The Fellowship bc-2

by William Tyree

  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 would 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 17th-century church with an exceptional view of the square. There he slid behind the 1 °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 facade, 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 hands
ome. 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 facade 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 windows 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?

  Suddenly both goons started firing up both staircases. And then they were taking rounds too. Rounds ricocheted off the stairs and whizzed by. Nico squatted with his hands over his head.

  “Keep working!” the longhaired zealot screamed at him, looking back over his shoulder. “Or I shoot you!”

  He straightened up and tried to focus on the screen. Concentrate, he told himself, willing himself to be braver than he really was. Nothing else matters. Just this.

  Onscreen, he had the FAA flight record database for Washington Executive airport, AKA Hyde Field. The little airport was just 30 minutes from D.C., and about 45 minutes from the Eden compound. Earlier he had discovered the name and registration of Wolf’s private plane, an eight-passenger Learjet he had picked up in the 1990s. Now he tried to run a simple query for the plane against the data set. His fingers and palms were slick with sweat. His arms ached, as if they would fall off at any moment. His hands seemed to move involuntarily. He had to keep retyping the simple command query again and again until he got it right.

  Something exploded behind him, sending stone shards against his back. He turned in time to see the goon switching a new clip into his gun.

  He heard a heavy object tumble down the stairs. He turned. The goon yelled “Got one!” in Russian.

  Not Carver, Nico thought. Please, don’t let it be Carver.

  And now the other one shouted something in Romanian and kept firing at something or someone else. The output of gunfire going upstairs seemed heavy in proportion to what was coming down. He hadn’t seen Carver with anything other than a handgun.

  The database query he ran was impossibly slow. He hoped the connection would remain stable long enough to produce results. Another stray round, this time from the entrance at the other side of the room, bounced from the stairs to the ceiling, floor and back again.

  “This is crazy!” he shouted.

  “Shut up,” the goon closest to him growled before resuming the gunfight.

  The rope was behind him. Waiting for him. It was only a matter of time, Nico felt, before these cretins strung him up. He would experience the hopeless sensation of both shoulders dislocating from his body.

  He looked right. Broken pieces of a stone slab were piled near the empty body bays cut into the wall. Nico suddenly found himself in motion. He picked up a piece of cut stone that had once been a piece of a burial tomb, heaved it over his shoulder, and rushed the goon.

  As Nico swung the slab, his captor turned. Suddenly the bastard looked surprisingly human. Brown eyes. Pimples on the forehead. A look of stunned surprise.

  As the stone connected with his skull, a mural of blood splattered across the archway. All Nico’s adrenaline seemed to evaporate at once. His ears were ringing. He felt the urge to run, but there was nowhere to go.

  *

  From his position atop the first staircase to the crypt, Carver heard both machine pistols go silent. Seven and Prichard had been assaulting the other entrance. He was hoping one of them had breached the room. He had only come into this with two spare clips, and he was already two rounds away from empty.

  Now gunfire resumed. It was coming from his side of the fight, but judging by the sound of the ricochet at the far end of the crypt below, it was aimed in the opposite direction. The shooter had been distracted by something behind him.

  He had to make his move now.

  Carver ripped a framed portrait of some long-dead archbishop from the wall beside him. It was approximately five feet in length, and three or so feet wide. Judging by the fact that it had been left behind in this gloomy place, he reckoned that it wouldn’t be missed.

  He placed the portrait at a 45-degree angle at the top of the staircase and leapt atop the makeshift sled. The edges of the stone steps had been worn down from centuries of use, making for a surprisingly fast descent toward the basement. He managed to hold his balance for approximately two seconds. Then he brought his legs under him and pushe
d off the sled from the ball of his right foot, exploding forward.

  His shooting hand, head and shoulders were the first to enter the room. Time seemed to slow down. His form mimicked the fleche technique he had used to win countless fencing bouts over the years — pushing off from the ball of the front foot and flying forward unexpectedly in mid-air for a surprise attack. When facing lefties, Carver used the move to slip behind his opponents and score from behind.

  Now in mid-flight, Carver’s body cleared the threshold, floating not two feet from the assassin. He was a white, balding European who was obviously stunned by Carver’s sudden presence.

  Unlike Carver’s expert swordplay, his midair shot did not find its mark. The round struck the wall over the man’s shoulder. Carver braced his fall by tumbling into a lightweight wooden table. His gun skittered into the shadows.

  A set of long blades fell from the table surface, clanging against the stone floor. The blades were sharp and shiny with precious-looking stones along the handles. Ritual blades, Carver noted. Could these have been the same knives used on the others?

  Two shots hit the wooden table, splintering the thick wood and missing Carver’s face by mere inches. Then Carver heard the chukka-chukka sound of an empty clip being discharged from the assailant’s weapon.

  He grabbed the longest blade of the bunch — about 18 inches — and rose up as the chrome-domed thug reloaded. Wielding the heavy blade, he sprung forward into a flunge — a combination of the fleche and the traditional lunge — that ended in a chop to the side of the head.

  A section of the assailant’s scalp flew overhead. He dropped his gun and tried to catch the severed flesh in mid-air. He then crawled toward the place where it landed, clutching it for a moment before the heavy loss of blood rendered him unconscious. Carver lingered over him for a moment, wielding the blood-drenched blade in a defensive stance, as the man’s body worked out its final electrical impulses.

  “Nico?” he called out.

  “I’m all right!” a quivering voice called from the other side of the room.

  With Nico safe, Carver refocused on the dead man’s face. He couldn’t be certain, but the wide flared nostrils, glasses and complexion bore a strong resemblance to the man on the security camera footage they had seen at Legoland.