The Fellowship (17 page)

Rome

The sun fell behind St. Peter’s
Basilica just as Father Callahan turned his tiny Fiat onto Via della Conciliazione. Nico sat sideways in the car’s tiny back seat, watching as a group of tourists posed for pictures in front of the Santa Maria della Transpontina church. The car passed the embassies of Brazil, Iraq and Egypt. How was it that over the past two thousand years the Vatican had shrunk from a vast geographical empire of papal states to a tiny sovereign nation wedged inside Rome, and yet it influenced more people worldwide than any other government?

At
last, the Fiat pulled up to the Palazzo della Rovere. “Buy you a drink?” Carver asked the priest, who was shaken from seeing the mangled corpses.

“
I could use it,” he said. “I’ll meet you in Le Colonne.”

Carver and Nico unfolded themselves from the tiny car and watched as the
priest pulled through the arched driveway in search of parking. The two hadn’t talked since Detective Tesla had shown them the bodies and the personal effects found on the dead Jesuits down at the morgue.

“In your estimation,” Carver said, “
How accurate was Father Callahan’s translation?”

Nico scratched behind his left ear and rolled his shoulders up and down, as if to work the tension out of them. “
Mmmm,” he said, “Detective Tesla talks a hundred miles an hour.”

Carver smiled. “I have a hard time believing
that you, of all people, couldn’t understand him.”

“Of course I could understand him,” Nico quipped. “I’m just qualifying my answer first.
The priest lives here, so naturally his comprehension is going to be a bit better than mine.”

“
I get it. Now answer the question.”

Nico
placed a hand flat against the wall and leaned into it, bringing his left leg up behind him as he spoke. “I didn’t notice any glaring omissions, but I thought it was curious that Father Callahan kept referring to the bodies as victims. Tesla never used that word to describe them.”

“What word did he use?”

“Gunmen.”

“That’s interesting.”

“Mind if I go up and wire in? You didn’t drag my ass all the way from Africa to hang around morgues.”

That much was true. Carver needed Nico to find connections between two more famous stiffs
– Preston and Gish. Maybe it was time to let the tracking chip in Nico’s arm do the chaperoning for a bit. He took one of the room keys from his pocket and handed it over.

Carver held the door to the lobby open.
“I want to know the moment you find anything.”

Nico scampered
upstairs. Carver made his way through the lobby to Le Colonne, the hotel bar where Father Callahan had already sidled up to a bar stool. The priest had ordered whiskey for himself, along with a plate of pizza, and unsweetened iced tea and salmon for his American colleague.

Carver pointed toward a booth at the back of the room. He had no intention of disclosing the full details of the operation to Callahan or anyone. But the conversation would undoubtedly veer into territory that would be far too sensitive for anyone else’s ears.

“Now then,” Callahan began as they settled into the booth. The priest was smiling, but he wasn’t in a merry mood. “If you’ll do me the courtesy of disclosing the real reason you’re in Rome, perhaps I’ll feel like less of a jackass.”

“This isn’t about Operation Crossbow per se.”

“So I gathered.”

“Some very important people are dead. I’m looking for the assassins.”

“Plural?” Callahan
asked.

“Yes.
We believe this is the work of a sophisticated organization.”

“Is this somehow related to Adrian Zhu or LifeEmberz?”

“A valid question, Father. I don’t have the answer to that yet. But I have to find the organization behind these assassinations.”

Without naming the dead,
or detailing the exact circumstances, Carver explained how they had found identical octagons in Washington, London, Seattle and now Rome.

The bartender walked over
with the drinks and set them on the table. Carver held his tongue until the man was back at his post. “That octagon we saw today. Have you ever seen something like that before?”

The priest took a slug of his whiskey. “
As a matter of fact, yes. The moment my security clearance was accepted by the Holy See, I went to the archives and read everything I could about the history of Vatican Intelligence.”

“I’m actually jealous.”

“You should be. It’s a cracking read. But yes, I saw a couple of preserved octagons like the one we saw today. Calling cards, apparently, for a group of nasties that went by the name Black Order.”

“How recent
ly?”

“Not very. 1700s, if memory serves.”

That checked out. Carver knew that the Black Order had been officially dissolved by Pope Leo XIII in 1878. “What else can you tell me?”

“I’m not sure,” the priest continued. “You’ve given me almost nothing to go on.”

The American wasn’t ready to show his hand yet. He still had more questions. “Who’s your boss at Vatican Intelligence?”

“
My direct boss is a nobody. When I really need something, I go to the very top.”

“Heinz Lang
?”

The priest nodded. Heinz Lang had served as the Superior General of the Society of Jesus for 12 distinguished years. Lang had
made headlines by retiring several years earlier, despite appearing to be in excellent health. The rumor in Europe had been that Lang had quietly stepped down in order to direct Vatican Intelligence, which, officially speaking, did not exist.

“What’s he like?”

“Very German. Good at delegation and leadership. Personally, quite cold. And like one of our former popes, Lang is a product of the Second World War.”

“Hitler Youth
?”

“Aye. And then some.”

The bartender came with the pizza and salmon, some sparkling water and two sets of silverware. Carver waited until he was safely away. “Are you saying Lang was an actual Nazi?”

“Depends on your definition of a Nazi, doesn’t it? As the war went on, they were drafting them right out of high school. They say he was
only 15 when Vatican Intelligence caught him. Just a boy, really.”

“Was he sent to a POW camp?” Carver cut a slice of salmon and chewed. It was undercooked. Just how he liked it.

“Father General needed no prodding to switch sides, apparently. He was from a closeted Catholic family living under an oppressive fascist regime. As the story goes, his information led directly to the capture of Heinrich Himmler.”

Carver paused, sipping his water, wanting to word his next question delicately.
“If the church was somehow threatened, would Lang have the authority to reconvene the Black Order?”

The priest
laughed before answering. “For one thing, there is no such thing in this day and age.”

“The Vatican has been denying the existence of its intelligence agency for hundreds of years,
but you just told me that the director of this mythical organization is Heinz Lang.”

“This is different. If the Black Order existed today,
it would no more be controlled by the Vatican than an Illinois militia would be controlled by the White House.”

It was a flimsy comparison
that Carver wasn’t about to be satisfied with. “I’m not asking whether the pope himself is running the Black Order. I’m talking about someone for whom espionage is the primary profession. Specifically, Heinz Lang.”  

The priest’s jaw tightened. His eyebrows drew together.  Carver had seen Callahan frustrated, but this was the first time he’d ever seen him ready to fight. Good. Now they were getting somewhere.

“You seem to be proposing that a person or persons in the Vatican are involved in something extremely sinister. That hits pretty close to home.”

“
Not to be crass, but we pay you more than the Vatican does. So I would think our interests would also hit close to home.”

“I’ve always earned my keep.
But this is more than just business to me. I deserve to know why you’re suddenly so interested in the Vatican.”

“The murder victims
were people of considerable influence, Father. And they weren’t just assassinated. They were tortured. They suffered the
strappado
.”

“
Suspended by a rope?”

Carver nodded. “The very method that made Venice’s
Palazzo Ducale synonymous with Jesuit-inflicted torture.”

The priest massaged his wrist. “
You do realize the likelihood of the Black Order having survived in complete secrecy all these years is…”

“
Tiny, I know. But if this is a copycat killer, it’s one hell of a trick. It would require at least two tribute killers working in the same style on different continents. There’s no precedent for that.”

Callahan sat straight up and ran his palm down the length of his face.

“You’ve ruled out state-sponsored terror?”

“For the most part.”

“Look, all I can tell you is that if I had any knowledge of any such activities, you know full well that I would report it.”

Carver used his fork to fish a lemon wedge out of his tea.
Carver took a bite of the lemon, relishing the sourness for a moment. “I need to find out for sure. How high is your security clearance, Father?”

“Not nearly high enough.” The priest began to sweat, knowing full well that he was being asked to spy on his own boss. “
One doesn’t poo where one eats, now does he?”

“You just told me that your allegiance is to the CIA.”
Carver leaned in. “I’m telling you that there’s smoke at the Vatican, Father. I need you to find out where the fire is.”

Harbor Island Marina

Seattle, Washington

It was after midnight by the time the taxi dropped Ellis at the 80-slip moor between the main city and West Seattle. The water in Puget Sound tonight was as still as it had been on the Virginia lakes Ellis had waterskied on as a teenager. The smell was something else, though. An unpleasant mix of salt and decomposing shellfish from an adjacent mud beach.

A ruddy-faced man who called himself Captain Zack
stood before her in yellow rubber waders, a peacoat and a white cap. He slipped Ellis’ $300 into his pocket and began leading her toward his vessel. “We’ll be in a convertible,” he whispered as they walked. “It’s only about 14 nautical miles, but it’ll be cold.”

“How long will it take?” Ellis
’ voice seemed to boom throughout the stillness.

“Shhh,” Captain Zack scolded. “Keep it down. Some of these boats are sleepers.”

He pointed to a 19-foot Harbercraft boat with the name Scorpion Water Taxis along the running boards. “That one will run you about $300.”

Ellis threw her hands up in exasperation. “Seriously? For that thing?”

“It’s after midnight, lady. For an extra $200, I’ve got a boat with an aluminum top.”

Ellis shook her head. She
had already spent well beyond her means, and the odds that she would get to expense the plane ticket here were dim. “Nothing wrong with a little night air.”

“Suit yourself.”

Captain Zack took them out with an electric motor and then cranked up the diesel engine when they were a reasonable distance from the marina.

As they pulled out into Puget Sound, Ellis saw a vast industrial port where thousands of shipping containers were stacked like multicolored
Legos. A row of enormous cranes reminded Ellis of Imperial Walkers from the Star Wars movies. The Seattle skyline was hazy as viewed through the fog, but nevertheless far more impressive than she had imagined.

“Must be gorgeous in the daytime
.”

Captain Zack shrugged
. “Guess so. Hard to appreciate it when business is slow. Course, this is just my first year running water taxis. I was a commercial angler before that, up in Alaska.”

“How slow is slow?”

“Over the summer, maybe three calls a day. After Labor Day I’m lucky if I get one.”

“
Ever thought about changing the business name?”

Captain Zack took his eyes off their course for the first time and looked at Ellis. “
Why would I do that? What’s wrong with the name?”

Ellis already regretted saying anything. “The irony doesn’t work for me. Just my opinion.”

“What irony? Me and my wife and our daughter all have November birthdays. We’re all Scorpios. And there you have it. Scorpion Water Taxis.”

It was hard to believe nobody had brought this up before now.
“Nobody’s ever mentioned the fable of the frog and the scorpion?”

The captain shook his head again. “
Can’t say that they have. What is it?”

Ellis sighed. “The story goes like this.
A frog made his money taking animals across the river. He had never turned down a customer. Then one day, here came a scorpion. The frog was afraid, and said he couldn’t take him. The scorpion said, ‘Mr. Frog, I would never sting you. If I did, then we would both drown.’ That seemed rational, so he let the scorpion climb onto his back, and they went out into the river. When they had almost reached the other side, the scorpion stung him. As they started to sink toward what was certain death for both of them, the frog wanted to know why. The scorpion just told him, ‘Sorry, buddy, but you just can’t fight nature.’”

She watched Captain Zack’s face as he absorbed the moral of the story. He
was quiet for nearly a minute. “So you’re saying that everyone who’s ever heard that fable thinks about drowning when they hear the name of my water taxi business.”

“
Not everyone. But hey, every customer counts, right?”

“
The way I see it, the dangerous one in that story is the insect, not the frog. And as the water taxi driver, I’m the frog.”

“
True. Well, I’m a Scorpio. And I promise not to sting you.”

He was silent for a few minutes. Finally he cleared his throat and said, “Here’s one. How about Titanic Taxis?”

Ellis laughed. At least he was thinking big.