William Tyree - The Fellowship

Ellis drew the curtain behind her and sat, making the sign of the cross. The screen disguising the priest’s face was closed. That was good. Ellis preferred it that way.

“Bless me Father,” she said quietly, “For I have sinned. It has been 11 days since my last confession. These are my sins.”

Her recap was automatic. Brief, lacking any real detail, and neatly categorized into several general areas: desire, envy, gluttony, greed and selfishness. As if the events of the past few days hadn’t really happened at all.

The priest was silent for a few moments. Then he said, “Why don’t you tell me what’s really bothering you?”

The next sound from Ellis was somewhere between a cry and a laugh. She took her sunglasses off and held them in her lap. “Sorry.”

“No need to be sorry,” the priest said. “Would you like to do this face-to-face?”

“No offense, but no, I wouldn’t.”

“None taken. So what’s up?”

She tried to gather herself. “I don’t know why I’m here.”

“Just start with one word. The rest will follow.”

“What if someone asked you for protection? Someone with beliefs that were against everything you’d been taught?”

“Welcome to my world. Most of the people I help have no connection with our beliefs.”

“I’m not talking about the weekly soup kitchen, Father. I mean real protection.”

“As in mortal danger?”

Ellis nodded. “The person in danger is…someone that I don’t know at all. And her child.”

The priest hedged for a moment. “I would probably advise you to contact the authorities.”

“I am the authorities.”

“Oh. You’re with the police?”

“I can’t say more. But let me ask you another way. What if you knew that this child’s very presence would cause violence and death? Would you still protect that child?”

“God doesn’t ask us to make those types of decisions. For us, every life is precious.”

“He’s asking me, Father. What if the church itself was genuinely threatened?”

The youthful voice sounded weary now. “I have to ask…are you under the care of a doctor?”

“I’m not crazy. I’m asking for your spiritual opinion.”

“All right. I’ll tell you what the Catechism of the Catholic Church has to say on the matter. In short, those who hold authority have the right to use arms to repel aggressors against the community entrusted to their responsibility. And furthermore, the literature says that justice does not exclude the death penalty, if this is indeed the only possible way of defending human lives against the aggressor.”

“That’s helpful.”

“To be clear, even within this context, it’s never okay to use God’s name to justify murder. We each take that responsibility upon ourselves, and throw ourselves upon the mercy of the Lord. If you are contemplating such actions, I would like to recommend several scriptural readings that may help you think as Jesus intended us to. Just a moment.”

By the time the priest began reading, Ellis was gone.

Vatican District

“That’s Father Callahan’s building,” Carver told Seven as he pointed at the elegant four-floor structure across the street. He had always guessed that with Callahan’s income from the CIA, Vatican Intelligence and other sources, his digs were a cut above what most of the priests had in the Eternal City. This confirmed it. The apartment was on the third floor, with shutters that opened from both bedrooms. A small balcony jutted out from the living room with window boxes full of fresh flowers.

They had come in hopes of anything that would lead them to the remaining Black Order operatives.

It was broad daylight, but that didn’t matter much. Carver didn’t expect to find the priest at home. One way or the other, Callahan had been an accomplice to Nico’s abduction. If he was working with the Black Order, he would be long gone by now. If he wasn’t, he was likely dead.

“You do any climbing?” Seven asked.

Carver shrugged. “Not really. Just a couple of indoor climbing walls.”

“It’s just three floors up. Piece of cake. Just follow my lead.”

He watched as Seven walked underneath the front canopy and jumped straight up, gripping the canopy frame. She swung her right foot into a crevice in the brickwork. Then she reached to the side, gripping a decorative flourish in the building’s facade and, with spider-like movements, pawed her way up the building’s face until she was high enough to grab the ironwork supporting the second floor balcony.

She paused to look down at Carver, who stood in awe on the sidewalk. “Coming?”

“No. Just buzz me in, will you?”

In less than a minute, Seven let him into the apartment. She was covering her nose with her sleeve, and Carver soon caught wind of the overwhelming stench.

“Somebody died,” Seven whispered.

Carver didn’t think so. He’d smelled plenty of decomposing bodies before. That was a stench you never forgot. This was something else.

The apartment was ransacked. Every drawer and cabinet in the place was open. The floor was strewn with clothing and documents. A suitcase that looked as if it had been carved up with a razor blade sat open on the couch.

The bathroom and lone bedroom were clear. Carver found the source of the smell in the kitchen. The refrigerator door had been left wide open. Carver slammed the door on a piece of raw fish and a few warm dairy products.

A shrill ringing sent Seven darting across the room. She spun so that her back was against the wall and her weapon was extended before her.

“Relax,” Carver said, pointing to an old analog phone mounted on the kitchen wall. “You think I should answer it?”

Seven swallowed hard and nodded.

Carver picked up the yellow receiver and put his ear to it.

“I’d just about given up on you.”

The voice belonged to Father Callahan. So he was alive. Carver slowly lowered himself into a chair, scanning the shelves and ceiling. Where was the camera?

“I suspect the line is bugged,” the priest said, “so do be concise, if you please. You remember where I took you for dinner on your first trip to Rome?”

It would have been a ludicrous question for nearly anyone else. That had been years ago. The city was huge and contained thousands of restaurants that would seem similar to a foreigner. Nobody could have been expected to remember something like that.

And yet Carver did remember. He had arrived in town very late, arriving at the priest’s apartment at 11:37 p.m. He had been famished. The priest had taken him to a trattoria called Osteria Dell’Angelo just a few blocks north of the apartment. The cross streets were Via Pietro and Via Simone. They had been served a fixed menu consisting of tonnarelli cacio e pepe and tripe and braised oxtail. The proprietor was an ex-rugby player who had chastised Carver for not touching his wine during dinner.

“Yes, I remember.”

“I thought you might. Rendezvous in front in two hours.”

The line went dead.

The White House

Speers sat on the couch opposite Chad Fordham. President Hudson was running a few minutes late, and Speers was grateful for the additional prep time. In the span of a week, he had gone from a broad, strategic integrator of the intelligence community to a hands-on doer who had to hyperfocus on a single massive threat and its ripple effect across borders, time zones and allegiances.

Carol Lam entered with a tray of her famous cappuccinos. On the edge of each small plate rested a small moist brownie.

“Fudge?” Speers inquired.

“Homemade,” Carol said. Her smile faded when she saw Speers’ swollen ankle elevated in an opposing chair. “May I ask what happened?”