William Tyree - The Fellowship

Eva stood, signaling that the meeting was over. “Gentlemen, I want this matter brought to a quiet close. I want the satisfaction of knowing that those who killed Americans and our allies are avenged. I also want your assurances that the civil liberties of our citizens will be upheld, no matter how far away they may be.”

The security chiefs thanked Eva for her time and exited through the dining room en route to the hallway. Speers removed his pocket square and dabbed the sweat from his face as they passed the cabinet room.

“Civil liberties upheld?” Fordham said, scratching his head. “What the hell was that all about?”

“It means she’s not going to authorize lethal force against Wolf or the Fellowship.”

“So where does that leave us?”

“In the same position we were an hour ago. Balance must be restored. And this is why you have a guy like Blake Carver. His status is deniable.”

Castel Sant’Angelo

Carver, Seven Mansfield and Father Callahan stood at the south end of Ponte Sant’Angelo, the bridge connecting the Vatican district with old Rome. The bridge was studded with enormous white marble angels holding instruments of the Crucifixion. Whips. Nails. A lance. A cross. A crown of thorns. On the opposite side of the Tiber River, Castel Sant’Angelo, the Vatican’s ancient fortress, seemed to bristle against the late afternoon skyline.

They stood on the sidewalk, all three wearing clerical robes, virtually indistinguishable from many of the other religious tourists along the river. A cold wind blew, threatening to blow back the hood Seven had pulled over her scalp.

“Don’t make eye contact,” Callahan warned her. Even without makeup, what showed of her face was unmistakably feminine. “God help me, if I survive this, I will flog myself mightily for giving you those costumes.”

A hunch told Carver that Castel Sant’Angelo — which was rumored to have light security — was the entry point that the Fellowship had used to breach the wider Vatican complex. It was linked to the Apostolic Palace by the passato borgo , the 800-meter elevated walkway. It was the same route, in reverse, that popes over the centuries had used to flee danger. During the sack of Rome in 1526, Pope Clement VII had fled from the Vatican Palace to Castel Sant’Angelo while 147 Swiss Guard were said to have perished on the steps of St. Peter’s Basilica.

Callahan had divulged an even more secretive way in, which made use of the underground tunnels linking Castel Sant’Angelo with the Apostolic Palace. Carver hoped he was right. Their lives depended on it.

Like so many truth-seeking pilgrims before them, they began their trek toward the Vatican by crossing the Ponte Sant’Angelo . Much like the marble angels Bernini had sculpted, bearing the instruments of death, the bridge had been, for centuries, one of the Vatican’s favorite execution sites. Enemies of the state had been hanged, burned, bludgeoned, beheaded and even quartered by the hundreds. If they failed to reach Lang tonight, a new wave of bloodshed would wash over Europe, and for that matter, the world.

They passed high over the Tiber River and neared the circular hulk of brick and limestone at the end of the bridge. Carver spotted Via della Conciliazione — where they had stayed until Nico’s abduction — to the left. At the far end he could see the massive dome of St. Peter’s Basilica, and the Vatican Palace, the seat of power for one billion Catholics worldwide.

Soon they stood directly in front of the imposing structure. At the top, a bronzed Archangel Michael drew his sword. Circular battlements were perfectly positioned to defend attacks from land or water.

A brown circular ditch stood where a moat had once encircled the structure. Carver imagined the carnage that had ensued when the Goths had come with an attack so fierce that the Roman soldiers had been forced, out of self-defense, to push priceless marble statues down upon them.

Castel Sant'Angelo had begun as a tomb for the Emperor Hadrian in 135 AD. Over the years it had morphed into a prison with an interior courtyard reserved for executing scientists and heretics. During World War II, Sebastian Wolf himself had been briefly imprisoned here.

No one bothered to search their packs as they entered. Callahan had been right. For a place holding so much priceless art, security was amazingly light. The palace, of course, would be another story.

Apostolic Palace

Heinz Lang’s lip curled into a sneer as he entered his office. He paused at the door as he took in the vision of Father Callahan sitting behind his desk, surrounded by the portraits of Ignatius of Loyola, Francis Borgia and Everard Mercurian.

Carver stepped out from behind the door and shut it, caging the wizened Vatican Intelligence chief in his own office. Lang spun around at the speed of a much younger man, his black vestments swirling with his movements.

“Your Excellency,” Callahan said, “allow me to introduce Blake Carver.”

Lang did not appear to be intimidated. “Agent Carver,” he said, “I had a feeling our paths would cross eventually.”

Seven stepped out from a shadow at the other end of the room, where she held a loaded Beretta. The shapeless black cassock hid her feminine curves.

“And may I introduce my counterpart,” Carver said. “Seven Mansfield.”

She slid the hood back, revealing her face. Lang’s face filled with disgust at the sight of a woman in clerical clothing.

“Your revulsion is nothing compared to the way I felt yesterday,” Callahan said.

“Oh, Father!” Lang mocked. “Did you have an unwanted house guest?”

“Judging by the sound suppressor screwed onto the end of his gun, he didn’t drop by to chat.”

“You give me far too much credit,” Lang objected. “When it comes to creating dangerous enemies, you are hardly in need of my help.”

He went to a sitting area at the far end of the room with a billion-dollar view of St. Peter’s Square at night. He rested his bones in a purple-upholstered chair, picked up a decanter emblazoned with the Society of Jesus emblem, and poured a crystal chalice full of Chianti.

“I would offer you one, Agent Carver, but I understand you always decline alcohol. An unfortunate result of your Mormon upbringing, no doubt. And on the other hand, puritanism is a habit Father Callahan would be wise to pick up, given his legendary weakness for drink.”

Carver joined him, sitting in another of the purple chairs. “If wine is the secret to your longevity,” he said, “Maybe I should reconsider.”

“Oh, the Vatican is full of spritely old goats like me. The secret to a long life, as far as we are concerned, is plenty of walking, prayer, and yes, wine. Fortunately, the Vatican grounds offer plenty of opportunities for all three.”

“Which makes your high-risk activities all the more perplexing.”

“Must we play riddles? Out with it.”

“From what I’ve seen, membership in the Black Order seems to diminish one’s lifespan considerably.”

The former Jesuit chief sipped his Chianti, focusing his eyes on Carver. “You need to get your history straight, Agent Carver. Pope Alexander VII dissolved the Black Order in 1655. He was a man of great reform. He sought to cleanse the empire of its brutality and prejudice, and by most accounts, he made remarkable progress.”

“Until they were called to reform,” Carver countered. “After Napoleon invaded Rome, he took the pope and the Vatican Archives to France. Their return two years later was said to have been brought about by relentless guerilla attacks by Black Order operatives.”

“Friars.”

“What?”

“The original operatives of the Holy Alliance and its more specialized units were Jesuits. Those who fought to return power to Rome in the time of Napoleon were friars, acting independently, ready to sacrifice their lives in Jesus’ example for the glory of God.”