William Tyree - The Fellowship

Caracalla Baths

Rome

The second act of the Teatro dell'Opera’s outdoor production of Attila was coming to a close. Performed in the ruins of the Caracalla Baths, the 1800-year-old carved stones were tinged in magnificent red light under a starry Italian sky. And the actress playing the warrior maiden was just bludgeoning the audience with her vocal chords.

Adrian Zhu looked up at the postcard-perfect scene before him, drinking it in, trying to preserve it within his memory. In less than two minutes, his world would change. And in less than 10 days, he would change the world.

As Verdi’s music swelled in preparation for the climax, Zhu felt his business partner, Spencer, tense beside him. Hours earlier, they had capped off the third stop in a lecture tour that had showcased their latest achievement and set the tongues of the European biotech community wagging. Although Zhu had been the unqualified star of the show, Spencer’s role as sideman had been the highlight of his career.

This was the happiest he had seen Spencer in the three years since they had moved their company, LifeEmberz, from Boston to Beijing. He was riding high on Italian beer, opera and unregulated hotel WiFi. They had been accompanied to Rome by two high-ranking government officials and a couple of their best lab assistants. Spencer loved traveling with an entourage.

But Zhu was all too aware that this joyride was about to end. His friend would soon be inundated with interrogations by detectives and bureaucrats. He would be subjected to unimaginable scrutiny. Their corporate offices, and even their apartments, would be torn apart by investigators. Spencer would certainly be banned from the government research lab. He might even be forced to go back to the U.S.

Onstage, the actress playing Odabella raised her knife to stab Foresto. Three conspirators cried out, and the stage went black. As expected, a brief intermission was announced. It was time.

Zhu rose from his chair. “Be right back.”

His colleague rose and raced after him, nearly knocking over an old woman. “You getting more beer?”

Spencer and the others had gotten smashed in the VIP area before the play. Zhu had been there too, but he had only pretended to drink, finding opportunities to drain his beer in the restroom on multiple occasions. This was the biggest night of his life. He needed full control of his faculties.

“Just hitting the restroom,” Zhu said.

Spencer glanced at his black sport watch. “I might as well join you. Gotta make room for more beer anyhow.”

The crowd began to stream around them as they headed for the restrooms and concessions. Where was the exit his contact had told him to take? And even if he found it, how could he shake Spencer?

At six foot five, Spencer towered over the much smaller Zhu. He was usually a gentle giant, but when he was drinking, he could get carried away. One year back in Boston, after the Patriots had made it to the AFC championship game, Zhu had watched his inebriated friend pick up a plus-sized woman, lift her up onto his shoulders like a toddler, and do laps around the stadium.

“I never guessed Italy would be this great,” Spencer said now. “We should open an office here, dude! Everyone is so friendly.”

These feelings of alcohol-inspired world unity were the same ones Adrian Zhu had felt years before. One of his early LifeEmberz projects had sought to clone and grow human skin. He had then gone to a tissue-engineering conference in Paris where he had met a burn victim who had benefitted from his research. He had been greeted as a hero. Zhu felt like he was on top of the world. But everything had changed after they moved the business to China. The money had been fabulous, but the corruption and the politics had gradually left him feeling empty and immoral. But now he had perspective on it. China was just part of his journey. It had all led him to this moment.

Now he saw the sign for Exit 16. The one his contact, Lars, had told him to take.

“I think I’m gonna be sick,” Zhu said, placing a hand over his mouth. He dry-heaved, hoping the performance would be enough to gross Spencer out and send him back to their seats.

“You still can’t hold your liquor!” Spencer roared, pulling his phone out of his pocket. “Ha! Tell me when you’re gonna hurl. I’m gonna get this on video!”

Zhu stooped slightly as they emerged into the autumn night. The scientist scanned a small grove of trees and stone benches. Spencer was still fidgeting with the camera on his phone. Zhu ran out and ducked behind the shortest, thickest tree he could find.

He had to think fast. He had virtually no fighting skills. Even as drunk as Spencer was, there was no way Zhu would be able to subdue his massive friend, nor could he outrun him.

“Hey pukester!” Spencer called as he stumbled closer.

Zhu stepped back, nearly falling as he slipped on an empty beer bottle.

A beer bottle. Of course. He picked it up and raised it high above his head. He waited for Spencer to duck underneath one of the lower branches. Then he brought the bottle down hard over his partner’s skull.

To his amazement, the bottle didn’t break over Spencer’s head, but the blow dropped him to his knees.

“Ow! Okay, okay! I won’t video, all right? Just calm down!”

Heart pounding within his chest, Zhu sprinted through the grove and toward Via Antonina, across which he saw a parking lot full of taxis and buses. Spencer gave chase, and it was only moments before his long strides nearly made up the distance between them.

Zhu barely noticed the headlights of the black Range Rover flash as he sprinted across the busy street. He was already on the other side when he heard the sickening thud of a body against the SUV’s grill, followed by a screech of tires.

The bioengineer stopped, looked back and glimpsed the broken and bloodied body sprawled on the pavement before the headlights turned away. It was Spencer. He stood frozen as the Range Rover’s motor gunned again and swerved in his direction. A group of taxi drivers was running toward the scene of the accident.

Zhu wandered back out into the street and knelt at Spencer’s side. A smear of tire cut across his business partner’s khaki pants. His eyes rolled backwards into his head as his body convulsed.

The vehicle pulled up alongside him. The driver pushed the passenger door open. He wore driving gloves and a tight leather jacket that was crisscrossed with gunmetal-colored zippers.

“Get in!” he shouted in German-accented English.

National Counterterrorism Center

McLean, Virginia

Blake Carver peered at his opponent through the black mesh of his fencing helmet, right foot forward, waiting for the telltale sign of an imminent lunge. At six feet tall, he was at a slight disadvantage over his lankier opponent. His counterpart held his foil out to the side, as if inviting Carver to attack. But his right foot betrayed his true intentions. He lifted his toes slightly, preparing for a balestra — a short forward hop that would end in a quick thrust. Anticipating the move, Carver responded with a deft parry riposte to the gut.

The sprawling intelligence complex had taken a page out of the Silicon Valley office model. The newly expanded gym provided spaces where employees could join pickup games of basketball, foosball, handball and even fencing, which was surprisingly popular among the agency’s left-brained workforce.

Carver knew the agency’s facilities investment was designed to keep him working harder and longer hours than were really good for a person. But Carver didn’t mind hard work. Having been tied to a desk job these past few months, he found the gym a welcome refuge from the endless hours spent in front of a computer.