Ellis’ mind filled with Speers’ inevitable scorn. She had come here without permission, and without backup, less than 24 hours after Drucker had been killed right under her nose. At times like this Ellis took comfort in a mantra put forth by one of her old yoga teachers: The Zen master acts from the heart, not the mind.
She turned to Captain Zack, knowing she could not risk another civilian dying on her watch. “I have to ask you to get back in that boat.”
“Lady, there is zero chance of me doing that. I am not leaving.”
“Fine. But at least leave the boat motor idling. If anyone comes out of the house without me, get away as fast as you can.”
She watched Captain Zack retreat down the path. Hopeful that he would keep his distance, she went in through the open door, staying low, clearing the first room with her back against the wall. Pieces of broken figurines were crushed around the stairwell. Every light in the house seemed to be switched on. Someone was evidently searching for something.
She crept into the living room, keeping her back to the only windowless wall, and then regrouped for a moment behind an armchair that was covered entirely in cowhide. The house smelled like apple wood and was furnished with cozy sitting chairs arranged around a fireplace that was European in size, reaching nearly up to Ellis’ sternum. Art depicting various biblical scenes hung on the wall.
The home’s back porch floodlights were on, illuminating a manicured, sloping hillside dominated by a life-size sculpture of Jesus that had been erected within a fountain. Jesus’ eyes gazed downward, and his hands were outstretched, palms facing the heavens, as if he were imparting wisdom on followers gathered around his feet. Water poured through holes in either palm.
A tortured wail drifted throughout the house. It sounded more canine than human. Ellis couldn’t be sure, but she thought it was coming from the ground floor.
Having cleared the living room, she got to her feet and crept to the dining room. There she got down on her hands and knees and crawled under a long stainless steel table large enough to seat 12 guests. She peered through the doorway to the kitchen, where a man’s feet — barefoot and sprawled — jutted out from behind a food prep island. A broad streak of red blood painted the floor, extending around the corner. The body had been dragged there from another room.
Keeping low, Ellis crawled toward the body until she was only inches away from the man’s head. She recognized Dane Mitchell from the profile picture on his University of Washington faculty page. Vacant eyes peered through wire frame glasses. His bare arms and shoulders were etched with several inch-long lacerations. His hands were blue and the meat around his wrists looked more like ground beef than human flesh.
Another excruciating cry crackled through the air, remaining more or less constant. A woman, for sure. Borst, probably. They had tortured Mitchell to death first, and had dragged the body upstairs to make room for her.
Ellis followed the blood-streaked path through the house while still maintaining the careful clearing posture — back to the wall, pistol outstretched in front — that she had first learned in the Army. The training was all wrong for this, she knew. This situation was completely off-script. Her training had always been working in teams or in pairs. This was the type of situation where she was supposed to retreat to a surveillance position and request backup.
And yet she had the opportunity to save at least one high-ranking Fellowship member with solid ties to Preston and Gish. Stop thinking, she told herself. If she wanted to save Borst, she had to act now. She followed the blood path, and the noise, to an open door and descending stairs.
A basement. Of course. It followed the pattern. The killers in London and D.C. had chosen windowless places where the cries of their victims wouldn’t be heard. Here on Vashon, there seemed little chance of that. The home was huge and the dense foliage and gentle white noise of Puget Sound would have obscured virtually any disturbance from even the closest neighbors.
Ellis removed her shoes. She stepped lightly down the stairs until the most horrifying image of her career came into focus.
Rome
Trusting that the tracking chip embedded within Nico’s arm would keep him tethered to the palazzo, Carver set out on foot across the Tiber River. He had accepted Father Callahan’s invitation to meet at Caffe Sant’Eustachio, a legendary coffee house in Old Rome. The priest said he had some information for Carver, but wasn’t willing to be more specific over the phone. Some nuggets about the identities of the assassins in the Rome morgue, perhaps? When they had talked at Le Colonne, Carver had given the priest plenty to chew on, but had stopped short of divulging the identities of the deceased politicians, Sir Nils Gish and Senator Rand Preston.
Despite the fact that Rome was eight time zones away, the events of the past 24 hours told him that caution was justified. In D.C., a seemingly insignificant journalist had been assassinated right under Ellis’ nose. Someone had then ambushed Ellis and Speers in Nathan Drucker’s apartment, nearly killing both. Now Ellis herself had gone missing.
The cafe was located in a tiny neighborhood square just two blocks from the Pantheon. The labyrinthine design of the neighborhood hid it from casual foot traffic, and kept the crowds down to a tolerable level. Carver stopped at the square’s edge, scanning the patrons sitting at outside tables. Seeing that none of them fit suspicious profiles, he then took a moment to admire the stag’s head that seemed to watch over the square from atop the church named after the saint, antlers framing the simple iron cross. Two columns on one side of the church’s exterior were said to be remnants of Nero’s baths.
He found a place inside at the coffee bar, with his back to the wall. The cafe was abuzz with a cacophony of conversation and the intense aroma of premium coffee and dark chocolate. He ordered fresh-squeezed orange juice, keeping his eyes squarely on the door. As he eyed each and every customer with suspicion, he reminded himself that meeting in public had hardly provided safety for Nathan Drucker. Not only would Carver have to be on the lookout for the usual eavesdroppers and hit men, he would now have to watch out for deadly horseflies.
Callahan loped into view a few minutes late, at 10:36. This time the priest did not try to hug him, and that was fine with Carver. He leaned on the counter with his back to the door. The barista, a thin, leathery man, approached Callahan from behind the counter. “Cafe Americano?” he asked.
The priest shook his head. “Doppio,” he replied, then turned to Carver. “Four years in Rome, and my face is still so pale, they still offer me the watered-down stuff. You want one?”
“No thanks,” Carver said. “You have some information for me?”
The barista set Callahan’s coffee before him. The priest’s eyes followed her movements until she was out of earshot. “Unfortunately, I’ve hit a dead end on the two lads in the morgue. I trust Detective Tesla will find out who they are.”
“We don’t have the luxury of time,” Carver said. “We can’t just leave this to some local cop.”
“Tesla is quite tenacious,” Callahan said. “In the meantime, I do have a name for you. Sebastian Wolf.”
The priest brought the small white cup to his lips and sipped the double shot of espresso, never breaking eye contact with his American counterpart.
Bells rang in Carver’s head. Ellis had uploaded a recording of her conversation with Nathan Drucker to the mission cloud a few hours earlier. Carver had listened to it quickly, but was sure the name Sebastian Wolf was mentioned in association with something called the Fellowship World Initiative. In the audio transcript, Ellis had tagged Wolf’s name as meriting follow up.
Still, Carver managed to maintain perfect control over his facial features. “Who is he?”