William Tyree - The Fellowship

Even from the shadows, the goon was watching Nico’s every move, ensuring that he didn’t send a message to the outside world.

All Nico knew for sure was that they were in some sort of crypt that felt ghostly and unloved. Judging by what he could see from the battery-powered lanterns, the frescos had been pried from the walls long ago. On the far wall, a Chi-Ro — an ancient Christian symbol that fused a cross with letters — was all that was left of its former inhabitants.

There were two sarcophagus-size bays on the wall to his left. Bits of stone and marble were crumbled around the edges. Whoever had been buried there had been exhumed and taken elsewhere.

Behind him, a rope dangled from a pulley somewhere in the rafters. Anchors had been set up on a sort of concrete platform so that the ropes could be tied off. Nico wished he didn’t know what those were for. Carver had shown him the crime scene photos from D.C. and Seattle as an incentive. Just knowing they were meant for him made it difficult to concentrate. He’d lived the last few years in fear of being extradited to Saudi Arabia, where they’d cut off his hands at the wrists. Now this.

Nico’s first mistake had been answering the knock at the palazzo suite. He’d been expecting a piece of cheesecake from room service. His second mistake was pretending he didn’t know Italian. For that, he had taken a beating, although the goons were careful not to damage his hands or face.

They said they knew he’d been cyberstalking Sebastian Wolf. They called Wolf antichristo . “Where did the antichristo go after Maryland?” one of them had asked. They spoke Italian, but they were an international duo, for sure. He had detected a Romanian accent in one, and he had heard the other muttering to himself in Russian.

Now they wanted Nico to find Wolf for them.

There was no question in Nico’s mind about cooperating. He wanted to live. No way was he going to sacrifice himself to protect some cult leader.

But Carver was another story. That was the one person he didn’t want to betray.

But even with Carver in his corner, there were no guarantees. He had already saved Carver once, during the Ulysses Coup, and what thanks did he get for that? Life as a fugitive in rural South Africa, only to be extracted into service against his will.

He knew that Carver would do whatever he could to make good on the promise for amnesty. But Carver wasn’t the president, and neither was Speers. Eva Hudson was, and she was hardly a fan.

So he had already told his captors about the FBI files. He had told them about some of the scientific programs that had been funded by the Fellowship World Initiative. But the Black Order wasn’t interested in any of that. They wanted to know where Wolf was right now.

He had to give them something soon. If he didn’t, he was going to end up on the busy end of that rope.

According to Ellis’ report, the old man and his entourage had inexplicably vanished from Eden days or weeks ago. He had already hacked into the flight registers for most of the major airlines flying out of Reagan National and Dulles for the past three weeks. He had checked JFK and LaGuardia just for kicks. Nothing. He’d checked AmTrak. Didn’t check Greyhound. Wolf didn’t seem like the type to ride a bus.

But that gave him an idea.

What if the Fellowship World Initiative had its own private plane? It would have to be registered. Even private airports kept flight records.

Trevi Fountain

Rome

Carver arrived a few minutes early. It was virtually impossible to find anyone among the throngs making their pilgrimage to the Trevi Fountain, which was precisely why he had suggested it as a meeting place. There was usually safety in numbers.

As if Nico’s capture hadn’t already put him on edge, he had made the arrangement to meet MI6 on the satphone Callahan had given him. He had to take every precaution now.

Seeking high ground, he climbed the steps of the Santi Vincenzo e Anastaio a Trevi, a 17th-century church with an exceptional view of the square. There he slid behind the 1 °Corinthian columns out front, peering out from between them at the spectacle of art and utility.

He allowed himself a moment to feast his eyes upon the masterwork that was the square’s focal point. While most tourists focused on the gleaming statue of Oceanus, appearing golden under the lights as he tamed the fountain’s waters, Carver preferred function over form. The fact that turquoise-colored water, delivered via the Acqua Vergine and the 2000-year-old Aqua Virgo , could still be consumed here, in the middle of Rome, and without additional filtration, was doubly miraculous. Even at this late hour, locals and tourists alike drank from the spouts jutting out on the exterior walls.

He checked his wristwatch. It had been over an hour since Nico had been snatched at the palazzo. They had to get to him soon.

From his perch within the church’s facade, he easily spotted his counterparts as they entered the sea of tourists. Sam Prichard’s blue suit was reliably wrinkled, the tip of his collar brown and dingy. Seven Mansfield wore jeans, a white chunky sweater jacket, Superga sneakers and a blue cloche hat that framed her cheekbones perfectly.

As anxious as he was to get to make contact, Carver counted slowly to 10 as he scanned the rest of the crowd for suspicious activity. Aside from a couple of thuggy teenagers, it looked like a pretty clean crowd. Finally, he surveyed the windows on the surrounding buildings, any of which would have made for a perfect sniper’s nest. At this, his level of confidence dropped significantly. Most of the windows were too dark to spot the business end of a rifle.

He couldn’t risk meeting them out in the open.

Carver dialed the SIS number they had called him on earlier in the day. As he’d hoped, Seven answered.

“I see you,” he said. “Meet me around the block on Arcione. I’ll stay put for a moment to make sure you aren’t followed.”

Carver watched as they made their way back through the crowds and out of the square. Once they had disappeared from view, he counted to 10 once again. Still seeing nothing, he slipped down the stairs as quickly as he could before passing a series of restaurants and boutiques on his way out to the street.

A fly landed on Carver’s neck. He immediately thought of the nanobot that had killed Nathan Drucker. He ducked and weaved the insect, swatting it away with exaggerated movements. A kid standing nearby laughed and pointed until his mom tugged him away. The fly was huge and black in the streetlight, hovering overhead for a moment before dive-bombing him again. This time Carver was ready, smashing it between the palms of his hands.

On a normal day he would have been disgusted by the fly guts streaked across his palms. Tonight he was just elated that it wasn’t man-made.

The streets seemed almost busier now, after midnight, than they had by day. He joined Prichard and Seven and began leading them south, toward the last known location of the RFID chip in Nico’s arm.

“I’ve located a Black Order cell,” he announced, walking at a brisk pace. “We’re heading there now.”

“Now?” Prichard repeated, still absorbing the news Carver had just told him. “But there’s only three of us.”

“What do you suggest,” Carver answered. “Calling in an airstrike? They’ve taken my asset to an abandoned church up on Via Agostino. If we don’t get to him soon, they’ll kill him, just as they killed Gish.”

Seven picked up the pace to match Carver’s. “How do you know he’s still there?”

“There’s a tracking device in his arm.”

“Why would your asset have a tracking device in his arm?”