“Rome police is all over the villa,” Speers said. “They’re about to shut down all the train stations, the airport, you name it. We have to get you out of the city.”
His tardiness could not be helped. Tidying up loose ends had taken more time than Carver had imagined. He had freed Callahan so that he could personally deliver the ossuary back to the Vatican. Then he had taken Seven to the British Embassy, where a consulate physician would patch her up before she would be whisked quietly out of the country.
The mission was over. Balance was restored. Except for Nico. What if he had made a mistake in leaving Nico unguarded again? He had been determined to get keep him alive and return him to the States to receive the pardon he deserved. Carver owed him that.
“You still there?” Speers demanded.
“Yeah.”
“A local detective named Tesla showed up at the American consulate looking for you in connection with a double homicide. It’s getting too hot. If you can’t meet the chopper in 10 minutes, you’re on your own.”
Carver hung up as the elevator reached the 10th floor. Carver exited, stepping lightly as he moved down the unfamiliar hallway. He eased into the staircase, holding the door behind him to avoid any unnecessary noise. He remained motionless for several seconds, watching the shadows in the flights above him until he was confident that he was alone. Only then did he gingerly ascend to the 11th floor. As he approached the doorway leading to the corridor, he heard a group of revelers tramping noisily down the hall. Aussies, he figured by their accents. They were drunk.
He opened the door as the six loud drunkards passed. Just a group of tourists, he hoped. He fell into line behind them, scanning the hallway ahead for any signs of police. He saw nothing out of the ordinary. Still, he wasn’t comfortable entering the room through the front door. Too dangerous.
A floor map was posted on the wall to his left. He stopped and studied it quickly, noting an alcove up ahead outfitted with a fire escape. He backtracked to the alcove, which was just large enough for two armchairs that enjoyed an unobstructed view of the piazza. He pried the window open.
An earsplitting fire alarm sounded. All the better, Carver thought as he climbed out onto the ironwork. If the cops were there with Nico, they would have no choice but to take him downstairs. If it was Black Order, the sensory overload might help distract them.
It was cool outside. A light mist was coming down, making footing difficult on the ironwork. Room balconies stretched out in a row on either side of him. If the floor map was correct, their suite was the third to his right.
He leapt up, gripping a metal rung in the landing above him, just the way Seven had showed him. He swung back and forth until he had enough momentum to propel himself over to the adjacent balcony.
His didn’t stick the landing. His right foot slipped out from under him. Carver fell forward, crashing into a set of French doors. Fortunately, the glass didn’t break. Looking through it, Carver saw an elderly couple scrambling about half-dressed, preparing to evacuate the building. They didn’t seem to notice him. The alarm was simply too loud.
A waist-high wall was all that separated this deck from the next room. Carver scrambled to his feet and climbed over it. He was suddenly face-to-face with a little girl. She was inside, looking out the French doors, with her fingers stuck in her ears. Her parents were packing their bags, preparing to take every bit of luggage with them downstairs. Good thing this wasn’t a real fire.
He smiled and waved at the girl, and then made his way over the final barrier and crouched behind a deck chair. The suite was well lit. Soccer was on the TV. Their dirty room-service plates and utensils were still on the main table and sitting area where they had left them yesterday, the result of leaving the don’t disturb sign on the door. There were no signs of booby traps that he could see.
Holding his SIG out before him, he slipped his shoes off to be as quiet as possible, and opened the French doors. He quickly cleared the living room and kitchen. He went to the main bathroom. Wet towels were on the floor, just as they had left them. The closet was empty except for an unused ironing board and the room safe.
He moved on. The bed where Seven had slept was unmade and still held the faint smell of perspiration and Chanel No. 5.
The first signs of danger materialized on the carpet in front of the bedroom where Nico had worked and slept. Two small reddish-brown splotches. Carver dropped to a knee and grazed the spots with his fingertips. It was dried and hardened, scab-like.
Bad sign.
He entered the bedroom. Nico’s bed was made. Neatly. Impeccably. No sign of his computer or the phones they had taken from the dead men in the deconsecrated church. He silently dropped to his knees and checked under the bed. Nothing but dust.
The blood trail — scant as it was — led to the bathroom, which was also fully lit. As Carver rounded the final corner, he braced himself for what he might find — Nico’s body in the bathtub, or worse. He imagined the struggle. A whack to the head. Gloved hands holding his head below hot water.
He stepped sideways slowly, silently, until the bathroom was in full view. The shower curtain was pulled back. Save for some black body hair on the side of the tub, it was empty. The bathroom floor was also clear. There was no body. He was alone in the suite.
Carver let his shooting hand fall to his side. He stepped closer, noting a few more small splotches on the white rug.
“Not much blood,” he said aloud, taking comfort in the notion. More blood than he would expect from a paper cut, but certainly less than from an execution.
The fire alarm ceased its ear-shattering clamor as he entered the bathroom. He was suddenly conscious of the sound of his own heart, his own breathing. He inhaled deeply once, then again, to calm his system.
The vanity was less tidy. Nobody had been killed here, but there was definitely enough dried blood in and around the sink to freak out the maids.
In the wastebasket, he spotted an emptied package of Band-Aids with a red travel sewing kit, no doubt delivered from room service. The handle and blade of the miniature scissors held bloody fingerprints. A tiny needle, with approximately two feet of attached thread, was coated with organic matter.
Then he saw it. Situated behind the 10-inch makeup mirror on the corner of the vanity, so that it was magnetized to several times its actual size. It had been placed there on purpose, he realized. So that he wouldn’t miss it.
A tiny, clear capsule. No larger than a grain of rice. Smooth, except for four tiny extensions jutting out of either end. Like antennae.
The RFID chip. It looked a lot like the one he had injected into Nico’s arm.
Carver holstered his gun and called Arunus Roth.
“I need a bio update on Nico Gold,” Carver said.
Roth’s tone was curt. “Aren’t you supposed to be at the extraction point?”
“Just tell me what you see.” All Carver could glean from the mission cloud was the chip’s location. Roth would be able to see Nico’s blood pressure and heart rate.
He waited a moment for Roth to return to the phone. “Judging by his pulse, I’d say he’s sleeping. What’s going on? Shouldn’t he be with you?”
Carver laughed, but not joyously. He was at once devastated and perplexed and concerned and hurt and amazed. The crazy little bastard had actually dug the chip out of his arm and sewed it back up.
How had he managed to deactivate the tentacles? How had he managed to keep up the illusion that it was still in his body? The reading back in McLean was consistent with a still-embedded chip. In a sleeping man, no less.