“That’s helpful.”
“To be clear, even within this context, it’s never okay to use God’s name to justify murder. We each take that responsibility upon ourselves, and throw ourselves upon the mercy of the Lord. If you are contemplating such actions, I would like to recommend several scriptural readings that may help you think as Jesus intended us to. Just a moment.”
By the time the priest began reading, Ellis was gone.
Vatican District
“That’s Father Callahan’s building,” Carver told Seven as he pointed at the elegant four-floor structure across the street. He had always guessed that with Callahan’s income from the CIA, Vatican Intelligence and other sources, his digs were a cut above what most of the priests had in the Eternal City. This confirmed it. The apartment was on the third floor, with shutters that opened from both bedrooms. A small balcony jutted out from the living room with window boxes full of fresh flowers.
They had come in hopes of anything that would lead them to the remaining Black Order operatives.
It was broad daylight, but that didn’t matter much. Carver didn’t expect to find the priest at home. One way or the other, Callahan had been an accomplice to Nico’s abduction. If he was working with the Black Order, he would be long gone by now. If he wasn’t, he was likely dead.
“You do any climbing?” Seven asked.
Carver shrugged. “Not really. Just a couple of indoor climbing walls.”
“It’s just three floors up. Piece of cake. Just follow my lead.”
He watched as Seven walked underneath the front canopy and jumped straight up, gripping the canopy frame. She swung her right foot into a crevice in the brickwork. Then she reached to the side, gripping a decorative flourish in the building’s facade and, with spider-like movements, pawed her way up the building’s face until she was high enough to grab the ironwork supporting the second floor balcony.
She paused to look down at Carver, who stood in awe on the sidewalk. “Coming?”
“No. Just buzz me in, will you?”
In less than a minute, Seven let him into the apartment. She was covering her nose with her sleeve, and Carver soon caught wind of the overwhelming stench.
“Somebody died,” Seven whispered.
Carver didn’t think so. He’d smelled plenty of decomposing bodies before. That was a stench you never forgot. This was something else.
The apartment was ransacked. Every drawer and cabinet in the place was open. The floor was strewn with clothing and documents. A suitcase that looked as if it had been carved up with a razor blade sat open on the couch.
The bathroom and lone bedroom were clear. Carver found the source of the smell in the kitchen. The refrigerator door had been left wide open. Carver slammed the door on a piece of raw fish and a few warm dairy products.
A shrill ringing sent Seven darting across the room. She spun so that her back was against the wall and her weapon was extended before her.
“Relax,” Carver said, pointing to an old analog phone mounted on the kitchen wall. “You think I should answer it?”
Seven swallowed hard and nodded.
Carver picked up the yellow receiver and put his ear to it.
“I’d just about given up on you.”
The voice belonged to Father Callahan. So he was alive. Carver slowly lowered himself into a chair, scanning the shelves and ceiling. Where was the camera?
“I suspect the line is bugged,” the priest said, “so do be concise, if you please. You remember where I took you for dinner on your first trip to Rome?”
It would have been a ludicrous question for nearly anyone else. That had been years ago. The city was huge and contained thousands of restaurants that would seem similar to a foreigner. Nobody could have been expected to remember something like that.
And yet Carver did remember. He had arrived in town very late, arriving at the priest’s apartment at 11:37 p.m. He had been famished. The priest had taken him to a trattoria called Osteria Dell’Angelo just a few blocks north of the apartment. The cross streets were Via Pietro and Via Simone. They had been served a fixed menu consisting of tonnarelli cacio e pepe and tripe and braised oxtail. The proprietor was an ex-rugby player who had chastised Carver for not touching his wine during dinner.
“Yes, I remember.”
“I thought you might. Rendezvous in front in two hours.”
The line went dead.
The White House
Speers sat on the couch opposite Chad Fordham. President Hudson was running a few minutes late, and Speers was grateful for the additional prep time. In the span of a week, he had gone from a broad, strategic integrator of the intelligence community to a hands-on doer who had to hyperfocus on a single massive threat and its ripple effect across borders, time zones and allegiances.
Carol Lam entered with a tray of her famous cappuccinos. On the edge of each small plate rested a small moist brownie.
“Fudge?” Speers inquired.
“Homemade,” Carol said. Her smile faded when she saw Speers’ swollen ankle elevated in an opposing chair. “May I ask what happened?”
“If I told you, Chad here would have to put you in the witness protection program.”
“Well, enjoy the pick-me-up.”
He intended to. The ankle was improved, but it still hurt like hell. Even a small gesture of compassion felt good. On the few occasions when he had come home over the past week, all he’d gotten was a cold glare and a garbage bag full of dirty diapers.
The president entered just as Carol left, wearing a black top with a white ruffled collar. “I have London on video conference,” she said without preamble. She motioned for them to rise and follow her through the east door into her private study. There, Speers was astonished to see that the British Prime Minister had joined Sir Brice Carlisle onscreen.
The President quickly introduced Speers and Fordham. Sir Brice wasted no time on pleasantries. “I’m told that our joint operation in Rome last night eliminated Gish’s killers in addition to the two others that were dispatched in Seattle. Where does that leave us? Are we out of the woods?”
Speers set his cappuccino on the table. “We are left with an unknown number of Black Order operatives still on the loose that may continue to target prominent world leaders. So no, we are not out of the woods. Our joint efforts in Rome continue as we try to locate the ossuary.”
“The ossuary,” Sir Brice said dismissively. “Surely you don’t believe the myth. It’s rubbish, right?”
Speers carefully measured the tone of his answer. “It really doesn’t matter what we believe. The security situation deteriorated the moment it was taken from the Vatican.”
“So according to you, people will continue to die until this relic is recovered. How many people are we talking about?”
“We have identified,” Speers began, “with 95 percent confidence, 11 surviving senior members of The Fellowship World Initiative. This includes foreign ministers from Australia and New Zealand, several prominent Middle Eastern and European politicians, a congressman from Indiana, and the CEOs of two multinational companies. There are also hundreds of others that we suspect but have yet to verify.”
Fordham cut in. “Until the ossuary is recovered, we strongly recommend alerting these individuals as to the threat they face, and if possible, extending security around them.”
“And how would that help us?” Sir Carlisle probed.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Speers said. “These are all people with significant power and influence. Until the ossuary is found, they’ve got targets on their back.”