hunting game. You’re hunting people.”
“Even so, the parallels hold true. Our battle is also one of sustainability and spiritual balance. Good versus evil. God versus the devil. Do you have any idea what would happen if people stopped believing in the resurrection of the flesh? If they thought that the church had deceived them for two thousand years? The world would lose its moral compass. Fear of God, along with the promise of heaven, is a major deterrent to sin.”
Carver leaned forward. “You say this whole thing is a myth. But you wouldn’t risk instigating a worldwide holy war for just any old box of bones.”
Lang checked his watch. “We are running out of time. Not just me, Agent Carver. All of us.”
“Then tell me what this is all about.”
“The knowledge you seek has been shared by only a handful of people over the past 2,000 years.”
“You’ve got exactly one minute to give me the abridged version.”
Senate Offices
Washington D.C.
A lone staffer was boxing up the last of the late Senator Preston’s files when Hank Bowers arrived. The FBI section chief was bundled up in a heavy coat. A cold front had descended on Washington, complete with sleet and high winds. He slid his gloves off, pulled out his ID and held it out for the tall, thin kid to inspect.
“It’s Mason, right?”
Mason Fielding nodded reluctantly. “Look, I already talked to the FBI. That was the day after the fire. I think my statement is on file, if you’d like to check.�
��
There was no need. Bowers had already been through it countless times. The Bureau had dispatched a shadow team right after Mary Borst had disappeared. Although they had been kept in the dark from the Senator’s true cause of death, they had still managed to collect a treasure trove of information about Mary.
Bowers took off his coat and sat down at one of several empty desks, indicating his intention to stay a while. The office was a ghost town, but it wouldn’t stay that way for long. The governor of Texas had appointed a successor who was said to be en route to Washington.
He looked up at a UT Austin poster on the wall. “Hook ‘em, Horns!”
“Did you and the senator go to school together?”
Bowers held his right hand out, using his thumb to point at his TKE ring. “Same fraternity.
“Ah.”
“So you’re the last man standing, huh?”
Fielding sat opposite, his arms folded across his chest. “Guess so. It’s a little like digging a grave, to be honest.”
“It was a terrible tragedy.”
“I mean my grave, not the senator’s. After I finish packing this place up, I’m out of a job.”
“You ever consider a career in intelligence?” Bowers put two fingers into his jacket pocket, slid out a business card, and pushed it across the table. “We hire a new wave of recruits every year. Call me tomorrow. I might be able to put in a word.”
Fielding picked up Bowers’ card and examined it closely before sliding it into his front shirt pocket. A small spark of hope glimmered in his eyes. “How can I help?”
“I’m here about Mary Borst.”
The staffer nodded. “I heard a rumor that she was killed in the fire. Then I heard maybe she was missing.”
With all the collateral damage in recent days, Bowers had very little time to focus on the fire itself. There was no doubt in Bowers’ mind that Borst had actually started it. But her motive was still a mystery to him.
Given the similar ways that Vera Borst and Preston had been butchered, it now seemed unlikely that Mary had started the fire to disrupt the investigation into the senator’s killers. It was more likely that she feared something in the senator’s home would lead them to the Fellowship and its activities.
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