William Tyree - The Fellowship

“If I told you, Chad here would have to put you in the witness protection program.”

“Well, enjoy the pick-me-up.”

He intended to. The ankle was improved, but it still hurt like hell. Even a small gesture of compassion felt good. On the few occasions when he had come home over the past week, all he’d gotten was a cold glare and a garbage bag full of dirty diapers.

The president entered just as Carol left, wearing a black top with a white ruffled collar. “I have London on video conference,” she said without preamble. She motioned for them to rise and follow her through the east door into her private study. There, Speers was astonished to see that the British Prime Minister had joined Sir Brice Carlisle onscreen.

The President quickly introduced Speers and Fordham. Sir Brice wasted no time on pleasantries. “I’m told that our joint operation in Rome last night eliminated Gish’s killers in addition to the two others that were dispatched in Seattle. Where does that leave us? Are we out of the woods?”

Speers set his cappuccino on the table. “We are left with an unknown number of Black Order operatives still on the loose that may continue to target prominent world leaders. So no, we are not out of the woods. Our joint efforts in Rome continue as we try to locate the ossuary.”

“The ossuary,” Sir Brice said dismissively. “Surely you don’t believe the myth. It’s rubbish, right?”

Speers carefully measured the tone of his answer. “It really doesn’t matter what we believe. The security situation deteriorated the moment it was taken from the Vatican.”

“So according to you, people will continue to die until this relic is recovered. How many people are we talking about?”

“We have identified,” Speers began, “with 95 percent confidence, 11 surviving senior members of The Fellowship World Initiative. This includes foreign ministers from Australia and New Zealand, several prominent Middle Eastern and European politicians, a congressman from Indiana, and the CEOs of two multinational companies. There are also hundreds of others that we suspect but have yet to verify.”

Fordham cut in. “Until the ossuary is recovered, we strongly recommend alerting these individuals as to the threat they face, and if possible, extending security around them.”

“And how would that help us?” Sir Carlisle probed.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Speers said. “These are all people with significant power and influence. Until the ossuary is found, they’ve got targets on their back.”

“Offering protection could be perceived as taking sides,” the President said.

“No,” Speers insisted. “This is peacekeeping.”

The prime minister spoke for the first time. “Here’s a mad idea. What would happen if we just let this play out?”

“You mean, just let them kill each other?”

“Precisely.”

Speers chuckled, and then pulled it back, suddenly aware of how condescending he sounded. “Let me try to put this into perspective. Hundreds of years after the Crusades, we view the Sunni and Shi’a violence in the Muslim world as something that’s so foreign, so unimaginable to us. That’s just because we have short-term memories. It wasn’t so long ago that Protestants and Catholics in Ireland were killing each other on a regular basis. And that was Europe for hundreds of years, by the way.”

“I see your point.”

“Do you? With all due respect, I’m telling you that this situation is a powder keg. If we’re not proactive, we’re going to experience global sectarian violence like the world has never seen.”

The group sat in silence for several moments. The president looked up at the screen. “Gentlemen, I need just a few minutes alone with my staff, if you don’t mind.”

The screen faded to black before displaying the presidential seal. The President stood and went to the window. “Julian,” she began while looking out at the south lawn, “you said it doesn’t matter what we believe. What if our beliefs are the only thing that really matters?”

Rome

Carver and Seven sat picking at salads and San Pellegrino. The priest was already a half-hour late. They were taking a risk waiting here. Carver’s trust in Callahan had waned considerably in the last two days. Still, his instincts told him that they needed to get to Lang, and that was going to be very difficult without the priest’s help.

“I could down an entire bottle of grappa,” Seven said, gesturing to a cabinet full of the stuff. “Every time I slow down, I see Sam’s body on that staircase.”

Carver nodded solemnly, not knowing what to say. Every comment that popped into his head seemed inane or insensitive. Finally, he said, “Were you two close?”

She thought about the question for a few moments before speaking. “Personally speaking, I didn’t care for him. But he somehow managed to have a family, which is far more than I can say for most of us. There must’ve been something good about him.”

“Right,” Carver managed, even though he didn’t agree. Even Charles Manson had a “family.” That didn’t mean there was anything good about him.

“What about you? Anyone waiting for you at home?”

“Just Marty.”

“Let me guess. A dog?”

“A pipe organ cactus. He’s very understanding about these long trips away from home.”

Carver was relieved when his phone buzzed. His eyebrows arched as he read the text message.

“Callahan?” Seven said hopefully.

“Nico. He’s got something.”

He wasted no time in logging into the mission cloud. Nico had apparently infiltrated the booking systems for at least one of the lab equipment manufacturing companies. Carver began perusing an air waybill from a company called Symplexicon Labs, and a detailed packing list containing virtually every piece of equipment that Dr. Calipari had mentioned. There was an additional set of shipments from 9002 River Road, in Rockville, Maryland. Eden.

Nico had linked the delivery address to a satellite map of Rome, along with a street view photograph. Carver was not surprised when he saw the Renaissance-era mansion near Piazza del Popolo. A man of Wolf’s means was not going to downsize from Eden to a one-bedroom apartment.

A white Peugeot sedan pulled up slowly. It was obviously a rental. As for the driver, Carver would have recognized Callahan’s bulbous head anywhere.

He laid 20 Euros on the table and ran out to the car with Seven. They got into the back seat and buckled themselves in as Callahan stepped on it.

“Where the hell have you been hiding?” the priest said, peering nervously into the rear view mirror. “I’ve been trying to call you.”

“I had to ditch the satphone,” Carver said, deliberately withholding the story about Nico’s abduction. “When you didn’t show for our meeting, I started feeling itchy.”

The priest made a sharp turn into a parking garage, where Carver guessed he intended to leave the car.

“That makes two of us, my friend. My home security alerts went off about an hour before we were supposed to meet. I was finishing up a funeral at the time. Dust to dust, etcetera. You can imagine my shock when I logged into my living room camera feed and saw someone ransacking the place.”

“Anyone you know?”

“Unfortunately, yes. Someone I’ve hired from time to time. And by the looks of the sound suppressor screwed onto his gun, he found a new employer.”

The priest pulled into a parking spot and shut off the motor. A car came careening down the aisle. The priest, Carver and Seven unbuckled their seatbelts and dropped to the floorboards. The car’s radio blasted Italian pop as it passed harmlessly.

“Kids,” the priest sighed with relief. He popped the trunk and got out of the car. “I packed us some goodies.”