He looked at his watch. He was supposed to meet Prichard and Seven in an hour. It was a good thing that they had set their meeting place ahead of time. Even if he managed to escape, he was going to be unreachable for a bit.
When the group was free of the city walls, Carver bolted right into a corner gift shop, where he saw a black baseball cap with the papal keys imprinted on the front. He grabbed it from the rack, pulled it over his scalp, and laid a 20 Euro note on the counter without stopping for change. He exited a side street that was scarcely wide enough for a scooter and walked casually down the street with his hands in his pockets.
He sprinted until he came to the next big street. There he removed the SIM card from the phone Father Callahan had given him and crushed it under the heel of his shoe. Next he removed the battery and dropped the remaining hardware into a rubbish bin.
Now free of Vatican City, he walked north, looking for a communications store. He had to get in touch with Roth.
*
Carver knew that his freshly purchased prepaid phone would never meet agency security standards, but at least he knew that it hadn’t been tampered with since leaving the factory. He headed toward Via Crescenzio, dialing Arunus’ cell phone number from memory.
Roth answered. “Hello?”
“It’s me,” Carver said. “I need help.”
The kid hesitated. “Sorry, bro, can you please authenticate?”
“Don’t call me bro!”
“Okay, okay, Carver. What’s up?”
“Listen carefully. I need you to do a remote data wipe of all classified documents on Nico’s machine.”
“Are you all right?”
Carver had no time for small talk. He had just 20 minutes until he was due to meet Carlisle, Seven and Prichard. “Repeat back to me what I just said.”
“I need to completely wipe Nico’s machine.”
“No,” Carver corrected. “Just sensitive information. Leave all non-classified docs, the OS and any software.”
Nico had been taken, not killed. That implied that his captors wanted something from him. They wanted Wolf, and they wanted his help finding him. Carver had to be careful not to wipe the entire machine. If that happened, they might kill him.
“Just the classified data,” Roth repeated. “Got it.”
“First I need you to give me permission to access the mission cloud on this device.”
“Okay. Hold on.”
In less than a minute, Carver’s new phone buzzed with the arrival of a text message that used a single-use link to the cloud location, where he would be able to access his credentials.
He spotted a cab slow to the curb in front of him. A pair of girls stepped out. Carver slipped into the back seat before the seat cooled, telling the driver to take him to the Trevi fountain, where he was to meet his MI6 counterparts.
By the time the cab stopped at the next traffic light, he was able to log into the mission cloud on his new phone. He clicked on the RFID icon that Arunus Roth had set up, which launched global map. Carver watched as the map quickly localized to a satellite image of Rome.
A blinking dot showed the location of the tracking chip in Nico’s arm. He was near the opera house, and he didn’t appear to be moving. That could be bad, Carver realized. It could mean they were already interrogating him. Nico had never been trained for this sort of thing. If he was lucky, the Black Order would hold him while they waited for someone of authority to conduct the interrogation.
With the matter of Nico’s tracking device solved, he looked in the mission cloud’s upload folder, hopeful that Nico had been uploading his work continuously throughout the day.
The Deconsecrated Church
Rome
The goon touched the tip of the knife against Nico’s ear. The pain was followed by a warm sensation that spread into his ear canal.
“I’m working, I’m working!” Nico began typing some java code into a notepad screen. The effort seemed to satisfy the goon, who retracted the knife, turned away and skulked back to the shadows.
He stood before a concrete slab, where his computer was jacked into an old-school Internet cable. His upper arms were swelling from the beating they had given him. His captors were surprisingly young. Barely out of high school, Nico guessed. The one in charge of minding him wore a black T-shirt and utility pants with the pixilated digital camouflage patterns that had been used, most ineffectively, by the U.S. military for a decade before being finally phased out. Nico had done his best to avoid looking directly at either man’s face, so as not to give either another excuse to kill him. He knew only that his minder was clean-shaven, with muscle-bound arms and wire frame glasses. A plain wooden cross hung from his neck.
Even from the shadows, the goon was watching Nico’s every move, ensuring that he didn’t send a message to the outside world.
All Nico knew for sure was that they were in some sort of crypt that felt ghostly and unloved. Judging by what he could see from the battery-powered lanterns, the frescos had been pried from the walls long ago. On the far wall, a Chi-Ro – an ancient Christian symbol that fused a cross with letters –was all that was left of its former inhabitants.
There were two sarcophagus-size bays on the wall to his left. Bits of stone and marble were crumbled around the edges. Whoever had been buried there had been exhumed and taken elsewhere.
Behind him, a rope dangled from a pulley somewhere in the rafters. Anchors had been set up on a sort of concrete platform so that the ropes could be tied off. Nico wished he didn’t know what those were for. Carver had shown him the crime scene photos from D.C. and Seattle as an incentive. Just knowing they were meant for him made it difficult to concentrate. He’d lived the last few years in fear of being extradited to Saudi Arabia, where they’d cut off his hands at the wrists. Now this.
Nico’s first mistake had been answering the knock at the palazzo suite. He’d been expecting a piece of cheesecake from room service. His second mistake was pretending he didn’t know Italian. For that, he had taken a beating, although the goons were careful not to damage his hands or face.
They said they knew he’d been cyberstalking Sebastian Wolf. They called Wolf antichristo. “Where did the antichristo go after Maryland?” one of them had asked. They spoke Italian, but they were an international duo, for sure. He had detected a Romanian accent in one, and he had heard the other muttering to himself in Russian.
Now they wanted Nico to find Wolf for them.
There was no question in Nico’s mind about cooperating. He wanted to live. No way was he going to sacrifice himself to protect some cult leader.
But Carver was another story. That was the one person he didn’t want to betray.
But even with Carver in his corner, there were no guarantees. He had already saved Carver once, during the Ulysses Coup, and what thanks did he get for that? Life as a fugitive in rural South Africa, only to be extracted into service against his will.
He knew that Carver would do whatever he could to make good on the promise for amnesty. But Carver wasn’t the president, and neither was Speers. Eva Hudson was, and she was hardly a fan.
So he had already told his captors about the FBI files. He had told them about some of the scientific programs that had been funded by the Fellowship World Initiative. But the Black Order wasn’t interested in any of that. They wanted to know where Wolf was right now.
He had to give them something soon. If he didn’t, he was going to end up on the busy end of that rope.
According to Ellis’ report, the old man and his entourage had inexplicably vanished from Eden days or weeks ago. He had already hacked into the flight registers for most of the major airlines flying out of Reagan National and Dulles for the past three weeks. He had checked JFK and LaGuardia just for kicks. Nothing. He’d checked AmTrak. Didn’t check Greyhound. Wolf didn’t seem like the type to ride a bus.
But that gave him an idea.
What if the Fellowship World Initiative had its own private plane? It w
ould have to be registered. Even private airports kept flight records.
Trevi Fountain
Rome
Carver arrived a few minutes early. It was virtually impossible to find anyone among the throngs making their pilgrimage to the Trevi Fountain, which was precisely why he had suggested it as a meeting place. There was usually safety in numbers.
As if Nico’s capture hadn’t already put him on edge, he had made the arrangement to meet MI6 on the satphone Callahan had given him. He had to take every precaution now.
Seeking high ground, he climbed the steps of the Santi Vincenzo e Anastaio a Trevi, a 17-century church with an exceptional view of the square. There he slid behind the 10 Corinthian columns out front, peering out from between them at the spectacle of art and utility.
He allowed himself a moment to feast his eyes upon the masterwork that was the square’s focal point. While most tourists focused on the gleaming statue of Oceanus, appearing golden under the lights as he tamed the fountain’s waters, Carver preferred function over form. The fact that turquoise-colored water, delivered via the Acqua Vergine and the 2000-year-old Aqua Virgo, could still be consumed here, in the middle of Rome, and without additional filtration, was doubly miraculous. Even at this late hour, locals and tourists alike drank from the spouts jutting out on the exterior walls.
He checked his wristwatch. It had been over an hour since Nico had been snatched at the palazzo. They had to get to him soon.
From his perch within the church’s façade, he easily spotted his counterparts as they entered the sea of tourists. Sam Prichard’s blue suit was reliably wrinkled, the tip of his collar brown and dingy. Seven Mansfield wore jeans, a white chunky sweater jacket, Superga sneakers and a blue cloche hat that framed her cheekbones perfectly.
As anxious as he was to get to make contact, Carver counted slowly to 10 as he scanned the rest of the crowd for suspicious activity. Aside from a couple of thuggy teenagers, it looked like a pretty clean crowd. Finally, he surveyed the windows on the surrounding buildings, any of which would have made for a perfect sniper’s nest. At this, his level of confidence dropped significantly. Most of the windows were too dark to spot the business end of a rifle.
He couldn’t risk meeting them out in the open.
Carver dialed the SIS number they had called him on earlier in the day. As he’d hoped, Seven answered.
“I see you,” he said. “Meet me around the block on Arcione. I’ll stay put for a moment to make sure you aren’t followed.”
Carver watched as they made their way back through the crowds and out of the square. Once they had disappeared from view, he counted to 10 once again. Still seeing nothing, he slipped down the stairs as quickly as he could before passing a series of restaurants and boutiques on his way out to the street.
A fly landed on Carver’s neck. He immediately thought of the nanobot that had killed Nathan Drucker. He ducked and weaved the insect, swatting it away with exaggerated movements. A kid standing nearby laughed and pointed until his mom tugged him away. The fly was huge and black in the streetlight, hovering overhead for a moment before dive-bombing him again. This time Carver was ready, smashing it between the palms of his hands.
On a normal day he would have been disgusted by the fly guts streaked across his palms. Tonight he was just elated that it wasn’t man-made.
The streets seemed almost busier now, after midnight, than they had by day. He joined Prichard and Seven and began leading them south, toward the last known location of the RFID chip in Nico’s arm.
“I’ve located a Black Order cell,” he announced, walking at a brisk pace. “We’re heading there now.”
“Now?” Prichard repeated, still absorbing the news Carver had just told him. “But there’s only three of us.”
“What do you suggest,” Carver answered. “Calling in an airstrike? They’ve taken my asset to an abandoned church up on Via Agostino. If we don’t get to him soon, they’ll kill him, just as they killed Gish.”
Seven picked up the pace to match Carver’s. “How do you know he’s still there?”
“There’s a tracking device in his arm.”
“Why would your asset have a tracking device in his arm?”
Carver pulled out his phone and pointed to the blinking dot on the city map. “That’s a long story.”
“Em, just how sure are we that the arm is still attached to his body?”
“Behave,” Seven cut in, aghast at her partner’s insensitivity.
The American pushed on, undaunted. “Valid question, actually. They probably want Nico to find Sebastian Wolf for them. And they know he’ll be far more effective with both limbs attached to his body.”
“How much farther?”
“15 minutes walking from here.”
“Or three minutes with the right transport.”
Seven suddenly broke left into a side street, where two old Piaggio scooters sat in the shadows outside a gelato shop. She had the front panels off both scooters within five seconds, and by the time Carver and Prichard realized what she was doing, had removed the white ignition wire caps.
She rolled one scooter forward until it had a little momentum, then jumped on and kickstarted the motor. Carver couldn’t help but smile as the bike purred. Seven peeled down the street before abruptly turning and speeding back to them. She screeched to a stop, motioning for Carver to sit behind her, while pointing Prichard toward the other parked scooter.
Carver climbed aboard, gripping the rear seat stabilizer with one hand and wrapping his other around her waist. He smelled Chanel No. 5 and minty shampoo. “Nice trick,” he smiled, as his fingers tightened around abs that were far firmer than he had imagined.
Prichard took the second scooter by its grips and began rolling it forward, mimicking what Seven had done moments earlier. He got it going just as two kids came running out of the gelateria.
The kids sprinted nearly as fast as Prichard could get the bike going. As the scooters sped away, Carver looked back at them. Two guys, probably 15 years old. One was short and stocky, the other lanky and handsome. He saw something in their faces as they gave up the chase, stopping in the middle of the street with hands on their heads. Not just anger. Not just shock. More than that. It was closer to emotional devastation.
“Turn around,” he told Seven.
“What?” Seven exclaimed. “Are you crazy?”
“Trust me. Just go really fast, and don’t stop.” She made a U-turn and gunned the motor. Prichard followed suit, nearly losing his balance in mid-turn. Carver reached into his inside jacket pocket, where he was carrying about 800 Euros pinched into a titanium money clip.
The boys suddenly looked scared. They split to either side of the street, giving wide berth as both bikes came blaring through. Carver tossed the neat bundle of cash into the shorter boy’s hands.
“Softie,” Seven shouted as they powered toward the Opera district.
*
They ditched the scooters a half-block from the church and proceeded up Via Agostino on foot. Carver spotted the church first. Of the 900 or so churches in Rome, it was easy to see why this one had been chosen for deconsecration nearly 150 years earlier. The rather inelegant building was built in the Baroque style, with a concave façade and a flat-roofed porch supported by a pair of columns that looked tacked on. Above the porch, two sculpted lions flanked the coat of arms of the House of Savoy.
The abandoned church was attached to a shuttered monastery. The front windows were all covered with iron mesh. Seeing no cameras, they approached the building and hopped the sidewall over an old sentry box. A black van with tinted windows was parked just inside the gated security entrance. Carver couldn’t be sure, but it looked like the one he had seen outside the palazzo.
The three operatives jumped down to the other side and waited a moment before proceeding further into the church’s concrete side yard. Carver put his left hand on the van’s hood. It was still slightly warm. Seven crouched at one of the cellar wi
ndows and began testing the fragile-looking frame to see if it might peel away. The American whistled softly and pointed to the church’s side door. It wasn’t shut all the way.
“How many of those devils are in there?” Prichard whispered.
“I saw two in the van.” Carver wished he knew for sure. And he wished that he had more resources at his disposal. A couple of throwable recon drones would have come in very handy.
Unfortunately, Father Callahan had been the Rome connection for gadgets and weaponry, and the priest wasn’t exactly in the circle of trust at the moment. Besides, there was no time. If they didn’t take a crack at this now, Nico might end up just like the others. Gutted at the end of a rope.
At least they had the element of surprise in their favor. The American pulled his SIG from his shoulder holster and chambered a round. Prichard and Seven both pulled out Walther P99s.
Prichard touched Carver’s shoulder to get his attention. “What’s the plan?”
“Nico Gold is the pale, skinny guy. Kill everyone except him.”
Prichard looked to Seven, then back to Carver. “That’s it?”
“Were you expecting Xs and Os? This church has been closed for 150 years. There’s no floorplan. All we’ve got in the way of weapons is what you’re holding. We’re just going to have to fight our way in.”
Carver gripped the handle of the heavy door. The hinges emitted a maddening, high-pitched squeal.
*
Nico’s hands were trembling. A sound upstairs had made his captors all squirrelly. There were two wide staircases leading up from the basement from the north and south sides of the room. Each goon took a staircase and stood at the ready with their machine pistols.
Fearing a gunfight, Nico scrambled toward the safety of a far corner of the stone room. “No!” one of the goons yelled, switching to English. “You keep working or I kill you!”
Hopeful as he was about the possibility of rescue, the sensation of being under siege weighed upon him. What if it wasn’t Carver up there? What if it was the guys from the Fellowship World Initiative? Weren’t those crazy bastards just as bad, if not worse?
The Fellowship Page 36