“That would have been nice,” Speers agreed. “Unfortunately, we have no clue what happened to Mary Borst after her plane touched down in Rome. It’s like she vanished into thin air.”
Speers switched on his phone and called McLean. Ellis listened as he told Arunus Roth that he wanted to match every name on the list to the identity of a public figure or scientist, and he wanted it by the time they touched down in Rome.
Ellis’ head throbbed again. She shut her eyes. The vision of Borst’s body hanging overhead returned to her. She was talking. She was trying to tell her something important. Ellis concentrated hard, trying to push away the white noise of her mind. She reached deep, trying to access the memory. It was like reaching into a deep, dark space. There was something down there, but it was too slippery to pick up.
Rome
Father Callahan was late. Carver sat on a park bench overlooking the Tiber River, drumming his fingers on his knee. The priest had messaged him an hour earlier, telling him that he had new information about the Vatican break in. The American had quickly agreed. Anything that could lead him to the whereabouts of the Holy Ossuary, or the zealots trying to protect it, could be the break he needed.
A cool breeze rustled the trees overhead. Carver eyed a couple holding hands on a park bench. Was it just him, or did they look a little old to be such enthusiastic lovebirds? When he watched them kiss, though, and saw the mutt-like mug on the guy, his doubts disappeared. They had to be in love. Not even the most dedicated spy could conjure up that much passion for a face like that.
He went over the details of his conversations with Callahan in his head. Although the priest had always been short on details, they had at least confirmed his instincts about the Vatican Intelligence’s pecking order. The Vatican’s philosophy when it came to choosing popes seemed to be the older, the better. That way there was less chance of any real change.
Apparently the same could be said for the Vatican’s choice of Intelligence chief. The only person Callahan could have gotten the name Sebastian Wolf from was his nemesis, Heinz Lang. And he was as old as the hills. In his 80s, at least.
But he assumed that Callahan wouldn’t have shared any critical details with Lang. He would have given him only what he needed to show value. Such was the way of double agents. Likewise, he had thrown Carver not a steak, but a bone, and he would no doubt be hoping to get a scrap in return.
He thought back to the morgue, when Detective Tesla had shown them the bodies of the gunmen. He remembered Nico’s observation: I thought it was curious that Father Callahan kept referring to the bodies as victims. Tesla never used that word to describe them.
A black van cornered onto Villa Della Conciliazione, squealing its brakes as it accelerated.
A chilling thought hit Carver. If Lang had given Callahan orders to locate Sebastian Wolf, why would Lang wait to see whether Carver would share the intel with him?
He wouldn’t. He would just take the asset who could find Wolf.
The priest was now nine minutes late. Suddenly concerned, Carver got up and began heading back toward the palazzo.
The priest had arranged their hotel reservations. Carver had performed a bug sweep, but only on their initial check in. And it would have been easy enough to eavesdrop from an adjoining room.
He pulled out his phone and dialed the palazzo. Nico answered on the third ring.
“Hey,” Nico said, “Great news. I found the motherload on — ”
“Not another word,” Carver said. “Power down. We’re checking out of the room.”
“What?”
“I’ve got a bad feeling. Pack your things. We have to relocate.”
“Hang on a sec. Someone’s at the door.”
He heard Nico’s footsteps as he laid the room receiver down. Carver shouted into the phone. “Nico? Wait! Don’t answer it!”
Carver quickened his pace as he passed two bronze-winged victories at the Ponte Vittorio Emanuele’s north end. He now had a partial view of Villa Della Conciliazione, and its row of embassies, shops and the palazzo were on the other side.
Nico had still not returned to the phone. The street was illuminated with a soft yellow hue. It wasn’t crowded like it had been in the morning, but there were still scattered groups of tourists, clergy and business people about. Carver pocketed his mobile and launched into a full-out sprint.
He quickly reached the Vatican Radio Building near the east end of Villa Della Conciliazione. At a distance of two city blocks, he spotted Nico’s unmistakably lanky, pale frame as he was shoved into the black van. Carver ran at a blistering pace, focusing in vain on the license plate as the vehicle sped away.
Macabre visions flashed before Carver’s eyes. Nico hung by his wrists. Blood pooling on the hardwood floor beneath him. Eyes bulging. Shoulders popping out of their sockets.
He pushed the dark ruminations away. That didn’t fit the pattern. Nico was not in the Fellowship. He didn’t even know Sebastian Wolf.
His senses heightened, it seemed as if he was suddenly aware of everything around him. A delegation of government types exiting the Brazilian consulate across the street. A group of clergy leaving the Antico Caffe. A monsignor stepping outside the Order of the Holy Sepulchre at the far end of the palazzo. A pair of Vatican policemen standing leisurely at the end of the street, smoking cigarettes. And just as it seemed that Carver was going to lose the vehicle for good, he spotted his saving grace — a large group of nuns crossing the Piazza Pio XII, the polygon-shaped arc directly in front of the massive oval of St. Peter’s Square.
It was evident by both their zeal for their surroundings, and their pristine white habits, that they were not local nuns. They were pilgrims here on a trip of a lifetime. None of the roughly three dozen sisters paid any attention to the black vehicle careening their way. Only when it began to honk did any of them snap out of their wide-eyed wonder. Those that did see the vehicle froze in the crosswalk.
Only someone with Carver’s conditioning could have heard the vehicle gearing down over the sound of his own breathing. Even if the driver was brazen enough to kidnap a felon in federal custody, they weren’t stupid enough to take out a bunch of nuns.
As Carver gained ground on the SUV, he attracted the attention of the Vatican police. They stood upright, not quite understanding the situation, but clearly sensing the disturbance in their touristy atmosphere.
He was just 30 yards away now, close enough to the SUV to see that it had no rear license plate. As it cleared the throngs and began to pull away, Carver had a decision to make. If he pulled his weapon from the shoulder holster under his jacket, he might be able to shoot out a tire, and if he was very lucky, kill the driver. But besides possible civilian casualties, there would be a cost to rescuing Nico by force — full exposure to the Vatican police.
The policemen were armed, and there was a good chance that the armed policemen would take him for a madman, or a terrorist, and take him out. There was also a good chance he would be wounded and subsequently arrested. Speer’s voice popped into his head: Your status is completely deniable. That had been made very clear. The American government would not claim him. Even if he told them that he was working for the Director of National Intelligence, Speers would have no choice but to deny it.
One thing was clear. He wasn’t going to be able to find the Black Order from within a prison cell.
The van accelerated as the police stepped in to guide the remaining nuns out of the path of oncoming traffic. The windows were tinted too dark to get a last glimpse of Nico Gold.