The Fellowship (47 page)

The White House

Washington D.C.

At Eva’s request, Mary brought the rest of the
fudge brownies into her private study. After wave upon wave of interns had hit the plate, just nine cut squares had survived.

Mary set the tray down on the table.
“Rough day?” 

“And
about to get rougher,” the president said. “Thanks.”

She waited until Mary
had left the room to pick up one of the decadently fudgy brownies. She forced herself to chew slowly. Lunch was usually a blur of quick micro snacks afforded by her caveman diet. A handful of nuts, a few berries, an olive or two.

“
Madam President,” Speers asked, “You ever regret declaring war on the vending machines?”

In an effort to boost the overall health of the staff, she had
ordered vending machines removed from all White House areas. In their place, she had added refrigerators and shelves stocked with a variety of organic snacks. The move had inspired a variety of anonymous notes decrying the presence of items such as kale chips and unsweetened green tea, and demanding an immediate return of Cheetos and Diet Coke. To stave off complete mutiny, Eva had decided to pay for the new fare with her own money for one year.

“
If the staff saw me eating like this, they’d hate me.”

“I think you should have left just one machine,” Speers said. “Chocolate only, with the prices
jacked up so high that the staff would only use it in times of serious emotional crises.”

“Like the one I’m having right now?”

“You don’t seem emotional.”

“The fact is
, I have something difficult to share with you, and I wanted something sweet to kill the bad taste in my mouth.”

The two intelligence directors set their treats down and braced themselves for bad news.
Speers dabbed a napkin at the corner of his mouth.

“Given the misdirection
tactics we employed in our public information efforts around the deaths of Senator Preston and Sir Gish,” she said, “I asked you to give me clear options, but also to keep me ignorant from the details. It seems now that my directive wasn’t so smart.”

Speers folded his arms across his chest.
“How so?”

“
Today was the first time you’ve mentioned the name Sebastian Wolf in my presence,” she said. “I have to disclose to you that Sebastian Wolf is an acquaintance of mine.”

Speers swore,
and then apologized for his language. His stomach felt as if he were freefalling. How could this happen? He knew the president was an Episcopalian. Was she also in the Fellowship?

Fordham
slumped back in his chair, as if he had been slugged. “And how is it that you two know each other?”

Eva leaned back in her chair, looking up at the ceiling. “
We were introduced by Senator Preston at the Council on Faith luncheon. He invited me to Eden for dinner. I began with my standard line about having someone look into my schedule, which means it’ll never happen. Then the Senator told me that Wolf had helped create NASA, and that he was a major source of funding for genetic research, and that every president since LBJ had been a guest at his home at least once.”

“Did
Preston also tell you that he was a former Nazi?” Speers said.

“Julian, please shut up and let me finish.”

“I’m sorry, Madam President.”

“
I suppose I felt unduly obligated. So I asked my scheduler to make it happen.”

Speers was awestruck. “And?”

“And I enjoyed his company. After that, I invited him to the White House on two occasions.”

Speers felt that his head would explode. The
president of the United States had ties with a cult leader that had made himself the archenemy of the Catholic Church. And Senator Preston had facilitated the introduction.

“What was the nature of your conversations?” Speers
asked.

“Truth be told, I found him to be an excellent sounding board on spiritual matters.”

“Did you two discuss the Fellowship?” Fordham said. “Did you discuss anything related to these weird science projects he was funding?”

“
No. Our conversations were very personal in nature. There was no business involved whatsoever. And he never mentioned this ossuary business. That is a complete shock to me, I swear to you.”

Speers sighed.
“We’re going to need to ask you to fully document every conversation between the two of you.”

Eva sipped her coffee
slowly, and then set it down on the table. “No. That’s not going to happen.”

“
Come again?”

“
This will go no further than this room. I’m telling you this in complete confidence so that we can pivot our tactical situation as needed. I have no intention of having these details unearthed in a declassified document decades from now.”

The two intelligence chiefs eyed each other. “Madam President,” Speers said, “
This has the potential to compromise our strategy.”

“As I understand the situation,” Eva said, “The outcome of the war between these two secret societies could adversely impact
more than just national security. That’s why I’m asking you to solve the situation in the shadows, without the need for us to retract our public statements or otherwise undermine our authority.”

Speers leaned fo
rward, lowering his voice. “I don’t mean to be insensitive, Madam President, but the solution may require eliminating Mr. Wolf.”

“
Then I need to remind you that he’s an American citizen who is permitted to practice freedom of religion.”

“Yes ma’am.
But – ”

“Has Mr. Wolf been
formally accused of a crime?”

“No
t formally, Madam President. But we strongly suspect –”

“
My understanding is that the Black Order, not the Fellowship, has been responsible for the violent aggression, as well as the crimes against Americans.”

Speers wanted to tell her about
the Nathan Drucker murder, but it was purely speculation at this point. They still had no leads on who had operated the nanobot that had killed him just blocks from the West Wing.

“
That’s largely true,” Speers consented, “but there are dead on both sides of this. I can’t tell you more without getting into a lot of detail.”

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 B
eretta. The shapeless black cassock hid her feminine curves.

“And may I introdu
ce 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.”

C
arver 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.”

“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.”