The fog seemed to lift some. The boat picked up speed. Captain Zack pointed to a black silhouette in the distance that was peppered by a few residential lights.
“That’s Vashon. Which side of the island we headed to?”
Ellis reached into her pack, retrieved the piece of hotel stationary with the address written on it, and handed it to him. “Don’t guess that’s of any help.”
He held it under the light for a moment “Sure is.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah, that’s Dane Mitchell’s place. One of the big gated homes on the west side of the island. Dane’s got his own little dock out there. We can motor right up to it.”
Bingo. Mitchell had been listed as Borst’s life partner on her Wikipedia page. Ellis asked the captain if he knew Mitchell, raising her voice above the grinding drone of the Harbercraft’s 90-horsepower Yamaha engine.
“It’s not like everyone’s got their own boat out here. And it’s a pretty tight community among those that do.”
“Have you met his partner?”
“Oh, yeah. She’s got a funny name. Is it Worst?”
“Borst. Vera Borst.”
“Ah yeah. Met her just once or twice. Nice lady, seems like. Said Seattle reminded her of her hometown. Oslo, ain’t it?”
“Amsterdam, I think.”
“Ah yeah. Amsterdam. Dane used to be a lot more chatty before she came along. He’d stop and talk boating. For a while he was into crabbin’, and he’d pick my brain on it. Other times he might come and share what he caught. But he’s kept more to himself since she came here.”
“Why is that?”
He shrugged. “People change. And a lot of times, they get changed by other people.”
“You think she changed him?”
Captain Zack nodded certainly. “I got the impression from someone on the island that Vera is a real religious lady. And a politician too. That surprises me, you know, with him being a man of science an’ that.”
Just like Drucker said, Ellis thought. Scientists and politicians. A match made only at Eden.
They went faster now, making good time across the still waters. As they came nearer, Ellis saw that the island was much larger than she had imagined. The shoreline did not appear to be heavily developed. Captain Zack took them to the north side, and then slowed, pointing to a three-story Cape Cod-style home built into a densely foliated hillside.
“That big’un there. They’ve pretty much got this stretch of shoreline to themselves. Real private.”
The Borst place was fully aglow with orange light. Windows on every floor were lit up. Ellis had the unnerving feeling that she was being watched.
The Harbercraft crawled toward a jetty that extended about 40 feet out from the shore. There were already boats on either side of it. “That’s a little peculiar,” Captain Zack said.
“What?”
“That one there is Dane’s boat.” He pointed to a 22-foot boat of the type Ellis associated with recreational sea fishing. He motioned at the other, which was nothing but an aluminum skiff. “Don’t recognize that other’n. That registration sticker on the front is about rubbed off. It’s not like Dane to be out of compliance.”
He piloted the boat to the end of the jetty, cut the motor and lassoed a rope around one of the boat anchors.
Ellis stowed the Seahawks blanket in its storage compartment. “I appreciate you coming out here. I know most people wouldn’t have gotten out of bed for this.”
“I needed the money.” He climbed out onto the jetty and offered Ellis a hand. “All the same, I’d feel much better if I could see you to the door.”
Me too, Ellis thought.
Vera Borst Residence
Vashon Island
The front door of the three-story home was ajar. A heavy coat rack was overturned in the foyer. Captain Zack extended his hands to both sides of his body as he stepped back, as if to shield his high-paying customer from harm. “We should call the cops and get out of here,” he suggested quietly.
Ellis pulled her Beretta M9 from her shoulder holster. She had become competent with the weapon during her service in the Army. Although Glocks were favored among her coworkers in the intelligence community, Ellis had stuck with the Beretta for familiarity’s sake. The sight of the weapon startled Captain Zack. He took a step back, as if deferring the situation to her.
Ellis’ mind filled with Speers’ inevitable scorn. She had come here without permission, and without backup, less than 24 hours after Drucker had been killed right under her nose. At times like this Ellis took comfort in a mantra put forth by one of her old yoga teachers: The Zen master acts from the heart, not the mind.
She turned to Captain Zack, knowing she could not risk another civilian dying on her watch. “I have to ask you to get back in that boat.”
“Lady, there is zero chance of me doing that. I am not leaving.”
“Fine. But at least leave the boat motor idling. If anyone comes out of the house without me, get away as fast as you can.”
She watched Captain Zack retreat down the path. Hopeful that he would keep his distance, she went in through the open door, staying low, clearing the first room with her back against the wall. Pieces of broken figurines were crushed around the stairwell. Every light in the house seemed to be switched on. Someone was evidently searching for something.
She crept into the living room, keeping her back to the only windowless wall, and then regrouped for a moment behind an armchair that was covered entirely in cowhide. The house smelled like apple wood and was furnished with cozy sitting chairs arranged around a fireplace that was European in size, reaching nearly up to Ellis’ sternum. Art depicting various biblical scenes hung on the wall.
The home’s back porch floodlights were on, illuminating a manicured, sloping hillside dominated by a life-size sculpture of Jesus that had been erected within a fountain. Jesus’ eyes gazed downward, and his hands were outstretched, palms facing the heavens, as if he were imparting wisdom on followers gathered around his feet. Water poured through holes in either palm.
A tortured wail drifted throughout the house. It sounded more canine than human. Ellis couldn’t be sure, but she thought it was coming from the ground floor.
Having cleared the living room, she got to her feet and crept to the dining room. There she got down on her hands and knees and crawled under a long stainless steel table large enough to seat 12 guests. She peered through the doorway to the kitchen, where a man’s feet – barefoot and sprawled – jutted out from behind a food prep island. A broad streak of red blood painted the floor, extending around the corner. The body had been dragged there from another room.
Keeping low, Ellis crawled toward the body until she was only inches away from the man’s head. She recognized Dane Mitchell from the profile picture on his University of Washington faculty page. Vacant eyes peered through wire frame glasses. His bare arms and shoulders were etched with several inch-long lacerations. His hands were blue and the meat around his wrists looked more like ground beef than human flesh.
Another excruciating cry crackled through the air, remaining more or less constant. A woman, for sure. Borst, probably. They had tortured Mitchell to death first, and had dragged the body upstairs to make room for her.
Ellis followed the blood-streaked path through the house while still maintaining the careful clearing posture – back to the wall, pistol outstretched in front – that she had first learned in the Army. The training was all wrong for this, she knew. This situation was completely off-script. Her training had always been working in teams or in pairs. This was the type of situation where she was supposed to retreat to a surveillance position and request backup.
And yet she had the opportunity to save at least one high-ranking Fellowship member with solid ties to Preston and Gish. Stop thinking, she told herself. If she wanted to save Borst, she had to act now. She followed the blood path, and the noise, to an open door and descending stairs.
A basement.
Of course. It followed the pattern. The killers in London and D.C. had chosen windowless places where the cries of their victims wouldn’t be heard. Here on Vashon, there seemed little chance of that. The home was huge and the dense foliage and gentle white noise of Puget Sound would have obscured virtually any disturbance from even the closest neighbors.
Ellis removed her shoes. She stepped lightly down the stairs until the most horrifying image of her career came into focus.
Rome
Trusting that the tracking chip embedded within Nico’s arm would keep him tethered to the palazzo, Carver set out on foot across the Tiber River. He had accepted Father Callahan’s invitation to meet at Caffé Sant’Eustachio, a legendary coffee house in Old Rome. The priest said he had some information for Carver, but wasn’t willing to be more specific over the phone. Some nuggets about the identities of the assassins in the Rome morgue, perhaps? When they had talked at Le Colonne, Carver had given the priest plenty to chew on, but had stopped short of divulging the identities of the deceased politicians, Sir Nils Gish and Senator Rand Preston.
Despite the fact that Rome was eight time zones away, the events of the past 24 hours told him that caution was justified. In D.C., a seemingly insignificant journalist had been assassinated right under Ellis’ nose. Someone had then ambushed Ellis and Speers in Nathan Drucker’s apartment, nearly killing both. Now Ellis herself had gone missing.
The café was located in a tiny neighborhood square just two blocks from the Pantheon. The labyrinthine design of the neighborhood hid it from casual foot traffic, and kept the crowds down to a tolerable level. Carver stopped at the square’s edge, scanning the patrons sitting at outside tables. Seeing that none of them fit suspicious profiles, he then took a moment to admire the stag’s head that seemed to watch over the square from atop the church named after the saint, antlers framing the simple iron cross. Two columns on one side of the church’s exterior were said to be remnants of Nero’s baths.
He found a place inside at the coffee bar, with his back to the wall. The café was abuzz with a cacophony of conversation and the intense aroma of premium coffee and dark chocolate. He ordered fresh-squeezed orange juice, keeping his eyes squarely on the door. As he eyed each and every customer with suspicion, he reminded himself that meeting in public had hardly provided safety for Nathan Drucker. Not only would Carver have to be on the lookout for the usual eavesdroppers and hit men, he would now have to watch out for deadly horseflies.
Callahan loped into view a few minutes late, at 10:36. This time the priest did not try to hug him, and that was fine with Carver. He leaned on the counter with his back to the door. The barista, a thin, leathery man, approached Callahan from behind the counter. “Café Americano?” he asked.
The priest shook his head. “Doppio,” he replied, then turned to Carver. “Four years in Rome, and my face is still so pale, they still offer me the watered-down stuff. You want one?”
“No thanks,” Carver said. “You have some information for me?”
The barista set Callahan’s coffee before him. The priest’s eyes followed her movements until she was out of earshot. “Unfortunately, I’ve hit a dead end on the two lads in the morgue. I trust Detective Tesla will find out who they are.”
“We don’t have the luxury of time,” Carver said. “We can’t just leave this to some local cop.”
“Tesla is quite tenacious,” Callahan said. “In the meantime, I do have a name for you. Sebastian Wolf.”
The priest brought the small white cup to his lips and sipped the double shot of espresso, never breaking eye contact with his American counterpart.
Bells rang in Carver’s head. Ellis had uploaded a recording of her conversation with Nathan Drucker to the mission cloud a few hours earlier. Carver had listened to it quickly, but was sure the name Sebastian Wolf was mentioned in association with something called the Fellowship World Initiative. In the audio transcript, Ellis had tagged Wolf’s name as meriting follow up.
Still, Carver managed to maintain perfect control over his facial features. “Who is he?”
“Well well,” Callahan said, “I thought you knew everyone worth knowing in D.C. I understand Wolf is quite the swinging dick over there.”
“Influential?”
“Important enough that some very bad people are looking for him. I got the strong sense that he might be connected to this nasty business you alluded to.”
“And you know this how? Vatican Intelligence?”
The priest ignored the question. “This is his last known address.” Callahan handed Carver a slip of paper with a Rockland, Maryland, address on it. Eden. The one in Ellis’ case notes. “He moved without leaving a forwarding address. Perhaps you can get one of your people on it?”
The American slipped the paper into his pocket and smiled. He had been around long enough to know how double agents played their employers. One side would ask for information. They would then go to the other side, framing the request itself as a golden nugget. When the subsequent investigation then yielded fruit, they would take it back to the original source.
But Carver didn’t like being played.
“I’ll do that,” he said. And then he told his second lie of the evening: “I’ll let you know what we find out.”
Vera Borst Residence
Vera Borst was suspended in mid-air by a rope that was attached to a pulley and a hand winch. Her hands were tied behind her back, her torso arched forward. Her blouse was torn open, revealing sagging white breasts and a bulging stomach, which was already bloodied by several open incisions. Carver had been right. It was just like he had predicted. Rope torture.
Borst’s mouth was fixed in an “O” shape. Her eyes were closed. Her chin bobbed wearily against her chest. Her vocalizing was less constant now, breaking up into great spastic bursts of guttural release.
A man in dark coveralls stood at her feet. He seemed to be attaching some sort of weight to her ankles, which Ellis imagined might be enough to actually break Borst’s wrists and sever them from her body. Ellis judged the distance between her and the tormentor to be about 30 feet. As much as he might deserve to die, she wanted to take him alive. He had to be questioned.
He didn’t look like the most overpowering physical specimen. Perhaps five foot ten, with a trim, but not especially muscular, build. Ellis was no dojo master, but she had studied a variety of hand-to-hand combat techniques in the Army.
The man had his back to the staircase. He seemed to be preoccupied with affixing the weights to Borst’s ankles. There was no telling whether he was alone. Ellis did not have a full view of the basement, nor was it well lit. However small, there was a chance that another perpetrator could be behind the row of canoes, kayaks and oars to the right of where Borst hung, or lurking in a dark corner of the space, perhaps behind the crates of Christmas ornaments or behind the air hockey table at the far end.
Nevertheless, there was no time for deliberation. Borst’s life was quickly slipping away.
Ellis crossed herself before leaping down the stairwell. Although she had perfected her flying kick several years earlier en route to earning a brown belt in karate, she had been skeptical about its effectiveness in an actual combat situation. That had changed while watching a cage match on TV the previous year, when a 230-pound bruiser was dropped senseless by a much smaller man using such a move. It was time to find out for herself.
Borst’s cries masked Ellis’ footfall, but the perp sensed the reverberations an instant before she took to the air. He turned his shoulders and neck just as the edge of Ellis’ right foot plowed into his neck. The blow knocked him into Borst’s suspended torso, snapping his neck back violently. The under-secretary-general swung grotesquely back and forth like a bloody piñata.
The perp collapsed at her feet, legs and arms twitching violently. Ellis was shocked by the effectiveness of the maneuver, fearing that she had killed him after all. “You better not die,” she growled.
Another. Another. The words s
eemed to pop into her head, as if whispered from angels. Another. She looked up. The words were Borst’s. A warning.
A canoe paddle struck Ellis’ back, felling her head-first into a column of crates filled with tree ornaments. The Beretta flew from her hand. Two dozen silver balls popped loose, breaking into hundreds of tiny shards against the concrete flooring. Ellis tumbled over them, instinctively rolling on her right shoulder so to as avoid eating glass. She rose slowly, just enough to see that the first perp was still where she had left him, twitching beneath Borst, who continued to swing like freshly butchered hog.
The second perp stood several feet away. He wore a black plastic smock that was hooded at the top. A prickly black beard protruded from his face.
He threw down the oar, reached into his pocket and removed a small Taser. Oh hell. The Beard was going to Tase her.
Ellis had once been told that the best defense against a Taser was a firearm. That advice was now of little help, as her Beretta was nowhere in sight. She rolled right across the bed of broken Christmas ornaments, heading for the foosball table. She heard a burst of compressed nitrogen. Two electrical probes crackled toward her at 135 feet per second. They struck her left side, right in the ribs, piercing her shirt and skin. Ellis’ momentum sent her rolling, the wires wrapping around her midsection as her body was flooded by 50,000 volts. Her hands clenched involuntarily. Every muscle in her body seemed to seize and cramp. Her sinuses seemed to actually screech.
As her mind traversed the edge of consciousness, she tried to roll over. Her extremities were unresponsive. She could do nothing but observe as the Beard appeared over her, like some reaper from a dark fairy tale. He tightened the cooling probe wires around her, turned her on her stomach, and began tying her wrists together with some sort of elaborate knot. And now the Beard was talking in some foreign language. The same phrases over and again. Benedictus Dominus Deus meus qui docet manus meas ad proelium digitos meos ad bellum. Deus, refugium meum salvator meus scutum meum et in ipso sperávi. Benedictus Dominus Deus meus qui docet manus meas ad proelium digitos meos ad bellum...
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