William Tyree - The Fellowship

Borst was quiet for several seconds. Ellis thought she heard running water. “We shouldn’t discuss this by phone,” Borst said finally. “We should meet. Are you still in D.C.?”

“Yes.”

“Then you have to come now. I’m leaving for Europe tomorrow.”

Now? Not ideal. But a chance to question the mother of the only person of interest they had? She had to act. And her chances of finding the killers from a hotel room? Zero.

“I’ll have to check flights,” Ellis said. In her excitement, she had almost forgotten that she was confined to the hotel. How would she get past Jack?

“There’s an Alaska Airlines flight at 7:10 every night from Reagan National. With the time difference it puts you at Sea-Tac at about nine. If you miss that, there’s a Virgin flight a half-hour later.”

Given Borst’s role in world government, Ellis wasn’t surprised the under-secretary would have memorized the Washington to Seattle flight schedule. She imagined Borst was also fairly familiar with flights into and out of New York.

She checked her watch. It was already a few minutes past four. There might be enough time to get to the airport and get on a standby list for the 7:10. There was no time to ask Speers for permission.

Rockville, Maryland

Speers and Fordham watched from the back seat of a black sedan as the city gave way to suburbs and eventually, to a hilly, verdant Rockville neighborhood populated by expensive cars and enormous mansions. “This is the address,” Fordham said into his earpiece as they rolled up outside the massive estate known as Eden. “Let us take the lead. Everyone else stay back until we give the signal.”

The property’s 15-foot walls were covered in ivy, except at the top, where loops of razor wire glimmered in the sun. Tiny cameras were mounted around the entire perimeter.

Speers got out of the car. Wincing at the pain from his ankle, he propped himself up on a cane that the nurses at Walter Reed had given him. The MRI had shown no broken bones, thankfully. They had given him something for the inflammation, wrapped the ankle, and discharged him. As he put weight on it, he regretted not getting a prescription for the pain.

He looked down the hill, noting no less than eight black sedans parked about 50 yards away. Their passengers had been instructed to stay put for now. Per the president’s request, none of Fordham’s agents except Hank Bowers were privy to the case details. They had been told only to seize all files, computers, strongboxes and weapons from the premises.

“Are those chemical toilets ours?” he said, noticing an outhouse trailer at the end of the caravan.

“Damn right,” Fordham said. “I took one look at the size of this place on the map and figured we’d be out here all day. I’ve also got a craft services truck coming at noon.”

Fordham pulled the federal warrant out of his pocket. Speers didn’t want to know how the FBI director had gotten it so quickly.

Suddenly, a grinding sound emanated from the front gate, which looked as if it was made of solid iron. The gate opened slowly. The FBI agents backed off, some of them ducking behind cars. Speers held his ground, mesmerized by the emerging view.

A long, winding driveway snaked up a sloping hill. It was covered with autumn leaves. A flock of ducks flew in perfect V-formation overhead and began to circle over the main house. Speers imagined a pond deeper on the property, or perhaps a gigantic swimming pool.

A real estate agent in black stockings and a conservative red dress stepped out to the street. Apparently oblivious to the G-men on the street, she began pounding a sign into the dirt with a rubber mallet. It read PRIVATE SHOWINGS BY APPOINTMENT ONLY.

Speers hobbled across the street with Fordham beside him, and called out to the woman so as not to scare her. “Excuse me.”

The woman turned. Her face was cragged with wrinkles and was much older than her shapely figure and blonde mane had conveyed from the rear. “Yes?” the woman responded.

“Just saw the sign going up.” Speers hoped to gain entrance without using Fordham’s warrant. “We’d like to see the property.”

The woman sized the two men up. Although they had stepped out of a new black Lincoln Continental, neither was wearing a luxury watch and their shoes were worth less than the bottle of wine she had bought for dinner last night. “I’m afraid there is a prequalification process in order to secure an appointment. With a property like this, one does have to screen out the looky loos.”

With the gates now fully open, Speers could see the white columns leading up to the enormous residence. Nobody seemed to be around, but it was easy to imagine world leaders being driven in and out of the property and squads of young students mowing the lawn and raking leaves.

“Happy to oblige,” Fordham said. “Can you tell me how long it’s been vacant?”

“Maybe a week?” she replied, seeming somewhat baffled by her own answer.

“You’re not sure?” Speers said.

She set the mallet down beside her and wiped her forehead. “I must admit,” she sighed. “This place has been a mystery for 43 years. I grew up in this neighborhood. I was a teenager when the new owners moved in one night and started putting up these big walls. Even though there always seemed to be big parties here, nobody really knew who lived here. You can imagine my shock when their attorney called me to sell the place.”

Speers nodded. “Leaving in such a hurry, they must have left some things behind.”

She shook her head. “The place is in cherry condition. Absolutely cherry. They didn’t leave so much as a box in a bedroom or a crumb in the kitchen. With a place this gigantic? That’s something you don’t see every day.”

Speers’ spirits sank. The odds of finding anything useful on the premises had just decreased dramatically.

“We’d like to look around,” Fordham suggested.

She folded her arms across her chest. “About all I can tell you without an application are the specs. Twenty-three bedrooms, 20 bathrooms and 16 fireplaces.” She paused, noticing Fordham surveying the cameras over the gate. “Now then. May I ask what business you and your friend are in?”

Fordham raised his left hand above his head and snapped his fingers. The woman’s jaw sagged as she watched 32 FBI field agents step out of their cars.

City Morgue

Rome

Detective Antonio Tesla was a distinguished-looking fellow, perhaps in his mid-50s, clean-shaven, with the short, curly hair that was seen on the busts of ancient Roman noblemen. He wore brown suit pants and a white button-down shirt under an unstructured jacket.

Carver let Callahan handle the introductions between him, Tesla and Nico. Tesla shook hands without a word, turned, and led them past the administrative offices and down some stairs, where the air was markedly colder. It seemed that morgues all over the world looked the same. Unflattering lighting. A series of gurneys with unclothed bodies in various levels of assembly. Rows and rows of drawers.

Tesla began talking in Italian at a steady clip as they entered a second, and much larger, room. Father Callahan began translating as he received the information. “He says the two victims were found four nights ago in the parking garage of the Hotel Angelico.”

“How did they die, exactly?”

Callahan started to answer, but it was all he could do to keep up with the detective’s quick tongue. “There was a shootout. The victims were found in and around the Mini Cooper, which was apparently rammed several times by a Range Rover with stolen plates. It was left on the premises.”

“Did you say, in and around the Mini Cooper? I thought there were only two of them.”