The Fellowship bc-2

by William Tyree

  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 anim
als 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.

  “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 press
ed 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.”