William Tyree - The Fellowship

“You’re suggesting this was an organic movement, acting independently from the Vatican.”

“Precisely.”

“But even a rogue order must have a leader with connections. When did they recruit you? Was it that first trip to Paris, when German Intelligence had discovered that the ossuary had been right under their noses the whole time?”

The corners of Lang’s mouth turned up slightly. “Impressive. Even if you don’t quite have all the pieces figured out.”

“Or maybe they recruited you even earlier. The Black Order was waiting for you in Notre Dame, weren’t they? Someone had tipped them off.”

Lang set the crystal glass on a wooden coaster. He went to a shelf, where he took up an angel figurine that looked, as evident by its imperfection, homemade.

“When I was 10 years old,” he said, “Just before Christmas, my mother was decorating the house. One of her hobbies was making crafts out of clay, and she had recently finished making new figurines for the Christmas manger. She had spent several days perfecting them. In our tradition, the angels were the first to appear, and the baby Jesus and Mary and Joseph and animals were not typically put out until the days and weeks after Christmas, according to the biblical calendar. But that year she was so proud of what she had made that she put them out early. That night, a high-ranking party member from the Ministry of Propaganda, with whom my father did business, came over for dinner. The moment he saw the new clay pieces, he was outraged. Deeply put out by them, he was. My mother asked our guest whatever was the matter. He told her that the figurines did not look Aryan enough.”

Lang turned, handing the clay angel to Carver. Apart from a chipped wing, the angel felt smooth in his hands.

“My father, of course, apologized,” Lang continued. “He asked my mother to kindly put the manager away, but our guest was still not satisfied. He ordered her to smash the figurines into pieces. My father, who probably feared losing the man’s business, quickly retrieved a mallet from the shed. My mother refused, and so he did it himself. The wise men, Joseph, the Virgin, the baby Jesus. All destroyed into a thousand broken bits. The angel you hold in your hands now is all that remains of the original set.”

Father Callahan swung his feet up on Lang’s desk. “Touching. I almost cried.”

“The next day, a package was delivered from the Ministry. New Virgin, Joseph and baby Jesus figurines. They were all blonde. As a little boy who had worshipped both Jesus Christ and Adolf Hitler, I was devastated to realize that the two prominent forces in my life were at odds. I decided that I would have to be very careful from then on. But I knew that my loyalties rested with God. So I confided in one of my Jesuit teachers, Father Leo Kruger.”

“And Kruger was Black Order,” Carver said.

Lang nodded. “A descendent from the original line, apparently. And even then, he knew the Gestapo was watching him. He taught me the old ways.”

Callahan rose from behind the desk. “You talk about service to God? You’ve ordered the assassinations of world leaders, potentially destabilizing entire regions. Is that how you demonstrate your faith?”

“The Kingdom of God must be defended at all costs. And unfortunately, our friend Mr. Wolf still holds onto the myth that Himmler programmed within his twisted heart. The legend of the so-called Holy Ossuary.”

Carver leaned across the desk, his face only 12 inches from Lang’s. “The blood trail leads to you. Give me one reason why I shouldn’t kill you here where you sit.”

“Here in Vatican City? I doubt this is the type of international incident the American government is prepared to explain.”

Carver’s answer came without hesitation. “My status is deniable. The White House won’t be on the hook for your death. I will. And that’s just fine by me.”

“My death would not solve your problem, which, as you stated, is to eliminate the threat. My mission is merely to ensure the preservation of the Church and the righteous path of its believers.”

The American straightened up. “And how is it that killing Senator Preston preserved the church?”

“Let me relate this to you in terms that an American can understand. In Texas, there are ranches where hunters pay top dollar to kill the dama gazelle. This is animal that is nearly extinct in Africa, yet paradoxically, flourishes in Texas. On the surface, it is oxymoronic to kill an animal in order to save it. It is about as sensible as building nuclear stockpiles to achieve peace. And yet both tactics, while counterintuitive, are equally effective. In Africa, the animals were nearly hunted into oblivion. But the Texans are very smart. They understand that the game must be managed. The money paid by the hunters to kill only a few gazelles is used to save the entire species. And by doing this, they can restore balance to the ecosystem worldwide.”

“You’re not hunting game. You’re hunting people.”

“Even so, the parallels hold true. Our battle is also one of sustainability and spiritual balance. Good versus evil. God versus the devil. Do you have any idea what would happen if people stopped believing in the resurrection of the flesh? If they thought that the church had deceived them for two thousand years? The world would lose its moral compass. Fear of God, along with the promise of heaven, is a major deterrent to sin.”

Carver leaned forward. “You say this whole thing is a myth. But you wouldn’t risk instigating a worldwide holy war for just any old box of bones.”

Lang checked his watch. “We are running out of time. Not just me, Agent Carver. All of us.”

“Then tell me what this is all about.”

“The knowledge you seek has been shared by only a handful of people over the past 2,000 years.”

“You’ve got exactly one minute to give me the abridged version.”

Senate Offices

Washington D.C.

A lone staffer was boxing up the last of the late Senator Preston’s files when Hank Bowers arrived. The FBI section chief was bundled up in a heavy coat. A cold front had descended on Washington, complete with sleet and high winds. He slid his gloves off, pulled out his ID and held it out for the tall, thin kid to inspect.

“It’s Mason, right?”

Mason Fielding nodded reluctantly. “Look, I already talked to the FBI. That was the day after the fire. I think my statement is on file, if you’d like to check.”

There was no need. Bowers had already been through it countless times. The Bureau had dispatched a shadow team right after Mary Borst had disappeared. Although they had been kept in the dark from the Senator’s true cause of death, they had still managed to collect a treasure trove of information about Mary.

Bowers took off his coat and sat down at one of several empty desks, indicating his intention to stay a while. The office was a ghost town, but it wouldn’t stay that way for long. The governor of Texas had appointed a successor who was said to be en route to Washington.

He looked up at a UT Austin poster on the wall. “Hook ‘em, Horns!”

“Did you and the senator go to school together?”

Bowers held his right hand out, using his thumb to point at his TKE ring. “Same fraternity.

“Ah.”

“So you’re the last man standing, huh?”

Fielding sat opposite, his arms folded across his chest. “Guess so. It’s a little like digging a grave, to be honest.”

“It was a terrible tragedy.”

“I mean my grave, not the senator’s. After I finish packing this place up, I’m out of a job.”

“You ever consider a career in intelligence?” Bowers put two fingers into his jacket pocket, slid out a business card, and pushed it across the table. “We hire a new wave of recruits every year. Call me tomorrow. I might be able to put in a word.”