The Fellowship

by William Tyree

  Somewhere Over the Atlantic

  With a phone call, Speers had arranged a private charter leaving immediately from Reagan National Airport. If they had to go to London, at least they were aboard a fast plane. The Gulfstream IV was capable of speeds just short of Mach 1, shortening the flight time to a little over five hours. That was way better than the winged whales Carver was accustomed to flying. With a few rare exceptions, his modus operandi had been hitching rides on military transport planes that happened to be heading his way. But in this case, he felt the cost of the charter – a couple hundred thousand dollars – was worth it. The trail was growing colder by the second.

  As the Gulfstream cruised at 28,000 feet, Haley Ellis sat in a cream-colored leather chair facing his. She and Carver had said little to each other since taking off. They were both busy digesting a steady feed of public and classified information about the victims.

  There was nothing obvious to suggest that Preston or Gish had ever met. The fact that they were both publicly elected officials from Western countries seemed to be just about the only thing they had in common. Carver was confident they would find a common link, but how long would that take? More than anything, it was the ensuing fire that puzzled him. How and why had it been started? The killers had placed a calling card in Preston’s mouth. Obviously some sort of message. Why would they then burn the place up?

  He composed a text message and fired it off to Julian: anyone claimed responsibility? Speers’ reply: nope. Playing hard to get.

  Now he received a stream of information from Arunus Roth about the senator’s executive assistant, Mary Borst. She was 26 years old. She held a Dutch passport, having been born in Amsterdam to a prominent politician named Vera Borst. Graduated with honors from NYU, where she had studied political science. Immediately after graduation she had worked as a volunteer on Preston’s reelection campaign, and had subsequently landed a job as a staff assistant in his D.C. office, where she had answered phones and staffed the front desk. In three years, she had worked her way up to an aide position, and then officer manager, before becoming Preston’s executive assistant.

  In an interview with a local newspaper, Vera Borst claimed to have raised Mary herself while working her way up through various positions in local and national government. By the time Mary had entered high school, her mother had taken a prominent position with UNICEF, and more recently, had been appointed an under secretary-general of the United Nations. She now lived in Seattle with her life partner, an American scientist.

  “Mary Borst’s mother is kind of a big deal,” Carver remarked.

  Ellis looked up. “Why focus on Preston’s assistant right now?”

  Carver switched off his tablet. “Say more about that.”

  “We have two high-ranking politicians ritually murdered on the same night. We should be looking for connection points. If we can find out what they had in common, and which relationships they may have shared, maybe we can find out who wanted them dead.”

  “Ever spend any time with the executive assistant to a senator?”

  “Can’t say that I have.”

  Ellis lowered her tablet, reached into the small bag she’d packed and pulled out a can of Venom energy drink. Carver’s right eyebrow went up independently of the left.

  “Venom? You’d actually buy something called Venom and put it into your body?”

  Ellis shrugged. “It’s just caffeine, guarana and sugar.”

  “More sugar? I couldn’t help but notice that you added some to your coffee earlier.”

  “Could we stop talking about my nutritional habits for a moment? You were explaining why you think we should burn effort on the senator’s assistant.”

  “Executive assistants on the Hill play a role that is simultaneously powerful and menial. They have a hand in everything from daily scheduling to the senator’s personal life and what he wears. And still, they pick up dry-cleaning, get coffee, and act as a gatekeeper, which means dealing with a lot of irate friends and constituents who can never get enough time with him.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “That Mary Borst probably knew the senator better than his own wife did. If there’s anyone who could tell us what the relationship was between Preston and Gish, it was her.”

  “You seem to be forgetting the fact that she’s dead.”

  “No. I’m making the reasonable assumption that she had a confidant. Someone she told about her fears and anxieties. That person might be her roommate, or it might be her mother, but we need to talk to them, see if they know anything.”

  “And I suppose you’d like me to board the next plane back to Washington to do that?”

  Carver held his hands up in surrender. “Whoa. This isn’t personal. We’re just talking strategy here.”

  Ellis chuckled the way people sometimes do when they are trying hard to remain civil. “Isn’t it personal? Within 60 seconds of Speers assigning the two of us to this mission, you suggested I remain stateside while you go to London alone.”

  “I was trying to be practical.”

  “Were you being practical when you didn’t get back to me after the Baltimore Marathon?”

  So that was it. “You’re right,” he said. “I owe you an apology. You contacted me four times, and it was inexcusable of me not to get back to you.”

  “Four times?” Now you’re making me sound like some kind of stalker. I left you one voice message, maybe two.”

  It had definitely been four, Carver knew. Her memory was average, but Carver’s was extraordinary. The Monday after the marathon, Ellis had texted him at 11:48 a.m., saying it had been great to see him. She had then called and left a voice message at 2:10 pm the following day. She had called and left no messages at 7:54 pm on Thursday and again at 8:14 pm on Friday.

  But Carver had learned long ago not to quibble over details in social situations, or reveal the freakish accuracy with which he could recall dates and events. His condition helped his work, but did little to improve his interpersonal relations. He had learned over time that insisting on the correctness of his recollections only led to needless arguments. And disclosing his hyperthymesia inevitably generated countless questions, in the form of pop quizzes. What did you have for lunch on March 2? What is the fourth paragraph on page 27 of War and Peace?

  Better not to go there. He could never change the fact that the entire world suffered from mild amnesia, nor did it do any good to rub people’s noses in it. It was easier just to change the subject.

  “Haley,” he said, “I’m trying to apologize. The reason I didn’t call you was because of Hector. When we ran into each other, you’d just broken it off with him. He was crushed. I was trying to be sensitive.”

  “How is not calling me being sensitive?”

  “If I’d contacted you, it would have led to dinner, drinks, etcetera. I couldn’t do that to my friend.”

  Ellis leaned forward, looking him dead in the eye. “Etcetera? I wasn’t calling you for a hook up, jerk. I was calling to ask about Hector.” She unbuckled her seatbelt, stood, and stomped off to the plane’s lavatory.

  Well that was awkward, Carver thought. Had he really misread the situation that badly? Ellis hadn’t been interested in him at all, and the four contacts within five days – none of which had mentioned Hector at all – were really just out of compassion for the guy she’d unceremoniously dumped? He thought not.

  The buzz of Carver’s phone broke his concentration. It was a message from Roth with a link to a live video feed. He clicked it.

  The video showed FBI Director Chad Fordham standing at a podium. The ticket beneath the video read BREAKING NEWS: Senator Rand Preston confirmed dead after tragic home fire.

  “We have very few details,” Fordham began. “The preliminary investigation into this tragedy indicates that the fire began within the senator’s D.C. residence. I repeat that we have no reason at this time to suspect that the fire was arson. I can tell you that the senator’s immediately family was s
afely in their home in Texas at the time of the fire. We are still investigating whether anyone else might have been home.”

  Carver closed his eyes and leaned back against the headrest. It was only a matter of time before the conspiracy theorists were out in force on this one. The quicker he could find the killers, the better chance they would have of containing it. If they could solve this in a matter of days, there might even be time to set the record straight.

  Their objective was clear. Discover who killed Senator Preston and Sir Gish. Find out why they killed him. And obliterate them before they can act again.

  SIS Building

  London

  Their contact was waiting for them in the lobby of the building Carver knew as Legoland. MI6 headquarters had been built along the Thames River, and from afar, resembled something that had been constructed with toy-like building blocks. Others knew it as Babylon, due to its ziggurat-like shape.

  Their man in London introduced himself as Sam Prichard. He wore a wrinkled blue suit that looked far too big for him. He quickly handed them visitor badges gestured toward the elevators. “Come on, then. You were expected upstairs a half-hour ago.”

  Carver waited to speak until the elevator doors closed. “Has anyone claimed responsibility?”

  “Ten bloody hours, and still nothing.”

  When they reached the building’s top floor, Prichard was the first off the elevator. He breezed them past a reception area and through two enormous white doors. “These are the Americans,” he announced as he showed them into the next room. The office was a large cube constructed of white steel and glass, with an unusually high ceiling and an unobstructed view of the Thames. Despite the breathtaking grandeur of the architecture, Carver couldn’t help but feel let down. This was his first time in Legoland, and despite its modern exterior, he was hoping that the inside would be more in line with his lifelong fantasy of the place. Walnut paneling, Chesterfield sofas, decanters of good whiskey.

  SIS Chief Brice Carlisle stepped out from behind a semi-transparent standing desk. Unlike Prichard’s frumpy attire, Carlisle’s suit was downright crisp. He wore a somber black tie as if he himself were in mourning over the high-profile murders. He held his hands behind his back as his eyes darted back and forth between the Americans.

  “Mr. Carlisle,” Ellis said, holding out her hand. “It’s an honor.”

  “I believe the proper salutation is Sir Brice,” Carver corrected.

  Carlisle shook Ellis’ hand before turning to Carver. “Your reputation precedes you.”

  “Likewise,” Carver said, but in truth, he knew little about Carlisle other than what was in his official biography. He had attended Cambridge and served as a diplomat in both Jordan and Saudi Arabia. He had since changed jobs like clockwork every two to three years, mostly in government posts relating to foreign affairs, with his last role as an intelligence advisor to the prime minister. He was thought to be an extremely bright man, but one with no apparent field experience.

  The double doors through which they had come opened again. The bare legs attached to the exotic-looking brunette with the boy-cut were the first Carver had seen in London. “This is Seven Mansfield,” Carlisle said. “She’s working the case under Prichard here.”

  Carver held out his hand and tried not to stare at the legs underneath the houndstooth-patterned skirt-suit. “Ms. Mansfield.”

  “Call me Seven,” she said. Her accent reminded Carver of the voices on the BBC World Service. Her look was decidedly sub-continental. The brown-skinned intelligence agent with the short-cropped hair was the first thing to bring a smile to Carver’s lips all day.

  Carlisle gestured to a sitting area furnished with four white leather Eames lounge chairs. “We watched the presser on Senator Preston. It was very convincing, don’t you think?”

  Carver shrugged. “If you say so. We’ve traveled a long way to get information that could have been transmitted by other means. I suggest we get into it.”

  Seven remained standing as she began walking them through the case. “Nils Gish was found in a storage room underneath the House of Parliament approximately 28 hours ago. The room was near an underground passage that’s not open to the public.”

  “Who else had access?” Ellis said.

  “There are several tunnels linking Parliament to the Westminster Tube station. They’re used by government workers, mostly. The doors are locked from the Tube station side, but they come open with a swipe of a security badge or phone.”

  “Did Sir Gish often use these tunnels?”

  “Unfortunately, yes,” Carlisle cut in. “In my opinion, he was far too well-known to take public transport, and we understand his colleagues had discussed this with him. But he relished one-on-one conversations with his public. He boarded promptly at 5:30 most mornings, when it was possible to ride without being mobbed.”

  Carlisle cleared his throat. “That wasn’t the case yesterday, however. For reasons unknown, he arrived to the office in the evening, when most workers had already left for the day. Let’s see the footage from the station security camera.”

  Seven walked up to a massive monitor, nearly as tall as she was, built into the wall. It lit up instantly, displaying a number of folders containing media and findings from the crime scene. It flickered to life with a swipe of her fingertips, displaying a still image from a security camera. Sir Gish was shown entering the door in one frame. The next image was of two men wearing long raincoats. Their backs were to the camera, making it impossible to see their faces. They could be seen rushing to catch the door before it closed behind the MP.

  “So he was followed,” Ellis said.

  “Yes. I regret to tell you that many of the station’s other security cameras had not been recently maintained due to budget cuts. We did, however, manage to find a single image of one of their faces.” She swiped the screen again, revealing a grainy image of a man with a Mediterranean complexion, perhaps in his late 20s, wearing wire frame glasses. He had a wide nose, with flared nostrils, and his eyes were set wide across his face.

  “Ring any bells?” Carver said.

  She shook her head. “We are, of course, running a facial recognition match through every database imaginable. And incidentally, we’ve also been pouring over the communications logs from Sir Gish’s phone. Nothing unusual so far.“

  Before Carver and Ellis could ask additional questions, Seven displayed a high-resolution image of an octagon-shaped piece of black-and-red striped fabric that looked identical to the one he had found in Senator Preston’s pocket.

  “This is all we have linking the murders,” she said, pointing to the handwritten text in the center of the handmade cloth. “The Latin stitched in gold thread here reads Paratus enim dolor et cruciatus, in Dei nomine. ‘Prepared for pain and torment, in God’s name.’”

  Carver nodded. “Identical to the fabric stuffed in Senator Preston’s mouth.”

  “Obviously the work of religious extremists,” Prichard said. “We’ve had our boys working around the clock to find that language on sites operated by known groups. Come up with zero so far.”

  “You’re headed in the wrong direction,” Carver said. “Whoever is behind this, they aren’t paying homage to any modern terrorist organization.”

  “And you know this how?”

  “By reading your history.”

  Prichard crossed his arms, then his legs. “What history is that?”

  “British. Ever heard of the Holy Alliance?”

  “Allied Jihad splinter group, isn’t it?”

  “Wrong religion entirely,” Carlisle cut in, glaring at Prichard as the man shrank into his chair. He then turned his gaze to the Americans. “If I follow you, Agent Carver, you’re saying that these symbols are linked to Christianity, not Islam.”

  “Correct. The Holy Alliance was the common name for the Vatican’s intelligence service, although the Vatican itself never acknowledged its existence. We refer to it simply as Vatican Intelligence.”

>   “Don’t see what that has to do with British history,” Prichard quipped.

  “Vatican Intelligence was thought to have come into existence in the 1560s as a reaction to the Tudor dynasty’s rejection of the pope’s moral authority over England. When Queen Elizabeth formed the English Protestant Church, it was clear that they would carry on the defiant tradition of her father, Henry VIII.”

  “Yes, I think we’ve all seen The Tudors, thank you.”

  “Shut up,” Carlisle admonished Prichard. “Go on, Agent Carver. Obviously we could all use a refresher on the subject.”

  “Pope Pius V didn’t take kindly to losing England to the Protestant movement. The most logical thing to do was conspire to assassinate Queen Elizabeth and pass the throne to Mary Queen of Scots, who was a devout Catholic. So he formed the Holy Alliance. Jesuits, mostly, since they swore their personal oath of allegiance to the pope.”

  Prichard smirked. “As I recall, Elizabeth survived until 1603, and she did not meet her end at the hands of Jesuits.”

  “True. They failed that time, but they evolved. Over the next century, two special ops units were created. The first was known as the Octagon. It was discovered when an operative named François Ravaillac stepped aboard the running boards of Henry IV’s carriage and stabbed the king through his Protestant heart. When they caught Ravaillac, they found rosary beads and an octagon in his pocket. It was made out of parchment, not fabric, but it also contained a handwritten phrase that was roughly identical the one on our octagons. ‘Prepared for pain and torment, in God’s name.’”

  “I imagine pain and torment was exactly what he got,” Seven said.

  Carver nodded. “They brought four horses in, harnessed one to each of his limbs, and sent them running in different directions.”

  Carlisle winced. “Ouch. But you said there were two related organizations.”

  “The second was known as the Black Order. It was created in 1644 by Pope Innocent X’s sister-in-law, Olimpia Maidalchini.”