William Tyree - The Fellowship

“Mr. Zhu,” The Shepherd said as he put down his pen and smiled in a fatherly manner, “this is no way to rejoice after such a harrowing adventure.”

He walked to Zhu and reached out to help him up, but the bioengineer grasped the Shepherd’s left hand and kissed his ring. Wolf pulled back violently, his face suddenly red. Magi barked.

“Stand up!” he commanded. Zhu did so, disoriented as he was by the Shepherd’s rage. “I am not the pope. Quite the opposite. I am a tool, just as you are a tool.”

The bioengineer instinctively bowed his head again. “Sorry,” he said. “Forgive me.”

“You may ask God directly for that.” The Shepherd turned his gaze to Lars, who had been watching the episode with amusement. “Considering the security situation, I had the staff seal off the lower floors.”

“And we should redouble the guards,” Lars said.

“No. Now that Mr. Zhu has arrived, security must be shifted to protect his work.” The old man motioned to a round table and chairs. “Now then. Please sit.”

He walked around to the other side. Only now, as his joints creaked as he slowly sat down, did Zhu see signs of the Shepherd’s advanced age. Behind them, the double doors opened. A physician entered with a black case. The Shepherd motioned him inside.

“Hurry,” the old man said as the doctor removed the cufflink of his left sleeve and rolled up the French cuff, revealing a surprisingly muscular forearm. He swabbed a vein with alcohol. Then he opened the case, removed a small electronic device and pressed it to the old man’s flesh just above his wrist. It beeped briefly before the physician pulled it away and rebuttoned Wolf’s shirt.

Something as innocuous as insulin injections, Zhu wondered? Or something more radical meant to reverse aging, such as human growth hormones?

The carpenter’s hammering echoed loudly as the physician opened and closed the doors to leave.

“Termites?” Zhu inquired, recalling the man they had passed pulling up floorboards in the corridor.

“No,” the old man responded. “Nightingales.”

“A bird infestation?”

“No, Mr. Zhu. As you are no doubt intimately aware, our people are under attack. Many are dead, and I’m afraid there will be many more before we are on the other side of this. After realizing the lengths to which the enemy will go to preserve their stranglehold on power, I made a call to a friend in Japan and had him find the caretaker for Nijo Castle. Do you know it?”

“No sir. Can’t say that I do.”

“Oh, it’s a remarkable ancient fortress in Kyoto. During the Edo period, the floors were designed so that the nails in the floor would rub against clamps when people walked on it. To prevent against sneak attacks, you understand. It sounds remarkably like nightingale chirping. Hence the name, nightingale floors. An ancient but effective security measure.”

The doors opened again. Two servants entered bearing trays of food and drink. They set them upon the table and backed out of the room. Magi crawled under it, lying obediently at his master’s feet. The old man plucked a piece of meat from one of the trays, reached down, and fed the dog his reward.

The sight of the animal chewing made Zhu’s mouth water. The old man gestured at the covered platters on the desk. “I was unaware of your preferences,” he told his disciple, “so I had the kitchen make up suckling pig, and some rosemary lamb, and some pasta alla carbonara done in the traditional Roman style. I hope something will please you.”

Lars and Zhu ate heartily without speaking. The old man nibbled on nuts and sipped aqua con gas while his guests ate. When at last he saw Zhu’s pace slowing, he spoke.

“Now then, I know you will have many questions, but first I must ask a few of my own. Do you, Mr. Zhu, believe the conventional wisdom that we are to sit passively by through the ages and await the second coming of our savior?”

The bioengineer swallowed a mouthful of pork and, with some gristle protruding from his front teeth, said, “No, your…” Zhu almost said ‘your Holiness,’ but stopped himself. “No sir.”

“Oh, and why is that?”

“I have read the Living Scriptures. I searched my heart and believe they are true.”

The Shepherd grew impatient. “Use your own words! Speak from your heart!”

“Why else,” Zhu tried again, “would God give us the smarts to invent space travel, or split the atom? Not to kill each other! We’re supposed to use our brains and our technology to know all about Him, and truly become one with Him.”

The old man smiled. “Spoken like a true believer. And what responsibility do you take for this belief?”

“I take full responsibility. I’m ready to apply the scientific knowledge God has granted me to fulfill our destiny.”

“The old man stood. Zhu found the Shepherd’s mannerisms, and even his voice, completely mesmerizing. “Humanity has been led in the wrong direction. We must be the ones to reveal the great lies and wake humanity from its daydream of spiritual passiveness.”

Zhu watched as the old man took the spumante in his hands and filled Lars’ and Zhu’s goblets, and then his own. He raised his glass in a toast.

“Tomorrow you will see that we have acquired all that you asked for. Tonight, let us pray that the martyrs in Washington and London who have passed may now be one with God’s great unconditional love.”

Blake Carver Residence

Washington D.C.

Carver woke with the feeling that something wasn’t right. He reached for his phone. Sure enough, it was 4 a.m. An hour earlier than his usual wakeup time. Since he’d been on assignment out in McLean, he’d gotten up every day at 5 a.m. for a run. Except for Thursdays, which was when the ODNI fencing club met in the gym. Although none of the analysts had managed to beat him yet, he enjoyed the challenge of keeping them scoreless.

He never thought his exile from fieldwork would last this long, and he had to be disciplined to stay in shape. There was so much sitting around. So much waiting for things to happen.

Carver had spent most of the night in McLean with Arunus Roth, monitoring intelligence channels, Italian police radio scanners and the GPS for any sign of Adrian Zhu. He had finally gone home at 1 a.m. to grab a little sleep. He’d been dreaming about Zhu, he remembered. Carver’s mind tended to gnaw on problems while he slept, and he found that he often rose with a number of possible solutions.

Not this time. He was still mystified. Had Zhu really been kidnapped? If so, by whom? Or did he run? But that made even less sense. He was not a prisoner in China. He did not have to defect. After all, he had gone to China to escape ethics questions that were uniquely American.

In five hours, he would have to appear before the committee. He cursed, pulled the covers back, and got to his feet.

It was too early to go for a run. Too early to eat. But not too early to hydrate. Carver walked into the kitchen of the one-bedroom duplex and drew a warm glass of water from his water ionizer. He had no doubt that one day the machine’s health benefits would be outed as a sham, but until science proved it wrong, he was going to chug this stuff.

Then, as was his daily custom, he grated about a teaspoon of ginger root directly into the water, and drank it. His mother’s recipe for healthy digestion still did a body good.

Then he took the potted pipe organ cactus that rested in the kitchen window — the only living thing in Carver’s one-bedroom condo — and dribbled some tap water into the soil.

On his sister’s insistence, he’d brought Marty — he had named the cactus after the country music star Marty Robbins, one of his father’s favorites — back from Arizona on his last trip. Marty reminded him of home. And best of all, he could neglect Marty for weeks on end without killing him.