The Fellowship

by William Tyree

  “Have any thoughts since then?” Bowers asked.

  Fielding shook his head. “I saw that story about her Mom in the news. None of us know what to think.”

  Bowers believed him. He had been personally monitoring Borst’s mobile account since the night of the senator’s death. Mason had texted her a few times and called. He truly seemed to have no idea where Mary was.

  “Did Mary or the senator ever mention something called the Fellowship World Initiative?”

  “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “I understand you and Mary were involved,” Bowers continued. Another fact he had drummed up by sifting through Borst’s vast stores of personal communications. From what he could deduce, Mason and Mary had been more than coworkers for a period of weeks or months. “You sure she never mentioned the Fellowship?”

  Fielding’s face turned red. “I can’t be absolutely sure, but I don’t remember it.”

  “How long were you together?”

  “Six months or so. The senator didn’t like relationships among his staff, so we tried to keep it quiet.”

  “You’re what, 27?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you and Mary ever talk about the future?”

  “Yeah, but I eventually realized it wasn’t going to work out long-term.”

  “What led you to that conclusion?”

  Fielding got up and shut the office door, then returned to his seat. “There was nothing there physically. I kept expecting it to, but it didn’t pan out.”

  “You mean sexually.”

  “Yes. At first, I thought maybe it was because she was really religious or something, but she never talked about that. After a while, I figured out that she was seeing someone on the side.”

  “And what led you to that conclusion?”

  “At first she disappeared a lot. Never wanted to tell me where she was, or who she was with.”

  “And then?”

  “One night I asked her, just hypothetically, if she wanted children. She said she was going to have one child. A boy. One. Boy.”

  “She was that exact?”

  “Yeah, it was weird. Usually, women just say they want children or they don’t. She had the whole plan in place.“

  Bowers scribbled in his notebook. “What exactly did she say?”

  “She said she was going to conceive in Rome, but the kid would be born in America.”

  “And did she say when this was going to happen?”

  Fielding nodded. “She said she’d be a mother by the time she turned 26. That would be what, nine months from now?”

  Apostolic Palace

  Lang went to his desk and sat down. He slid open a drawer. “Slowly,” Carver said as he took up a position behind him. The intelligence chief was old, but he was as unpredictable and dangerous a creature as Carver had ever met.

  “Your assumptions about my personal beliefs are misguided,” Lang said. He removed an electric cigarette from the desk, switched it on, and took a slow drag. Then he reached into the drawer for a second time, producing a transparent rectangular document display box. He set it on the desktop and gestured for Carver to come closer.

  Carver remained where he was. “Your dagger,” he said.

  “Pardon?”

  “Your dagger. The one you took from Wolf.”

  It had been a calculated guess. Something about Lang’s gait – the way he carried his left leg, stiffer than the right – that had tipped him off. Sure enough, the old man bent down and raised the hem of his robes, revealing a sheath sewn into the inside of his left boot.

  The steel glimmered as he pulled the blade from the sheath and laid it on the table. Carver picked it up and checked the inscription. Mehr sein als scheinen. Be more than you seem.

  “Now then,” Lang said. “If we’re all feeling more secure, I think you’ll find this artifact much more enlightening.”

  Carver rested on his elbows, studying the sketch that was pressed between glass. Judging by the color of the handmade parchment, it had been drawn a very long time ago. It depicted an ancient burial box in the Jewish or Greek style. Dimensions for the ossuary were neatly provided: 51 cm in length by 31 cm high by 28 inches deep. Weight: 20 kilograms. Inscription: Yeshua bar Yehosef. Among the symbols engraved on the ossuary was the Chi-Ro, which was one of the earliest Christian symbols, layering the Greek X with the P. The monogram of Jesus Christ.

  “This ossuary,” Lang continued, “was discovered in the catacombs beneath what is now St. Peter’s Basilica between 319 and 333 AD. All that is certain about the ossuary’s origins is that Constantine’s followers unearthed it when digging a well to serve the original church, which is now the site of St. Peter’s Basilica.”

  “Wait,” Seven said. “Wasn’t the tomb of St. Peter also discovered underneath the church?”

  “’And I tell you that you are Peter’,” Father Callahan said, quoting Matthew, “’And upon this rock I shall build my church.’”

  The intelligence czar confirmed with a nod. “To be exact, the bones of St. Peter were eventually discovered within 20 meters of the original ossuary resting place. Obviously, the concept of Christ’s physical remains on Earth wasn’t a completely unknown concept, but it was a contradiction of accepted scripture. Nevertheless, the presence of an old-fashioned burial box, entombed near the remains of Peter, and inscribed with Jesus’ name, created doubt among the church establishment.”

  Father Callahan drew closer. “How much doubt, exactly?”

  “We can only imagine the questions swirling in Constantine’s mind. Among the papal archives, he had apparently seen a written legend. A rambling diary, in actuality, by an unknown author stating that after the crucifixion, the Roman governor Pontius Pilate had ordered the destruction of Jesus’ body in order to keep the burial tomb from becoming a shrine for believers. According to the legend, it was this decision that led Peter to take Jesus’ body, with the help of Joseph of Arimethea, and hide it from the Romans in Judea. Eventually, the diary claims, it was brought to Rome.”

  The priest’s mouth hung open as he pondered the possibility. “Rome. Quite literally the last place on Earth Pilate’s men would think of looking for it.”

  Seven ran her fingers through her closely cropped hair. “You described the legend as a rambling diary. How could that possibly stand up to scripture?”

  “You have to understand the context of written history in the time of Constantine. There were very few written documents at that time. The oral tradition was strong, and belief in the core teachings of Christ was what mattered then, since there were thousands of variants between the Greek, Latin, Coptic and other versions of the Bible. Most, but not all of them, told of Christ’s physical resurrection. And what was scripture but a series of stories handed down by eyewitnesses and apostles? It wasn’t until approximately 50 years after Constantine’s death that St. Jerome translated the old Latin into the authoritative Bible that we know today.”

  “Did Constantine believe the ossuary was legitimate?”

  “Not especially,” Lang said. “He was a firm believer in physical resurrection. But he was willing to consider the possibility that he would be proven wrong some day.”

  “So he decided to keep the ossuary safe, but secret.”

  Lang nodded. “He therefore mandated that the story of the mysterious ossuary be documented and passed on to each succeeding pope by the dead or dying pope’s camerlengo. Eventually, the tradition was expanded to be shared with each new head of Vatican Intelligence, so that the secret could be protected in the event of foreign conquest. It also served to insulate the pope against any violence undertaken to protect it.”

  “And now?” Seven said.

  “It goes without saying that the pontiff is innocent,” Callahan cut in. “His Holiness would never agree to these atrocities in the name of God.”

  Lang crossed himself. “What we do, we do to serve God. It is my sincere hope that His Holiness remains naïve of the war we are waging to protec
t him.”

  “I’m not easily offended,” Carver growled. “But I don’t want to hear another word justifying these murders in the name of God.”

  Lang leaned back in his chair. “That’s fine, Agent Carver, because I’m tired of talking. I’ve told you more than I should have in hopes that we might better understand each other. I suggest you get on with whatever business you have planned.”

  Now thoroughly satisfied that Lang was the leader they had been looking for, Carver sat in the chair opposite the desk and looked the old man in the eyes. “What if I could lead you to the ossuary, and allow you to return it to the Vatican?”

  Lang folded his hands before him. “Then the secret would be restored. All hostilities would cease immediately.”

  Carver turned, suppressing a smile. He had Lang right where he wanted him. “I would need something else in return.”

  “Naturally. And what might that be?”

  “The names and locations of the men who killed Rand Preston.”

  Subterranean Rome

  It was Lars who first discovered that something was wrong. Just an unsettling feeling, quickly followed by butterflies in his stomach. Seconds later, the lights in the enormous home flickered, and then went out completely. The jumbo-size lift that operated 24 hours a day behind him – that which connected the palazzo to the subterranean chamber beneath Rome – ground to a halt. The darkness itself felt alive, like a dangerous organism that threatened to swallow him whole.

  Magi’s distant bark echoed up and down the elevator shaft. A husky growl that was unlike any sound the animal had made in the past.

  Where the hell were the emergency lights? As soon as the thought had come to him, the battery-powered lights came to life. The peach-colored illumination felt strangely relaxing, as if he were in some upscale restaurant.

  Then came the screeching. It took a moment before he recognized the terrible sound of the nightingale floors. It sounded more like bats than birds. Someone was running at full speed down the corridor. He forced himself to breathe as he crouched behind one of the climate-control appliances. He steadied the weapon before him, switched it off safety, and rested his index finger on the trigger.

  It was just Mathieu. He raced toward Lars, his eyes impossibly huge. “They’re here!” he yelled.

  “Who’s here?” a voice behind him shouted. Lars turned. It was Nicolas. He had just come from one of the interior chambers.

  “Black Order!” Mathieu said, exasperated. “I don’t know how many. I saw three, maybe four before the cameras went out.”

  Lars was furious. “Why didn’t you call?”

  “I tried! Communications are out!”

  That figured. After having spent tens of millions acquiring and installing the lab into this ancient place, the communications equipment was comparably archaic. With wireless communications next to impossible from level to level, they had purchased a 1980s-era intercom system that had been salvaged from an abandoned Soviet missile bunker. As with everything down here, they had been too afraid of cave-ins to embed the wiring into the walls. It had worked great, but, as Lars had warned from the beginning, all it would take to cut off multi-floor communication was a pair of wire cutters.

  Now he had no way to warn anyone else. “Let’s go,” he urged. Even if they made their stand there, the others could escort the Shepherd out the emergency hatch. It was time to release the bots.

  Suddenly the nightingale floors were screaming one long, inharmonious note. God help us, Lars thought. The passageway was full of Black Order operatives.

  *

  Lang’s international force of holy warriors advanced through the subterranean maze of catacombs, long-buried cobblestone streets and escape routes carved though the ages by the Roman Empire, various resistance movements and later, the Vatican itself. As they had agreed, Carver, Seven, Father Callahan and Heinz Lang trekked behind them.

  To forge the unlikely alliance, Carver had provided Lang with the location of the ossuary. Per their agreement, Lang would be permitted to retrieve the ossuary and return it to the Vatican. In turn, Lang had agreed to reveal the identities of Senator Preston’s killers. As a gesture of good faith, Lang had offered to hand them over before the assault even started. Carver, however, preferred to wait. He expected heavy security at the Roman villa where Sebastian Wolf was completing his life’s work. They would need every gun they had.

  The tunnels twisted this way and that. The porous walls seemed to have tear ducts, weeping water that was at times pure and at other times putrid. With only their headlamps for illumination, they trekked through passageways lined with the bones of long-dead Romans.

  Time and again he flashed to the kill zone beneath Washington D.C. where he had lost Megan O’Keefe. The sight and sound of her stiff, waterlogged corpse had haunted his sleep endlessly. And now he relived the nightmare as they waded through three feet of water and the rats – hundreds of them – scurried up the walls around them. On his insistence, Seven walked behind him. As he turned to check on her, his heart skipped as he projected the face of his dead partner on hers.

  Seven’s voice broke through the quiet. “How far down are we?”

  “About 60 meters and counting,” Callahan replied. He had used the tunnels many times over the years. Dressed in olive green cargo pants, a black turtleneck and felt-bottom boots that would not slip on the wet earth below Rome, Father Callahan’s preparation was admirable. Callahan carried a pack containing spare ammunition, guns, night vision goggles and other items that they had handpicked from the trunk of his car.

  As he had told Blake, he was here not as an operative, but as a Christian. Callahan had been just a boy when his uncle had been killed in a torrid stretch of Protestant on Catholic violence in Belfast. The trouble over the ossuary would only bring more blood to the streets around the world. They had a chance to stop it tonight, once and for all.

  “If we find Sebastian Wolf,” the priest asked, “What exactly are we going to do with him?”

  “That’s for Lang to decide,” Carver said. “We aren’t allowed to touch him.”

  “And Adrian Zhu?”

  “We have reasonable cause to apprehend him. That goes double for Mary Borst.”

  Finally they breached the immense reception room of the grandiose residence near Piazza del Popolo. It was to this stately address that Symplexicon Labs had shipped enough laboratory equipment to clone a herd of woolly mammoths. Lang’s force quickly dispatched two armed guards in the Renaissance-era foyer, the blood spatter scarcely noticeable against the crimson-colored walls. Overhead, an enormous white glass chandelier swung back and forth. Portraits of long-dead Vatican royalty seemed to stare at them from all sides.

  The high ceilings and ornate molding told of a structure that had been breathtaking before it had been prepared for siege. Looking up the mahogany staircase, Carver saw that the entrances to the second and third floors had been sealed off with razor wire, and the dining room was piled high with floorboards, dirt, nails and other debris that pointed to a sizable construction project that extended both above and below ground. The fact that the debris had been piled here, inside the palatial residence, only added further confirmation they had come to the right place. Someone had gone to great pains to hide the project from outsiders.

  The ratatatat of automatic 9mm gunfire broke out from the fourth floor. Carver grabbed Seven and Lang and scurried to the far side of the cavernous room. Lang’s fighters held nothing back as they returned fire.

  Within seconds, they were already down a gun. A young, bearded Slovak had taken a round in the middle of his face, obliterating his nose and collapsing his airway. He fell sideways, narrowly missing Carver’s lap. As he pushed the body away, Carver saw into the man’s open pack. He had been carrying a double-braided polyester rope, eight-inch eyebolts and a heavy-duty portable hand wench.

  They don’t just want to eliminate Wolf, Carver thought. They want to punish him. Just like the others.

  The V
illa

  Carver and Seven carried Heckler & Koch G36 assault rifles that they had taken from Callahan’s stash of trunk treasure. Seven had used one while training with the Special Air Service, and spoke highly of the weapon’s reflex sight, which used adjustable battery-powered illumination in low-level light situations. But for now, Lang’s men would do the fighting. If all went according to plan, Carver wouldn’t need to fire a shot until it was time to collect on his end of the deal with Lang.

  Father Callahan carried all the explosives in his pack. He whistled at one of the Black Order mercenaries and tossed him a standard grenade. The priest pointed a finger up at the fourth floor.

  The mercenary smiled, gave Callahan thumbs up, and hurled it to the top of the stairs with the expert accuracy of a center fielder.

  “You idiot!” Callahan screamed. “You have to pull the pin first!”

  The priest’s words were gravely prophetic. Within seconds, the grenade flew back over the fourth floor balcony toward Callahan and the 10 surviving warriors.

  Carver grabbed Seven and Lang and pushed them into an open coat closet. “Everyone down!”

  The frag grenade exploded five feet above the surface of the chestnut marble floor. A burst of shrapnel hit the solid wood door protecting Carver, Seven and Lang. All was quiet for several seconds, during which Carver wondered whether they were the only remaining survivors.

  Then two guns started up again, and he could tell by proximity – and by the sound of their weapons – that they were Black Order. The relief he felt at knowing there were survivors was an odd and unnerving sensation. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, he thought. No, that was bullshit. He and Lang were not friends. They were merely using each other.