If Drucker’s claims were any measure, Borst’s background in both science and politics made her a lock for Wolf’s inner circle.
Ellis scrolled lower on the page, reading the text under “Personal Life”:
Borst is a frequent lecturer worldwide, discussing the need for enhanced global cooperation on the use of embryo stem-cell research to detect and prevent disease. She lives near Seattle, Washington with her life partner, Dr. Dane Mitchell, a professor of biology at the University of Washington.
“Feeling better, Sis?” Jenna said, spotting the triumphant look on Ellis’ face.
“Thank you Jack Daniels, thank you Coke.”
And thank you Drucker, she thought. May you rest in peace.
Dane Mitchell’s number wasn’t publicly listed. But she knew that the State Department kept contact information for UN leaders.
She used the hotel phone to dial a friend at State, allowing her typically suppressed southern accent to surface just long enough to charm the desperately single guy into looking up Borst’s personal phone number. In exchange, she promised to go out on a date with him. It wouldn’t be all that bad, she thought. He was kind of cute.
She hung up and dialed Borst’s number. After four rings, a woman answered the phone. “This is Vera.”
Via della Conciliazione
Rome
Rome’s cobblestones felt good under Carver’s feet. He had discovered years ago that this street, which stretched between the Tiber River and St. Peter’s Square, was the only vantage point where it was possible to properly appreciate the Vatican’s grandeur. High walls surrounded the majority of the tiny Vatican nation, making only the upper heights of its massive basilica and palaces visible. But from here, just blocks from the boundary between the Vatican and Rome, it was possible to see St. Peter’s Square, St. Peter’s Basilica, the Apostolic Palace and the many buildings occupied by various orders all at once.
“First time here?” he asked Nico, although he already knew the answer by the awestruck look on his face.
Nico pointed to the towering, four-sided monument with a pyramid-shaped cap. “Why is there an Egyptian obelisk in the center of St. Peter’s Square?”
Carver smiled. Every time he saw the obelisk in St. Peter’s Square, it was clear where L’Enfant, the architect that created the plans for the National Mall, had gotten his inspiration for the Washington Monument and the surrounding federal buildings. From a distance, it was uncanny how much the massive columns and basilica of St. Peter’s resembled Capitol Hill. Washington D.C. was America’s Rome.
“Rome has seven obelisks taken from Egypt,” Carver said. “That one was originally installed in the Roman Forum. It’s the only one without the original Egyptian hieroglyphics.”
It seemed to Carver that the clergy were just as thick on the ground on Via della Conciliazione as they must have been when the four-story building had been erected in 1480. The street was the Vatican’s equivalent of Pennsylvania Avenue, and the Palazzo Della Rovere before them had been the home of countless cardinals, bishops, noblemen and nuns over the centuries until finally coming under the ownership of the ancient Order of the Holy Sepulchre, which answered to the Vatican, and still occupied the west side of the building.
“Our hotel,” Carver said, pointing to the structure. The east side was a modern hotel called the Hotel Columbus, which was frequented by Vatican visitors and dignitaries.
“Dude!” Nico said. “Now this is the kind of place where I can get some serious work done.”
As they entered the crowded lobby, Father Callahan was impossible to miss. In a city full of priests wearing black frocks, the Irish-born CIA operative’s shock of short red hair separated him from the rest. At six foot two, Callahan should have appeared slightly taller than Carver, but his stooping posture put the two men at eye level.
Carver submitted to Callahan’s crippling handshake. Then he introduced Nico.
“Your reputation precedes you,” Callahan said in his typically charming Irish lilt. “Welcome to my second home, as it were. You are in luck. My favorite suite on the second floor is available. Two bedrooms. Space to work, a view of the courtyard, and best of all, the ceiling frescoes are all originals, painted by a Renaissance master.”
As the priest-cum-intelligence operative turned, Carver noted the folds of soft fat at the base of his neck. Callahan had always been a big boy, but it was clear that he’d put on 20 or 30 more pounds since they had last seen each other.
Carver could hardly believe his eyes when they exited the elevator onto the second floor. A section of wall had been intentionally exposed. He touched the 1500-year-old brickwork with his fingers as he passed, admiring the finishing on the corners and artwork on the ceiling and the stucco finishing work on the walls. The entrance to their room was encased in a beautiful marble frame. Callahan beamed as he unlocked the door and let his guests into the spacious suite.
“A Salviati?” Nico exclaimed as he saw the artwork. “Seriously?”
Callahan looked at Carver. “You didn’t tell me Nico was also an expert on Renaissance art.”
Carver wasn’t paying much attention. He was too busy admiring an elaborate iron candelabra that hung over the dining table in their suite. It was a magnificent work of art, with the sign of the Vatican — the crossed keys of St. Peter beneath the triple crown — masterfully replicated at its center. “I hope you didn’t lay down your personal credit card for this room,” Carver said, “Because this candelabra is going to look great in my condo in D.C.”
He led Callahan to the master bedroom and shut the door, leaving Nico to salivate over the furnishings. Then the American began scanning the room for bugs.
The priest looked nervous. “You think your friend will be, uh, okay out there on his own?”
Carver nodded. “That chip in his arm is a strong deterrent against flight. Plus, I think he likes this place.”
The priest smiled, taking in Carver’s ripped form. “Still running several miles a day, obviously.”
“I try.”
The priest paused for a moment. “And now, a person with normal social skills would return the compliment by telling me how great I look.”
“To be honest, you look like you’ve seen some hard miles, Father. I thought Rome was supposed to be a cushy post.”
“To whom much is given, much will be expected,” Callahan said, quoting Luke. A brilliant student in his youth, Callahan had been recruited by the CIA almost as soon as he had entered the priesthood in Dublin, Ireland. Under the agreement, he was encouraged to fully pursue his ambitions in the Catholic Church in order to rise in the church hierarchy and broaden his intelligence-gathering capabilities. Over the years he had become a highly paid messenger, delivering information, technology and occasional surveillance services while still managing to keep his day job.
Four years ago he had been offered a role in Vatican Intelligence. With the organization having maintained close ties with the CIA, Callahan had become the primary linchpin in joint operations between the Vatican and American intelligence, as well as other organizations such as MI6 and the Mossad. He was officially a double agent. But the CIA hoped they would remain his true master.
Carver had finished his electronic sweep of the room, and now stood on the bed as he examined the light fixtures for bugs. “I think we’re okay. Let’s get on with business.”
Callahan opened his satchel. He unpacked a SIG P226 wrapped in cloth, along with several spare clips. It smelled freshly oiled. It looked every bit as good as the one he had been forced to leave in Johannesburg when airport police presented him with an 11-page declaration form that he had failed to fill out upon entering the country. As much as he hated to leave a weapon behind, it was better than missing his flight.