He had been as active a superior general as the church had ever seen. Few before him had attempted to manage the entirety of the Jesuit mission. The society’s schools and orphanages and other groups operated in every corner of the world. Lang, having made a commitment to visit each and every one of the provinces during his first two years in the post, possessed an itinerary that would have been aggressive for anyone, let alone a man in his 70s and 80s. He appeared to have a limitless well of energy.
Since stepping down, he had brought the same level of devotion to Vatican Intelligence. Now Lang raised the hem of his cassock slightly and walked to a sitting area at the far end of the room, an intimate array of chairs where visitors could enjoy the priceless view afforded them from the Apostolic Palace.
“So,” Lang began. “When we last chatted, you were to inform me of any inroads we made as to the investigation. I assume by your insistence about this meeting that you have something to report that was too sensitive to be handled by telephone.”
“In a matter of speaking, Your Excellency,” Callahan replied before breaking out into a coughing fit.
“Is it that troubling?”
“Forgive me. The hours I’ve been keeping of late have not been good for my health.”
“Then I would thank you to cover your mouth with your sleeve when coughing. At my age, I can’t afford to get sick.”
“Naturally,” Callahan replied. “In regards to the matter at hand, I regret to report that the two young lads you asked me to find are in the city morgue.”
Lang’s face flattened. “Did they die violently?”
The priest nodded. “In a most brutal fashion, I’m afraid.”
Three days prior to Carver’s arrival in Rome, Callahan had received a surprise call from Lang, who had been visiting a Jesuit province in Brazil, where it was said that the church was losing ground to a groundswell of Mormon missionaries. But Lang’s call had nothing to do with evangelism. His request was cryptic, and he had given the priest almost no information to go on, other than to ask him to find two operatives who had disappeared in Rome after what he had described as a critical operation. He had mentioned only their names and nationalities. Lazlo Cruz, from Argentina, and Cesar Macchione, who was from Florence.
The superior general stood, clasped his hands behind his back, and went to the window, looking out over Rome. Callahan hoped that he would not be asked how he had discovered the young Jesuits’ bodies. Although Lang was fully aware of Callahan’s working relationship with the CIA and other intelligence organizations, revealing that the information had come to him via the Americans would only incite Lang’s legendary paranoia.
“I trust you did not claim the bodies.”
“Correct,” Callahan answered. “And as you asked, I instructed Venice to deny any knowledge of the men if police are somehow able to trace them there.”
Venice had been the birthplace of the Society in 1540, when Pope Paul III established the Jesuits as a formal religious order at the Palazzo San Marco. But the Jesuits had never been well received in the city of endless canals, and it had been abandoned as an outpost for centuries. Unbeknownst to most even within the Holy See, Lang had reclaimed it shortly after his election, transforming a shuttered church into a private barracks where future Vatican Intelligence agents were trained. When he had first learned of the Venice unit, and heard of the rumored 24 new recruits in training there, Callahan had wondered why intelligence services had been inflated at such a rapid rate. In recent years, they had fielded no more than 20 operatives in total. In light of recent events, Callahan was willing to entertain the notion that Agent Carver’s suspicions might be correct. Perhaps the Black Order had been resurrected after all.
“Your Excellency, there must be some other way that I can serve you. Perhaps I can somehow complete the mission you had set out for the lads.”
Only a slight turning of Lang’s head gave the priest any indication that his offer had been heard. The head of Vatican Intelligence stood at the window for half a minute longer, then returned to the seating area, sitting directly opposite his subject. The thin eyelids retracted themselves over Lang’s substantial eyeballs, and his lips pulled back at the edges, baring both teeth and gums. “Their chance is over,” he said. “We must be more aggressive, if that is even possible.”
“To what end, your Excellency?”
“Nothing less than the continuation of the one true Apostolic Church is at stake. The world criticized us for standing in the way of science,” Lang went on. “Yes, we persecuted heretics. Yes, we demanded repentance when scientific advancements contradicted church dogma. For centuries they said we were wrong. But now what will they say? What will the world say? How will God judge us if this comes to pass?”
The priest smiled, but only because he was genuinely afraid. Nobody in the Vatican talked like this. Those popes and cardinals who had tortured and killed men of science were long dead. The mistakes of the past were, as a rule, either ignored or chalked up to the imperfection of man. Callahan had never in his life heard anyone in the Vatican suggest that the torment of Galileo, for example, had actually been justified.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” Callahan said. “What will come to pass?”
The head of Vatican Intelligence stood. He went to the grand desk, slid open the middle drawer and retrieved a tattered black and white photograph. A medium close-up of three boys who looked to be in their early teens. All three wore button-down military field shirts with black ties and long shorts. Each wore oversized swastika armbands. Despite the several decades that had passed since the photo had been taken, Callahan instantly recognized the boy on the left. He was the tallest, with white-blond hair and some sort of merit head pinned to his shirt. It was Heinz Lang.
Then Lang pointed to the boy in the middle, tapping the boy’s head repeatedly. He was the best looking of the three, with chiseled, serious features.
“This man,” Lang said. “His name is Sebastian Wolf. Find him for me, and you will have done a lifetime of good deeds.”
Julian Speers Residence
Arlington, Virginia
It was nearly 3 a.m. when Speers, having left McLean a short time earlier, pulled up to the four-bedroom colonial house. Despite having moved in several months earlier, he still felt like a stranger here. There was just so little time now. Somehow, Speers had fooled himself into believing that no job could have been more demanding than his former role as White House Chief of Staff. Nothing could have been farther from the truth. He routinely worked over 100 hours per week now. Some nights it didn’t even make sense to come home. The cushions of his office couch were nearly as familiar to him as the mattress in his bedroom.
The ankle he had twisted was still swollen and weak. He stepped out of the Highlander and used an aluminum crutch to limp toward the house. The moment he unlocked the door and heard the twins’ cries, he knew the injury wouldn’t earn him any sympathy points. His wife met him at the door, kissed him tersely and handed him one of the swaddled infants.
“I had to go to the ER,” he said, but his exhausted wife did not hear him over the twins’ wailing. She took the other child upstairs without looking back.
He kissed the baby on the forehead and hobbled to the kitchen pantry. He reached onto the highest shelf and searched blindly with his fingers for a Tupperware container. A wave of relief washed over him as he located it, pulling down the secret stash of pink pacifiers. His wife had banned them several weeks ago, fearing that the children weren’t learning — how had she put it? — “self-soothing techniques.”
The baby’s response to the sight of the pacifier was decidedly Pavlovian, the mouth opening and puckering instantly. Speers rinsed it under the kitchen sink faucet and promptly put it into the child’s mouth. She was asleep in seconds.