William Tyree - The Fellowship

“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.”

“A woman?”

“She was one of the world’s first real intelligence chiefs. And she was merciless. The Black Order specialized in lethal operations against the church’s enemies. Its victims were found with the striped fabric stuffed in their orifices.”

Prichard folded his arms across his chest. “Are you implying the Vatican is still capable of this sort of thing?”

“No. The Black Order was formally dissolved. But it continued on as a separate and rogue defender of the church. The last trace of the organization was in the 1800s, after Napoleon’s invasion of Rome. Some believe that they embarked on a failed mission to free the pope, and that was the end of them.”

Prichard stood. “I say the killers plucked these tidbits out of a history book. They’re copycat killers.”

“Maybe,” Carver conceded. “The only thing I know for sure is that there’s more to come.”

Carlisle sat forward, giving Carver his full attention. “What are you getting at?”

“We all know how this works. An organization commits a horrific act for shock value, and then claims responsibility. Sometimes they make demands. But our killers…”

“Have yet to make any demands.” Carlisle slumped back in the chair, looking as deflated as an uncorked air mattress.

“Right. And that’s what worries me.”

Eisenhower Building

Washington D.C.

Pangs of envy grew within Chad Fordham as he made his way to Speers’ office. The 1888 federal building, affectionately known as Old Executive, stood adjacent to the West Wing of the White House. One of the city’s most stately buildings, it was adorned by an impressive 900 classical exterior columns.

In stark contrast, Fordham’s FBI headquarters — The J. Edgar Hoover Building, located several blocks away on Pennsylvania Avenue — had been described by Reuters not only as a “dreary 1970s behemoth,” but also as one of the world’s ugliest buildings.

Fordham exited the third floor elevator and started down a well-lit corridor that was full of ambitious, clean-cut feds in conservative suits. Down at the end of the hallway, at the building’s corner, he found Speers’ office. The previous resident — a GS-14 from OMB — was carting his last box out of the place.

The FBI director closed the door behind him and glared at Speers, who was working behind a 19th century oak partner’s desk that looked like it weighed more than his car.

“I’ll say this for you, Julian. You’ve got cajones.”

With Eva’s blessing, Speers had just reclaimed the same office he’d had during the Hatch Administration. It was an insanely good space. A corner office complete with a view of historic 17th Street NW, a fireplace and a dumb waiter.

“It was the only sensible solution,” Speers said. “I need to be in close proximity to you and the president during this crisis. McLean’s just too far.”

Fordham sat down in the chair before him. “When you hear what I’ve got to say, you’re going to wish you were a lot farther away than McLean.”

“Try me.”

“The preliminary report on the Preston fire points to arson.”

Speers nodded. “I assume the target was first responders. What did they use as a detonator?”

“You’re thinking way too sophisticated. I’m talking pedestrian, no frills, old school arson. You might remember a stack of paint cans in the basement?”

Speers’ face lost some of its color. “You’re telling me someone just lit a match and set fire to the house?”

Fordham folded his hands in his lap. “And left the gas stove on, which caused the ensuing explosion.”

Speers leaned forward. “When we left, the only two people in the house were Mary Borst and your guy, what’s his name?”

“Hank Bowers. According to him, he stepped into the front yard to take a confidential phone call a few minutes after we left, leaving Mary in the home alone.”

“I know Bowers is a trusted member of your team, but did you check out his story?”

Fordham nodded. “Phone records match up. But the other thing is…” Fordham leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “They only pulled one body from the ashes.”

“Which one?”

“Preston’s. And that can only mean one thing. Mary Borst is alive.”

SIS Building

Seven went back to the enormous monitor and touched one of the folder icons. A set of grisly crime scene photos appeared onscreen. Finally, Carver thought. This was what they had flown all the way across the Atlantic to see.

“Severe trauma around the wrists?” Carver asked.

Seven touched one of the thumbnail autopsy photos and dragged it to the middle of the screen, then zoomed in until Gish’s wrists were visible. Deep flesh wounds, an inch wide, ground down to the bone. Much like Preston’s.

“And were Sir Gish’s shoulders dislocated?” Carver said.

“Two for two,” Seven replied with some amazement.

Carver turned to Ellis. “Ropes again.”

Prichard popped out of his seat. “Pardon?”

“The D.C. crime scene burned down before we could do a proper forensic examination, but I was reasonably sure the senator was subjected to rope torture.”

Carlisle grimaced at the thought of Nils Gish strung up by a rope. “I suppose that is consistent with the predilections of this Black Order group you told us about?”

Carver nodded. “The strappado . They would tie the victim’s hands together behind his or her back, loop the rope over a high point in the room, and hoist them up. At a certain point, the body would be suddenly dropped. The shoulders and wrists were the first things to break, but it also put pressure on the lungs, making it increasingly difficult to breathe.”

“Bloody hell.”

“But the strappado has made a comeback of sorts in recent years. It would be impossible to tie it to any particular group.”

Seven touched the screen and opened another photograph. It was far more grisly, a photograph of Gish’s legs, which were severely lacerated. “Poor man was cut to ribbons. They started with the balls of his feet and made their way up his ankles and legs. The first few dozen were shallow enough so that he might not have bled to death, but eventually, they punctured a main artery in the left leg.”

Carver stood. “I don’t think these were ritual killings at all. The rope is far from the quickest or cleanest assassination method, and if they really wanted to be sadistic, they would’ve cut genitals, ears or faces.”

“Agreed,” Carlisle concluded. “The killers were after information.”

Government Flat

London

By the time they left MI6 headquarters for their flat, it had been approximately 14 hours since the killings of Nils Gish and Rand Preston. No group had yet claimed responsibility.

Or had they? It occurred to Carver that the entire point of placing the octagon-shaped fabric inside the mouths of the victims was to claim credit. Only the message wasn’t for them. It was for someone who already knew who the killers were.

The St. James-area flat Speers had retained for traveling intelligence operatives was on the sixth floor of a building that had the old-world charm that Carver had missed at the ultra-modern MI6 headquarters. Carver and Ellis opened the door with the security code Speers had given them, and wordlessly set about sweeping the two-bedroom apartment for bugs. Ellis was done with her part in six minutes. It took Carver a few minutes longer to feel secure. After both electronic and manual inspections, he finally sat on the couch and switched on his computer.