William Tyree - The Fellowship

She opened the door and found herself staring at the horrendousness of Jack’s homemade dye job. He was obviously gray by now, and the jet black smear of thinning hair wasn’t doing anything to conceal it.

“Major fail,” he scolded. “As we discussed, you need to ask one of our qualifying questions before opening the door. What if someone was behind me, holding me at gunpoint? That might be my only way of signaling to you that there was danger.”

Ellis sighed irritably. “Okay, Jack. You got me. Are we done?”

He turned to the side and waved his hand. A hotel staffer approached with a room service cart. “I think maybe I should have a bite of that prime rib,” McClellan said as Ellis pulled the cart into the room. “Might be poisoned.”

“Nice try.”

As Jenna dug into her dinner, Ellis’ focus returned to Drucker’s list. She was sure now that Gish and Preston had known each other through the Fellowship World Initiative. Now she had to try to identify some other names on the list.

Throughout the chart, a Y-axis indicated numbers by each level on the org chart. The Fellowship is a hierarchical society. You have to level up over time. Near the top, you’ve got world leaders, notable scientists. Wolf’s name had no numerical attribution, which appeared to place him as the big kahuna. The second level — where there were only question marks — was the number 21. The number 20 was written beside Gish, Preston and a few other names she didn’t recognize. On the subsequent pages were a list of 19s and a few 18s and 17s.

The amount of diversity among the listed surnames was worrisome. While Ellis guessed that there were plenty of ethnic minorities in the House and Senate these days, as well as in British Parliament, there couldn’t be this much diversity. That meant this list contained people from all over the world. The Fellowship World Initiative appeared to be truly global. Could all these people be world leaders? And if so, did that mean they were all in danger?

The thought of the crisis spreading to additional nations was frightening. She had to talk to Carver.

She went to her bag, looking for her satphone, and remembered she no longer had one. Speers had confiscated it, fearing that it had been compromised. Carver’s satphone number, as well as Arunus Roth’s, had been programmed into it. She went to the desk, powered up her computer, and logged into the secure mission cloud. She posted a private message: call me.

She got up and paced, then flattened herself into the carpet and bent her legs into a pigeon pose, pondering next steps. Without first names, titles and associated nationalities, identifying these people would be hard. Ellis kicked herself for not keeping up more with international political and scientific news. Maybe then she would recognize some of these people.

She flipped to a back page and found a whole new slew of Level 20 names. One stood out among them: V. BORST.

Something shifted within Ellis. Vera Borst? Mother of Mary?

She did a web search for the name. It was evidently quite rare — there were virtually no other exact matches. United Nations Under-Secretary-General Borst. Like Carver said, a big shot.

Ellis quickly navigated to the woman’s Wikipedia page, where Borst’s headshot was pictured above an image of the United Nations flag. She realized she had never really considered the flag’s design before. It had a blue background, with white laurel wreaths framing what could only be described as a bleached map of all the world’s continents as seen through a rifle scope.

Borst’s face was soft and round under a Peter Pan haircut that made her head appear to be remarkably orb-like. The 49-year-old UN leader hadn’t worn any makeup, even in what was obviously a posed photograph. One of those ultra-organic types, Ellis thought.

According to her Wiki page, Borst had been born in Amsterdam and earned a Ph.D. in biomedical engineering before abruptly leaving science for politics. She had been elected to the Netherlands’ lower house during her first try, and had served in the country’s diplomatic corps for a decade before being appointed UNICEF director. She had subsequently been appointed an under-secretary-general of the United Nations.

If Drucker’s claims were any measure, Borst’s background in both science and politics made her a lock for Wolf’s inner circle.

Ellis scrolled lower on the page, reading the text under “Personal Life”:

Borst is a frequent lecturer worldwide, discussing the need for enhanced global cooperation on the use of embryo stem-cell research to detect and prevent disease. She lives near Seattle, Washington with her life partner, Dr. Dane Mitchell, a professor of biology at the University of Washington.

“Feeling better, Sis?” Jenna said, spotting the triumphant look on Ellis’ face.

“Thank you Jack Daniels, thank you Coke.”

And thank you Drucker, she thought. May you rest in peace.

Dane Mitchell’s number wasn’t publicly listed. But she knew that the State Department kept contact information for UN leaders.

She used the hotel phone to dial a friend at State, allowing her typically suppressed southern accent to surface just long enough to charm the desperately single guy into looking up Borst’s personal phone number. In exchange, she promised to go out on a date with him. It wouldn’t be all that bad, she thought. He was kind of cute.

She hung up and dialed Borst’s number. After four rings, a woman answered the phone. “This is Vera.”

Via della Conciliazione

Rome

Rome’s cobblestones felt good under Carver’s feet. He had discovered years ago that this street, which stretched between the Tiber River and St. Peter’s Square, was the only vantage point where it was possible to properly appreciate the Vatican’s grandeur. High walls surrounded the majority of the tiny Vatican nation, making only the upper heights of its massive basilica and palaces visible. But from here, just blocks from the boundary between the Vatican and Rome, it was possible to see St. Peter’s Square, St. Peter’s Basilica, the Apostolic Palace and the many buildings occupied by various orders all at once.

“First time here?” he asked Nico, although he already knew the answer by the awestruck look on his face.

Nico pointed to the towering, four-sided monument with a pyramid-shaped cap. “Why is there an Egyptian obelisk in the center of St. Peter’s Square?”

Carver smiled. Every time he saw the obelisk in St. Peter’s Square, it was clear where L’Enfant, the architect that created the plans for the National Mall, had gotten his inspiration for the Washington Monument and the surrounding federal buildings. From a distance, it was uncanny how much the massive columns and basilica of St. Peter’s resembled Capitol Hill. Washington D.C. was America’s Rome.

“Rome has seven obelisks taken from Egypt,” Carver said. “That one was originally installed in the Roman Forum. It’s the only one without the original Egyptian hieroglyphics.”

It seemed to Carver that the clergy were just as thick on the ground on Via della Conciliazione as they must have been when the four-story building had been erected in 1480. The street was the Vatican’s equivalent of Pennsylvania Avenue, and the Palazzo Della Rovere before them had been the home of countless cardinals, bishops, noblemen and nuns over the centuries until finally coming under the ownership of the ancient Order of the Holy Sepulchre, which answered to the Vatican, and still occupied the west side of the building.

“Our hotel,” Carver said, pointing to the structure. The east side was a modern hotel called the Hotel Columbus, which was frequented by Vatican visitors and dignitaries.