The Fellowship bc-2

by William Tyree

  “So,” she said after some cursory introductions. “You want to tell me what’s on your mind?”

  Ellis shook her head. “Honestly, I don’t even know why I’m here. It’s not my choice.”

  Speers had personally insisted that she come. Some agency rule about preventing post-traumatic stress.

  The shrink nodded sympathetically. “I understand they gave you something out in Seattle to calm your nerves.”

  “Well I’m not taking it.”

  “And why is that?”

  “My job requires that my thoughts be as clear as possible.”

  The shrink scanned the notes in her lap. “I was told you’re not on active duty right now. That you’d been granted some recovery time.”

  True, she wasn’t out in the field. But the weight of the investigation hadn’t left her mind for one minute. She had spent every waking moment going over the case notes, including Drucker’s manuscript. She was unable to stay awake for long periods, but even in sleep, the Living Scriptures were circling round and round in her foggy brain. She had trouble concentrating. She couldn’t eat. And she dreamed in numbers. Some endless, unsolvable code.

  The shrink leaned forward. “I specialize in trauma. I see a lot of military. It helps some people to start by telling me their experience in general terms. Even if your case was classified, telling me basic information is permissible within the privacy protections of our relationship. Believe me, I’ve heard everything.”

  Ellis doubted that anyone had told the shrink anything like what she had experienced. Nothing Ellis had seen in Iraq had even come close. What she saw in Seattle was straight out of a horror movie.

  “You want to help?” Ellis said. “Okay. I need to remember something specific.”

  “What would that be?”

  “A conversation. The night I was attacked, someone was dying right in front of me. She was telling me something. It might be important. A name, maybe.”

  The shrink was silent for a moment. “I’m not sure you’re ready to remember that level of detail. It could do more harm than good.”

  Yeah, obviously. Part of Ellis was terrified of remembering any more. She might never sleep again. But her gut told her that she had to know.

  “Haley?”

  “There was a woman hanging over me,” Ellis began, making a mental note not to mention Vera Borst by name.

  “Hanging?” the shrink asked, trying unsuccessfully to mask the dread she felt inside. “Hanging how?”

  “In mid-air.” Her voice was suddenly tight with emotion. “She was bound at the wrists. Suspended by the wrists by a thick rope. Bleeding. She had been sliced up.”

  The shrink did her best not to show the revulsion that she felt. “Again, I’m worried that we may be going too fast.”

  “She knew she was dying. And I think she told me something important. A message of some sort. I need to remember what that was.”

  The shrink sipped her tea. An obvious stalling tactic. She was formulating what she wanted to say next.

  “Can you do hypnosis?” Ellis asked.

  “Sure, but in this case…”

  “You want to help? Then I want you to hypnotize me.”

  Piazza di Spagna

  Nico woke to slushing and splashing sounds. He looked at the clock next to the bed. He had slept four hours, which was more than Carver had allowed him since this little adventure had begun. His body complained as he turned, aching all over from the bruises he had taken during the previous evening’s ordeal. There was a little blood on his pillow, too. He touched the ear that had been cut, not at all surprised to find that the scab had come off in the night.

  He rose, shuffled into the bathroom and found Carver stripped down to his boxers, kneeling in front of the tub, rubbing a soaked garment with detergent.

  “That shirt is dry-clean only,” Nico said in a mock-scolding voice.

  “Hilarious.”

  Carver stood, looking down at the tub full of submerged garments. He had been soaking them since daybreak with a bottle of stain remover and a packet of detergent that room service had brought up. Despite his scrubbing, those blood and powder stains hadn’t faded much. It wasn’t like they could just give them to the hotel laundry service. These clothes contained evidence that could put them in an Italian prison for a very long time.

  “I’m ready to work,” Nico said. “What’s on the agenda?”

  “I’m going to give you the names of two laboratory equipment manufacturers, along with the model numbers of some specialty items. Extremely expensive, completely custom, sold to a very limited number of customers. I want you to find out if either of them shipped equipment to Rome within the past two years. I don’t care how you do it. Hack into their billing systems if you have to.”

  Nico leaned up against the doorframe and folded his arms across his chest. “Do I have to ask?”

  “If my theory is right, a shipment from at least one of these companies should lead us to a lab here in Rome. And that is where we will find Adrian Zhu, Mary Borst and, if we are very lucky, Mr. Sebastian Wolf.”

  Psychiatric Office

  Washington D.C.

  “Haley?” Jack McClellan’s voice startled Ellis as she emerged from the session. “You all right?”

  “Yeah,” she answered without thinking. And no, she wasn’t all right. She had just been to a place in her memory that truly terrified her, and she didn’t even know what time it was. She had forgotten that Jack was even here. It seemed like days since he had driven her here from the safehouse in McLean.

  There were a couple of young girls in the waiting room. Both lowered their magazines slightly to sneak a peek. They were sizing her up. That was the way it worked in these places. You hoped to spot someone who looked more damaged than you. At least then you could feel a little better about yourself.

  “Jill called when you were in there,” McClellan said as he held the door open for her. “She wants to know if she could get lamb shawarma delivered. Said you know a good place. I told her nothing gets delivered to the safehouse, but we could get one of the guys to pick it up.”

  Shawarma? Screw shawarma. Couldn’t he see her quaking? Couldn’t he see what she had just been through?

  Her forehead throbbed, and she remembered the big sunglasses. She’d slipped them back on just before standing up. To hide the bruises. It had been the shrink’s suggestion. How had she put it? You might be more comfortable with those on.

  A few seconds later they were outside, standing on 10th and G Street. St. Patrick’s Cathedral was across the street. It had been her regular church a few years back when she had lived in Chinatown. She hadn’t been there in a couple of years.

  She darted between two cars and raced across the street.

  “Where you going?” Jack called after her. “Haley? We have to get back.”

  When she entered the 18th-century church, she wasn’t sure why she had come. The next mass didn’t start for another hour. She sat in a back pew, unfurled her scarf and used the end of it to wipe the tear tracks from her cheeks.

  “My job is to keep you safe,” Jack said. He was standing in the aisle, looking down at her in a way that reminded her of her own father. “This kind of stunt stops now.”

  Ellis looked down at the piece of paper in her hands. A transcription of what she had recalled during her hypnosis. At the bottom of the sheet of paper, circled in pen, was a 32-digit alphanumeric sequence. Vera Borst had used her last moments to reveal it to her. Now that the hypnosis had finally been purged it from her subconscious, her relief was tempered by the fact that she still didn’t know what the numbers meant.

  “Haley, please.”

  “Just a little time. That’s all I need.”

  Jack sighed. “Ten minutes. Then we’re going, no arguments. Do we understand each other?”

  A confessional booth came into focus along the western edge of the sanctuary. She recalled her first time in confession, as an eight-year-old child. She had been too s
hy to speak to the priest peering at her through the tiny veiled screen. After several unsuccessful attempts to start a conversation, he had simply laughed and given her a blessing. It was a good feeling that had stayed with her throughout her life.

  Now she found herself on her feet, peering in through the open curtain.

  “Have a seat.” The priest’s voice was more youthful than Ellis had expected. “Peace be with you.”

  Ellis drew the curtain behind her and sat, making the sign of the cross. The screen disguising the priest’s face was closed. That was good. Ellis preferred it that way.

  “Bless me Father,” she said quietly, “For I have sinned. It has been 11 days since my last confession. These are my sins.”

  Her recap was automatic. Brief, lacking any real detail, and neatly categorized into several general areas: desire, envy, gluttony, greed and selfishness. As if the events of the past few days hadn’t really happened at all.

  The priest was silent for a few moments. Then he said, “Why don’t you tell me what’s really bothering you?”

  The next sound from Ellis was somewhere between a cry and a laugh. She took her sunglasses off and held them in her lap. “Sorry.”

  “No need to be sorry,” the priest said. “Would you like to do this face-to-face?”

  “No offense, but no, I wouldn’t.”

  “None taken. So what’s up?”

  She tried to gather herself. “I don’t know why I’m here.”

  “Just start with one word. The rest will follow.”

  “What if someone asked you for protection? Someone with beliefs that were against everything you’d been taught?”

  “Welcome to my world. Most of the people I help have no connection with our beliefs.”

  “I’m not talking about the weekly soup kitchen, Father. I mean real protection.”

  “As in mortal danger?”

  Ellis nodded. “The person in danger is…someone that I don’t know at all. And her child.”

  The priest hedged for a moment. “I would probably advise you to contact the authorities.”

  “I am the authorities.”

  “Oh. You’re with the police?”

  “I can’t say more. But let me ask you another way. What if you knew that this child’s very presence would cause violence and death? Would you still protect that child?”

  “God doesn’t ask us to make those types of decisions. For us, every life is precious.”

  “He’s asking me, Father. What if the church itself was genuinely threatened?”

  The youthful voice sounded weary now. “I have to ask…are you under the care of a doctor?”

  “I’m not crazy. I’m asking for your spiritual opinion.”

  “All right. I’ll tell you what the Catechism of the Catholic Church has to say on the matter. In short, those who hold authority have the right to use arms to repel aggressors against the community entrusted to their responsibility. And furthermore, the literature says that justice does not exclude the death penalty, if this is indeed the only possible way of defending human lives against the aggressor.”

  “That’s helpful.”

  “To be clear, even within this context, it’s never okay to use God’s name to justify murder. We each take that responsibility upon ourselves, and throw ourselves upon the mercy of the Lord. If you are contemplating such actions, I would like to recommend several scriptural readings that may help you think as Jesus intended us to. Just a moment.”

  By the time the priest began reading, Ellis was gone.

  Vatican District

  “That’s Father Callahan’s building,” Carver told Seven as he pointed at the elegant four-floor structure across the street. He had always guessed that with Callahan’s income from the CIA, Vatican Intelligence and other sources, his digs were a cut above what most of the priests had in the Eternal City. This confirmed it. The apartment was on the third floor, with shutters that opened from both bedrooms. A small balcony jutted out from the living room with window boxes full of fresh flowers.

  They had come in hopes of anything that would lead them to the remaining Black Order operatives.

  It was broad daylight, but that didn’t matter much. Carver didn’t expect to find the priest at home. One way or the other, Callahan had been an accomplice to Nico’s abduction. If he was working with the Black Order, he would be long gone by now. If he wasn’t, he was likely dead.

  “You do any climbing?” Seven asked.

  Carver shrugged. “Not really. Just a couple of indoor climbing walls.”

  “It’s just three floors up. Piece of cake. Just follow my lead.”

  He watched as Seven walked underneath the front canopy and jumped straight up, gripping the canopy frame. She swung her right foot into a crevice in the brickwork. Then she reached to the side, gripping a decorative flourish in the building’s facade and, with spider-like movements, pawed her way up the building’s face until she was high enough to grab the ironwork supporting the second floor balcony.

  She paused to look down at Carver, who stood in awe on the sidewalk. “Coming?”

  “No. Just buzz me in, will you?”

  In less than a minute, Seven let him into the apartment. She was covering her nose with her sleeve, and Carver soon caught wind of the overwhelming stench.

  “Somebody died,” Seven whispered.

  Carver didn’t think so. He’d smelled plenty of decomposing bodies before. That was a stench you never forgot. This was something else.

  The apartment was ransacked. Every drawer and cabinet in the place was open. The floor was strewn with clothing and documents. A suitcase that looked as if it had been carved up with a razor blade sat open on the couch.

  The bathroom and lone bedroom were clear. Carver found the source of the smell in the kitchen. The refrigerator door had been left wide open. Carver slammed the door on a piece of raw fish and a few warm dairy products.

  A shrill ringing sent Seven darting across the room. She spun so that her back was against the wall and her weapon was extended before her.

  “Relax,” Carver said, pointing to an old analog phone mounted on the kitchen wall. “You think I should answer it?”

  Seven swallowed hard and nodded.

  Carver picked up the yellow receiver and put his ear to it.

  “I’d just about given up on you.”

  The voice belonged to Father Callahan. So he was alive. Carver slowly lowered himself into a chair, scanning the shelves and ceiling. Where was the camera?

  “I suspect the line is bugged,” the priest said, “so do be concise, if you please. You remember where I took you for dinner on your first trip to Rome?”

  It would have been a ludicrous question for nearly anyone else. That had been years ago. The city was huge and contained thousands of restaurants that would seem similar to a foreigner. Nobody could have been expected to remember something like that.

  And yet Carver did remember. He had arrived in town very late, arriving at the priest’s apartment at 11:37 p.m. He had been famished. The priest had taken him to a trattoria called Osteria Dell’Angelo just a few blocks north of the apartment. The cross streets were Via Pietro and Via Simone. They had been served a fixed menu consisting of tonnarelli cacio e pepe and tripe and braised oxtail. The proprietor was an ex-rugby player who had chastised Carver for not touching his wine during dinner.

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “I thought you might. Rendezvous in front in two hours.”

  The line went dead.

  The White House

  Speers sat on the couch opposite Chad Fordham. President Hudson was running a few minutes late, and Speers was grateful for the additional prep time. In the span of a week, he had gone from a broad, strategic integrator of the intelligence community to a hands-on doer who had to hyperfocus on a single massive threat and its ripple effect across borders, time zones and allegiances.

  Carol Lam entered with a tray of her famous cappuccinos. On the edge of each smal
l plate rested a small moist brownie.

  “Fudge?” Speers inquired.

  “Homemade,” Carol said. Her smile faded when she saw Speers’ swollen ankle elevated in an opposing chair. “May I ask what happened?”

  “If I told you, Chad here would have to put you in the witness protection program.”

  “Well, enjoy the pick-me-up.”

  He intended to. The ankle was improved, but it still hurt like hell. Even a small gesture of compassion felt good. On the few occasions when he had come home over the past week, all he’d gotten was a cold glare and a garbage bag full of dirty diapers.

  The president entered just as Carol left, wearing a black top with a white ruffled collar. “I have London on video conference,” she said without preamble. She motioned for them to rise and follow her through the east door into her private study. There, Speers was astonished to see that the British Prime Minister had joined Sir Brice Carlisle onscreen.

  The President quickly introduced Speers and Fordham. Sir Brice wasted no time on pleasantries. “I’m told that our joint operation in Rome last night eliminated Gish’s killers in addition to the two others that were dispatched in Seattle. Where does that leave us? Are we out of the woods?”

  Speers set his cappuccino on the table. “We are left with an unknown number of Black Order operatives still on the loose that may continue to target prominent world leaders. So no, we are not out of the woods. Our joint efforts in Rome continue as we try to locate the ossuary.”

  “The ossuary,” Sir Brice said dismissively. “Surely you don’t believe the myth. It’s rubbish, right?”

  Speers carefully measured the tone of his answer. “It really doesn’t matter what we believe. The security situation deteriorated the moment it was taken from the Vatican.”

  “So according to you, people will continue to die until this relic is recovered. How many people are we talking about?”

  “We have identified,” Speers began, “with 95 percent confidence, 11 surviving senior members of The Fellowship World Initiative. This includes foreign ministers from Australia and New Zealand, several prominent Middle Eastern and European politicians, a congressman from Indiana, and the CEOs of two multinational companies. There are also hundreds of others that we suspect but have yet to verify.”