William Tyree - The Fellowship

“What about him?” Speers said patiently.

Her eyes rolled upwards, left and then right as she strained to piece the memory together. The association came to her slowly. “The name S. Kenyatta was written in one of Drucker’s notebooks. I’m sure of it.”

Speers opened his attache and began sifting through the stacks of loose notes. He couldn’t see anything. “Do you mind?” he asked, as his finger grazed over the reading light button. He had sent copies of everything to McLean and Rome, but had yet to process all the loose pieces they had gathered from Drucker’s house. Everything was happening so fast. In a perfect world, they would have weeks or months to piece together all the data points they had discovered over the past several days.

He soon found them among the stack. Six pages of hierarchies. Hand-drawn, barely legible, with entire sections scratched out. Notes and Bible verses written in the margins. And even the names, most of them, were simply surnames. Only occasionally did they contain a first initial.

Speers handed her the pages. The feel of the yellow notebook paper between her fingertips seemed to jog her memory.

“Drucker was trying to piece together a Fellowship org chart.”

Ellis began telling him what she could remember. She sputtered, losing her train of thought frequently as she remembered what had led her to board the flight for Seattle in the first place. She found the name “V Borst” on one of the pages and pointed to it. It was near the top of Drucker’s power list, near Gish and Preston.

“Okay,” Speers said. “And you thought she was in danger?”

Her thoughts drifted for a moment. She felt weightless for a moment until the sound of Speers’ voice brought her back. “No,” she said. “How could I know that? I was hoping she could tell me who might have wanted Gish and Preston dead. I was hoping she could tell us where her daughter was.”

“That would have been nice,” Speers agreed. “Unfortunately, we have no clue what happened to Mary Borst after her plane touched down in Rome. It’s like she vanished into thin air.”

Speers switched on his phone and called McLean. Ellis listened as he told Arunus Roth that he wanted to match every name on the list to the identity of a public figure or scientist, and he wanted it by the time they touched down in Rome.

Ellis’ head throbbed again. She shut her eyes. The vision of Borst’s body hanging overhead returned to her. She was talking. She was trying to tell her something important. Ellis concentrated hard, trying to push away the white noise of her mind. She reached deep, trying to access the memory. It was like reaching into a deep, dark space. There was something down there, but it was too slippery to pick up.

Rome

Father Callahan was late. Carver sat on a park bench overlooking the Tiber River, drumming his fingers on his knee. The priest had messaged him an hour earlier, telling him that he had new information about the Vatican break in. The American had quickly agreed. Anything that could lead him to the whereabouts of the Holy Ossuary, or the zealots trying to protect it, could be the break he needed.

A cool breeze rustled the trees overhead. Carver eyed a couple holding hands on a park bench. Was it just him, or did they look a little old to be such enthusiastic lovebirds? When he watched them kiss, though, and saw the mutt-like mug on the guy, his doubts disappeared. They had to be in love. Not even the most dedicated spy could conjure up that much passion for a face like that.

He went over the details of his conversations with Callahan in his head. Although the priest had always been short on details, they had at least confirmed his instincts about the Vatican Intelligence’s pecking order. The Vatican’s philosophy when it came to choosing popes seemed to be the older, the better. That way there was less chance of any real change.

Apparently the same could be said for the Vatican’s choice of Intelligence chief. The only person Callahan could have gotten the name Sebastian Wolf from was his nemesis, Heinz Lang. And he was as old as the hills. In his 80s, at least.

But he assumed that Callahan wouldn’t have shared any critical details with Lang. He would have given him only what he needed to show value. Such was the way of double agents. Likewise, he had thrown Carver not a steak, but a bone, and he would no doubt be hoping to get a scrap in return.

He thought back to the morgue, when Detective Tesla had shown them the bodies of the gunmen. He remembered Nico’s observation: I thought it was curious that Father Callahan kept referring to the bodies as victims. Tesla never used that word to describe them.

A black van cornered onto Villa Della Conciliazione, squealing its brakes as it accelerated.

A chilling thought hit Carver. If Lang had given Callahan orders to locate Sebastian Wolf, why would Lang wait to see whether Carver would share the intel with him?

He wouldn’t. He would just take the asset who could find Wolf.

The priest was now nine minutes late. Suddenly concerned, Carver got up and began heading back toward the palazzo.

The priest had arranged their hotel reservations. Carver had performed a bug sweep, but only on their initial check in. And it would have been easy enough to eavesdrop from an adjoining room.

He pulled out his phone and dialed the palazzo. Nico answered on the third ring.

“Hey,” Nico said, “Great news. I found the motherload on — ”

“Not another word,” Carver said. “Power down. We’re checking out of the room.”

“What?”

“I’ve got a bad feeling. Pack your things. We have to relocate.”

“Hang on a sec. Someone’s at the door.”

He heard Nico’s footsteps as he laid the room receiver down. Carver shouted into the phone. “Nico? Wait! Don’t answer it!”

Carver quickened his pace as he passed two bronze-winged victories at the Ponte Vittorio Emanuele’s north end. He now had a partial view of Villa Della Conciliazione, and its row of embassies, shops and the palazzo were on the other side.

Nico had still not returned to the phone. The street was illuminated with a soft yellow hue. It wasn’t crowded like it had been in the morning, but there were still scattered groups of tourists, clergy and business people about. Carver pocketed his mobile and launched into a full-out sprint.

He quickly reached the Vatican Radio Building near the east end of Villa Della Conciliazione. At a distance of two city blocks, he spotted Nico’s unmistakably lanky, pale frame as he was shoved into the black van. Carver ran at a blistering pace, focusing in vain on the license plate as the vehicle sped away.

Macabre visions flashed before Carver’s eyes. Nico hung by his wrists. Blood pooling on the hardwood floor beneath him. Eyes bulging. Shoulders popping out of their sockets.

He pushed the dark ruminations away. That didn’t fit the pattern. Nico was not in the Fellowship. He didn’t even know Sebastian Wolf.

His senses heightened, it seemed as if he was suddenly aware of everything around him. A delegation of government types exiting the Brazilian consulate across the street. A group of clergy leaving the Antico Caffe . A monsignor stepping outside the Order of the Holy Sepulchre at the far end of the palazzo. A pair of Vatican policemen standing leisurely at the end of the street, smoking cigarettes. And just as it seemed that Carver was going to lose the vehicle for good, he spotted his saving grace — a large group of nuns crossing the Piazza Pio XII, the polygon-shaped arc directly in front of the massive oval of St. Peter’s Square.

It was evident by both their zeal for their surroundings, and their pristine white habits, that they were not local nuns. They were pilgrims here on a trip of a lifetime. None of the roughly three dozen sisters paid any attention to the black vehicle careening their way. Only when it began to honk did any of them snap out of their wide-eyed wonder. Those that did see the vehicle froze in the crosswalk.