The Fellowship bc-2

by William Tyree

  Fordham cut in. “Until the ossuary is recovered, we strongly recommend alerting these individuals as to the threat they face, and if possible, extending security around them.”

  “And how would that help us?” Sir Carlisle probed.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Speers said. “These are all people with significant power and influence. Until the ossuary is found, they’ve got targets on their back.”

  “Offering protection could be perceived as taking sides,” the President said.

  “No,” Speers insisted. “This is peacekeeping.”

  The prime minister spoke for the first time. “Here’s a mad idea. What would happen if we just let this play out?”

  “You mean, just let them kill each other?”

  “Precisely.”

  Speers chuckled, and then pulled it back, suddenly aware of how condescending he sounded. “Let me try to put this into perspective. Hundreds of years after the Crusades, we view the Sunni and Shi’a violence in the Muslim world as something that’s so foreign, so unimaginable to us. That’s just because we have short-term memories. It wasn’t so long ago that Protestants and Catholics in Ireland were killing each other on a regular basis. And that was Europe for hundreds of years, by the way.”

  “I see your point.”

  “Do you? With all due respect, I’m telling you that this situation is a powder keg. If we’re not proactive, we’re going to experience global sectarian violence like the world has never seen.”

  The group sat in silence for several moments. The president looked up at the screen. “Gentlemen, I need just a few minutes alone with my staff, if you don’t mind.”

  The screen faded to black before displaying the presidential seal. The President stood and went to the window. “Julian,” she began while looking out at the south lawn, “you said it doesn’t matter what we believe. What if our beliefs are the only thing that really matters?”

  Rome

  Carver and Seven sat picking at salads and San Pellegrino. The priest was already a half-hour late. They were taking a risk waiting here. Carver’s trust in Callahan had waned considerably in the last two days. Still, his instincts told him that they needed to get to Lang, and that was going to be very difficult without the priest’s help.

  “I could down an entire bottle of grappa,” Seven said, gesturing to a cabinet full of the stuff. “Every time I slow down, I see Sam’s body on that staircase.”

  Carver nodded solemnly, not knowing what to say. Every comment that popped into his head seemed inane or insensitive. Finally, he said, “Were you two close?”

  She thought about the question for a few moments before speaking. “Personally speaking, I didn’t care for him. But he somehow managed to have a family, which is far more than I can say for most of us. There must’ve been something good about him.”

  “Right,” Carver managed, even though he didn’t agree. Even Charles Manson had a “family.” That didn’t mean there was anything good about him.

  “What about you? Anyone waiting for you at home?”

  “Just Marty.”

  “Let me guess. A dog?”

  “A pipe organ cactus. He’s very understanding about these long trips away from home.”

  Carver was relieved when his phone buzzed. His eyebrows arched as he read the text message.

  “Callahan?” Seven said hopefully.

  “Nico. He’s got something.”

  He wasted no time in logging into the mission cloud. Nico had apparently infiltrated the booking systems for at least one of the lab equipment manufacturing companies. Carver began perusing an air waybill from a company called Symplexicon Labs, and a detailed packing list containing virtually every piece of equipment that Dr. Calipari had mentioned. There was an additional set of shipments from 9002 River Road, in Rockville, Maryland. Eden.

  Nico had linked the delivery address to a satellite map of Rome, along with a street view photograph. Carver was not surprised when he saw the Renaissance-era mansion near Piazza del Popolo. A man of Wolf’s means was not going to downsize from Eden to a one-bedroom apartment.

  A white Peugeot sedan pulled up slowly. It was obviously a rental. As for the driver, Carver would have recognized Callahan’s bulbous head anywhere.

  He laid 20 Euros on the table and ran out to the car with Seven. They got into the back seat and buckled themselves in as Callahan stepped on it.

  “Where the hell have you been hiding?” the priest said, peering nervously into the rear view mirror. “I’ve been trying to call you.”

  “I had to ditch the satphone,” Carver said, deliberately withholding the story about Nico’s abduction. “When you didn’t show for our meeting, I started feeling itchy.”

  The priest made a sharp turn into a parking garage, where Carver guessed he intended to leave the car.

  “That makes two of us, my friend. My home security alerts went off about an hour before we were supposed to meet. I was finishing up a funeral at the time. Dust to dust, etcetera. You can imagine my shock when I logged into my living room camera feed and saw someone ransacking the place.”

  “Anyone you know?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. Someone I’ve hired from time to time. And by the looks of the sound suppressor screwed onto his gun, he found a new employer.”

  The priest pulled into a parking spot and shut off the motor. A car came careening down the aisle. The priest, Carver and Seven unbuckled their seatbelts and dropped to the floorboards. The car’s radio blasted Italian pop as it passed harmlessly.

  “Kids,” the priest sighed with relief. He popped the trunk and got out of the car. “I packed us some goodies.”

  The three went to the trunk and looked down upon a treasure trove of weaponry, ammunition, satphones and assorted devices.

  “Time for a yard sale,” Carver said. He reached in and plucked out one of many stun grenades that were still in the original factory box. “Could have used a couple of these last night.”

  “Was there some trouble?”

  “You could say that.”

  “You remember Antonio Tesla?” Callahan said. “The detective from the city morgue?”

  “Sure.”

  “He left several voicemails saying he was looking for you. He wants you to come down to the morgue to look at three more bodies.”

  Seven swore and broke away, stomping down the aisle of parked cars.

  “What’s with her?” the priest asked.

  “One of those cadavers was her partner.”

  The priest shook his head. “Bloody shame. This thing’s getting out of control fast.”

  Carver opened a rifle case containing a disassembled Heckler amp; Koch assault rifle. He picked up the butt stock and tested it against his shoulder. “It was nice of you to bring toys,” he said, “but I was hoping for information.”

  “I did some snooping around, all right. You were right about Lang. I’m afraid he’s gotten himself mixed up with the Black Order.”

  Carver nodded, having suspected all along. “I need you to take me to him.”

  Callahan laughed. “I’m afraid my access to the Apostolic Palace has been revoked.”

  “That won’t be a problem. I found another way in.”

  “What in heavens are you talking about?”

  “That little Vatican break-in you told me about? The one they spun as art theft? They didn’t come for the Garofalo. And they sure as hell didn’t come through the front door.”

  The White House

  Washington D.C.

  At Eva’s request, Mary brought the rest of the fudge brownies into her private study. After wave upon wave of interns had hit the plate, just nine cut squares had survived.

  Mary set the tray down on the table. “Rough day?”

  “And about to get rougher,” the president said. “Thanks.”

  She waited until Mary had left the room to pick up one of the decadently fudgy brownies. She forced herself to chew slowly. Lunch was usually a blur of quick micro s
nacks afforded by her caveman diet. A handful of nuts, a few berries, an olive or two.

  “Madam President,” Speers asked, “You ever regret declaring war on the vending machines?”

  In an effort to boost the overall health of the staff, she had ordered vending machines removed from all White House areas. In their place, she had added refrigerators and shelves stocked with a variety of organic snacks. The move had inspired a variety of anonymous notes decrying the presence of items such as kale chips and unsweetened green tea, and demanding an immediate return of Cheetos and Diet Coke. To stave off complete mutiny, Eva had decided to pay for the new fare with her own money for one year.

  “If the staff saw me eating like this, they’d hate me.”

  “I think you should have left just one machine,” Speers said. “Chocolate only, with the prices jacked up so high that the staff would only use it in times of serious emotional crises.”

  “Like the one I’m having right now?”

  “You don’t seem emotional.”

  “The fact is, I have something difficult to share with you, and I wanted something sweet to kill the bad taste in my mouth.”

  The two intelligence directors set their treats down and braced themselves for bad news. Speers dabbed a napkin at the corner of his mouth.

  “Given the misdirection tactics we employed in our public information efforts around the deaths of Senator Preston and Sir Gish,” she said, “I asked you to give me clear options, but also to keep me ignorant from the details. It seems now that my directive wasn’t so smart.”

  Speers folded his arms across his chest. “How so?”

  “Today was the first time you’ve mentioned the name Sebastian Wolf in my presence,” she said. “I have to disclose to you that Sebastian Wolf is an acquaintance of mine.”

  Speers swore, and then apologized for his language. His stomach felt as if he were freefalling. How could this happen? He knew the president was an Episcopalian. Was she also in the Fellowship?

  Fordham slumped back in his chair, as if he had been slugged. “And how is it that you two know each other?”

  Eva leaned back in her chair, looking up at the ceiling. “We were introduced by Senator Preston at the Council on Faith luncheon. He invited me to Eden for dinner. I began with my standard line about having someone look into my schedule, which means it’ll never happen. Then the Senator told me that Wolf had helped create NASA, and that he was a major source of funding for genetic research, and that every president since LBJ had been a guest at his home at least once.”

  “Did Preston also tell you that he was a former Nazi?” Speers said.

  “Julian, please shut up and let me finish.”

  “I’m sorry, Madam President.”

  “I suppose I felt unduly obligated. So I asked my scheduler to make it happen.”

  Speers was awestruck. “And?”

  “And I enjoyed his company. After that, I invited him to the White House on two occasions.”

  Speers felt that his head would explode. The president of the United States had ties with a cult leader that had made himself the archenemy of the Catholic Church. And Senator Preston had facilitated the introduction.

  “What was the nature of your conversations?” Speers asked.

  “Truth be told, I found him to be an excellent sounding board on spiritual matters.”

  “Did you two discuss the Fellowship?” Fordham said. “Did you discuss anything related to these weird science projects he was funding?”

  “No. Our conversations were very personal in nature. There was no business involved whatsoever. And he never mentioned this ossuary business. That is a complete shock to me, I swear to you.”

  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 mad
e 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