William Tyree - The Fellowship

“Later,” he said. “Haley, do you know why you came to Seattle? I need you to try to remember.”

She shrugged, clearly too exhausted to even try.

There was so much he needed to know. Had Ellis known Mary Borst’s mother would be in danger? Was she operating on a hunch, or had she seen something in Nathan Drucker’s work that led her to that conclusion? How did Sebastian Wolf fit into the picture? The answers were locked away in the rafters of Ellis’ mind.

He reached into his pocket, removed his phone, and pulled up a photo of Jenna Ellis that he had taken at the Mayflower Hotel just before heading to the airport. He handed the phone to Ellis and waited a moment as she looked at the photo.

“You know her?”

Ellis peered at it uncertainly. “Maybe. I’m not sure.”

“That’s your sister,” Speers pressed. “Her name is Jenna.”

Haley handed the phone back. “I want to go outside.”

Now tears streamed down her cheeks. She clutched the sheets, pulling them to her chin, then up over her face. Speers sat on the edge of the mattress. He wiped the tears away with the cuff of his shirt, turning it so that his cuff links wouldn’t scratch her face.

He thought of his elderly neighbor back in Georgetown, Mrs. Tenningclaus, and her late husband who had suffered from dementia in the months before he died. In the early days, before he had to be confined to a facility that was skilled at keeping forgetful patients safe, Speers had seen him get so frustrated over his lack of memory that he was verbally abusive. Sometimes he would cry. Other times he would throw things. Once, he had hit his wife in the forehead with an ashtray.

Until he had seen Mr. Tenningclaus’ slow, cruel deterioration, death by fire had been Speers’ biggest fear. Now it wasn’t even close. His fear was not knowing who he was anymore. The thought was terrifying. It seemed worse than death. Like not existing at all. Seeing Ellis like this was unbearable. Was she still in there?

*

Speers went to a print shop near the University of Washington, where he personally scanned every page of the Nathan Drucker manuscript, as well as a set of handwritten notes he had retrieved from Ellis’ backpack. He then uploaded them to the mission cloud and ordered Carver to read them right away. Ellis couldn’t tell him what had led her to hop on a plane bound for Seattle to visit Ms. Borst, but he had a feeling that it had something to do with Drucker’s research.

Now he sat in a corner of the hospital cafeteria with his ailing ankle propped up on an opposing chair. He ate from two heaping plates of Jello while reviewing the Vashon crime scene photographs that he had downloaded to his tablet computer.

He clipped a facial photograph of the dead perp who had been found underneath Borst’s suspended body. Then he uploaded it to a secure site where Arunus Roth could access it, tapping out a short message: Give this creep a facial.

“Facial” was short for 3D Facial Recognition System, an invaluable intelligence tool that had first been developed by researchers at Technion, the oldest technology university in Israel, and had since been improved with the help of certain companies in Silicon Valley. He followed with photographic copies of the passports belonging to the two perps’, which he assumed were false. Finishing the image gallery was a pic of the tattoo on the perp’s shoulder, as the IC possessed a separate database that cross-indexed profiles with tattoos and birthmarks.

The most important image — those of two octagons that looked, to Speers’ eyes, identical to those found in the D.C., Rome and London murders — he uploaded for Carver’s eyes only. Gory as it was, he also sent Carver a video clip of Ms. Borst suspended by her wrists.

Carver continued to amaze him. Within the first two minutes of studying Senator Preston’s wounds — the ruined wrists, the dislocated shoulders, the gashes across his front — Carver had correctly surmised the precise method of torture. And here, in full color, was absolute proof.

He did not have time to send Carver a qualifying statement. His phone announced the arrival of Chad Fordham, who was, at this very moment, waiting for him in the lobby. Having eaten every morsel of the Mediterranean pizza he had ordered, Speers left the tray on the table and made his way toward the lobby.

The FBI director looked cold and pale and his head was drenched from drizzle. Fordham was only in his mid- 50s, but he maintained a “natural bald” look — the sides and back of his head were unshaven — that pegged him as a man from a different era.

Speers extended his hand. “Appreciate you coming.”

“How is she?” Fordham asked.

“Too banged up to tell me what led her here in the first place.”

“Are these the a-holes that did the senator?”

Speers spoke in an elevated whisper. “We don’t know. But even if they are, they can’t also be the people who killed Gish. There are more bad guys out there.”

“Still can’t rule out Mary Borst as a person of interest.”

“It’s looking more and more like she was running scared. Her boss and her mother were on these animals’ hit list. She probably thought she was next.”

“Agreed. I just wish we could find her.”

The intelligence czar consulted his facility map, then motioned toward a hallway that would lead them to the central tower. “The surviving perp should be out of surgery by now.”

They came to an elevator and went inside. Speers used the butt of his cane to push the button for the 11th floor. He waited for the doors to close and then said, “Ellis doesn’t even recognize me. If she had listened to me in the first place, she would’ve never ended up here.”

“You think someone is targeting her?”

“All I know is she met with Nathan Drucker, and he ended up dead. Then Ellis comes out here, and we’ve got three more bodies on our hands. A water taxi captain with a goofy name claims that he charged her 300 bucks to take her out to Vashon, then saved her life with the only weapon he had on the boat, a freaking flare gun.”

Fordham’s face lit up. “Flare gun? I’ve always wondered what one of those would do to a person. Seems like they could burn a hole right through somebody.”

“No such luck. It hit the a-hole right in the face, though. Caught his beard and hair on fire. Captain Zack said the guy looked like an asteroid with legs when he ran out of the house.”

They took the elevator to the 11th floor. Fordham’s special agents were stationed outside the room. Two thick-necked studs in their mid-20s. They eyed Speers and Fordham warily.

“Can I help you?” the elder of the two agents said.

“I can see why you wouldn’t recognize me, but my friend here?” Speers motioned toward Fordham. “Seriously?”

Both men shook their head. “Some ID might make this go faster.”

“How about you go back to the Seattle field office and look at the picture of the guy plastered on the wall next to the president?”

By then Fordham already had his FBI badge out of his jacket. A light went on in the talker’s eyes as he stood a little straighter. “Mr. Director, sir. I apologize.”

“That’s not necessary. The FBI has 35,000 employees and at the end of the day, I’m just one of ‘em.”

The double doors opened. The talker stepped aside so that the surgeon could pass. Speers flashed his ID. “Director of National Intelligence.” Then he took out the passport belonging to the assailant, Roberto Melfi. The man was balding and bearded, with a stocky-looking neck and face.

“Ah,” the surgeon said. “You’re here about the burn victim?”

“It’s the other way around, doc. He’s not the victim. He’s the bad guy.”