William Tyree - The Fellowship
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- Название:The Fellowship
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- Издательство:Massive
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- Год:2013
- ISBN:нет данных
- Рейтинг книги:5 / 5. Голосов: 1
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The Fellowship: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация
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The priest sipped his tea audibly. “Something not sitting right with you?”
Even at face value, the story was implausible. Tisi, also known as Il Garofalo, had been among the most prolific Renaissance painters. According to historians, he had worked constantly, and had lived to be very old. During his lifetime, just about every church in Italy was said to have possessed at least one of his paintings.
But unlike the elite artists such as Rafael, Garofalo was without a signature piece. His work was often criticized for being frigid, both in expression and color. If the thieves had wanted a Garofalo, or several, they could have gotten them in hundreds of places where security was relatively light. Even with the pope away on summer retreat, the palace remained one of the most heavily fortified places in the world.
Carver did not doubt that there had been a robbery that had triggered such a massive increase in security. But he was willing to bet that what had been taken was far more valuable than a painting by a second-tier Renaissance artist. If his theory was right, Sebastian Wolf had finally completed the mission Heinrich Himmler had sent him on in 1943. He had found the ossuary.
Haborview Trauma Center
Seattle
This time, Ellis woke. Really woke. She had been in and out of sleep for the past 36 hours. The back of her head was impossibly heavy and sore. She sat up, reached around and probed her skull gingerly. Based on the size of her headache, she expected to feel an appendage the size of a grapefruit. But her fingertips found only a cushioned bandage that was sore to the touch.
“The swelling’s way down,” a voice said. She looked up and saw a nurse at the foot of the bed. A Latino guy with a handsome face.
Her right side stung. She winced, shutting her eyes as the memory of the Taser prongs lancing her skin came flooding forth. The nurse was suddenly at her side, lifting the gown to take a look. The scabbed-over wounds resembled the bite marks of some enormous snake. “I can give you something for the pain,” the nurse said.
Ellis started to turn and was immediately thwarted by crushing lower back pain. She now remembered being hit. And she remembered the man with the beard. The flaming beard. Had his face seriously been on fire? She didn’t know. But he had hit her with something big. A plank, maybe. She couldn’t remember what.
“Easy,” the nurse said. “It might not feel like it right now, but you’re lucky. Your mama must’ve fed you plenty of milk when you were a kid, cuz you’ve got no broken bones.”
“I don’t feel lucky,” Ellis moaned.
“Shhh. Your boss is still sleeping.”
“Boss?”
The nurse motioned to the second bed. “He’s been snoozing over there for about an hour now, thank God. He’s been asking us all kinds of questions, driving the staff crazy”
Ellis swiveled her neck slowly until she could see the second bed. The visitor was asleep on his back, snoring lightly. Wrinkled gray suit. Paunch-belly. Curly black head of hair. Salt-and-pepper goatee.
“Julian,” she said in recognition.
Palazzo Della Rovere
The inbound call on Carver’s phone appeared as IDENTITY BLOCKED for less than a second, then transformed as the DNI cloud database unscrambled it. The call was coming from SIS Headquarters in London.
Carver sighed. It had been days since he had heard anything from Legoland. Maybe they had finally found something useful.
He answered provisionally, requesting, as a security precaution, video chat prior to accepting audio. Carver was surprised when not one, but three faces popped up on the phone. The DNI’s facial recognition software was slow to respond. It had to sync with its database of intelligence profiles, but it did, gradually, confirm the identity of each of the three faces onscreen: Sam Prichard, SIS Chief Brice Carlisle and the stunning Seven Mansfield.
“Is it my birthday?” Carver said. “I don’t like surprise parties.”
“Apologies for the gang bang,” Carlisle replied dryly. “Unfortunately, I had no choice but to call Director Speers a short while ago to alert him about another sad chapter in this saga. He suggested we notify you straight away.”
“I supposed I’ll have to fly to London for the juicy details?”
The comment raised eyebrows, but Carver didn’t regret it. He was still pissed about the waste — both in time and budget — incurred in flying to London because of Sir Brice’s paranoia. There was nothing worse than abandoning an already cooling blood trail for the sake of bureaucracy.
Prichard and Seven held their breath until Carlisle spoke. “Now that you’ve got that bit off your chest, Agent Carver, would you mind turning on the BBC?”
Carver walked to the suite’s master bedroom and switched on the television. He turned to BBC World and was immediately faced with a red ticker sliding across the bottom of the screen.
UN ENVOY SUK KENYATTA MURDERED IN GENEVA
Kenyatta was a former Kenyan prime minister and UN secretary general. He was not quite a household name in the States, but that was only because most Americans didn’t follow international politics. Outside the U.S., Kenyatta had more name recognition than Sir Gish, Senator Preston and under-secretary-general Borst put together. He had been in the international news a great deal lately, as he had been appointed the UN envoy in charge of negotiating peace in central Africa.
Carver turned the TV volume down. “What happened?”
“We only learned about this 45 minutes ago,” Carlisle replied. “All we know is that he was abducted from his car around lunchtime, and was found hanging, having been rope-tortured like the other victims, in his Geneva hotel. A piece of octagonal-shaped, striped fabric was stuffed into his mouth.”
Sebastian Wolf had seen to it that his new religion was stocked to the rafters with influential scientists and politicians.
And so too will the world’s great leaders join the Shepherd in Fellowship, so that they may be in place when the time comes to usher in the new Rule of Light. And those leaders were now paying the ultimate price for membership.
“What was Kenyatta doing in Europe?” Carver asked.
“Geneva had been selected as neutral territory for negotiations. You can imagine how this will derail talks now. Each side will blame the other for his death.”
A global war. Without state. Without end. Carver had seen Brother Melfi’s handwritten proclamation in the evidence files Speers had uploaded from Seattle. The prophecy was coming true. Borst and Kenyatta did not even represent individual nations. They represented the United Nations.
“We’re dispatching a unit to investigate the crime scene,” Carlisle continued.
“Why bother?” Carver asked, although he was venting more than making a recommendation. “We know that Kenyatta was connected to Sebastian Wolf. They wouldn’t have targeted him otherwise.”
Judging by the puzzled faces onscreen, Carver realized the extent of the information gap that had been created in the past few days. There was so much to explain.
“I’ve got a lot of stuff to catch you up on,” Carver continued. “For now, I feel confident in saying that the Black Order has returned, and that they are targeting senior members of the Fellowship World Initiative.”
“Hold it,” Prichard said. “In London, you said the Black Order had been dissolved centuries ago.”
“Which was consistent with historical records,” Carver agreed with appreciation in his voice. If he had been forced to fly to London to discuss something that could have been done remotely, at least Prichard had bothered to listen. “But we are witnessing the work of a highly organized, talented and sustained effort that is obviously well-funded and enjoys considerable reach. Only an organization with the maturity and impeccable intelligence of the Black Order could have known the secret relationship shared by Gish, Preston, Vera Borst and Suk Kenyatta.”
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