“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 recently?”
“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.”