The Fellowship (4 page)

Piazza
del Popolo

Rome

Lars drove the motorcycle around the enormous
piazza once, and then again, so that he could make sure he and Adrian Zhu had not been followed. At this time of night, only a handful of tourists were present, all of whom seemed to be photographing the 24-meter-high obelisk at the center of the square known as the Flaminio. Like most of the obelisks in Rome, the Flaminio had been taken from Egypt. After being brought to Italy in 10 B.C., the obelisk had stood at the Circus Maximus, where it witnessed countless chariot races before being moved to the Piazza del Popolo, where it had seen an equal number of public executions. 

Although the sun had been down for nearly four hours,
Lars kept the tinted visor of his helmet pulled all the way down, covering his entire face. The visor on Zhu’s helmet was painted black. It wasn’t that they didn’t trust him. They had spent years vetting him. But at least if he were captured, he would not, under the pain of torture, lead them to the Shepherd.

Spotting only the tourists and a few parked taxis hoping for a fare, Lars gunned the motor. The bioengineer gripped the seat frame for balance as the bike shot through the
Porta del Popolo, an elaborate archway leading to Via Flaminia. He drove east for two and a half blocks, and then made a sharp left into the courtyard of an enormous villa that had originally belonged to a Venetian bishop. The mechanized iron gate closed behind them as Lars shut off the engine and dismounted the bike. He then led Zhu through the private courtyard to the immense double front doors, where two guards stood, brandishing TEK-9s like the one Lars had under his jacket.

Inside
at last, Zhu was finally allowed to remove his helmet. “
Bellissima
,” he said, trying on one of the few Italian words he knew as he looked around the enormous foyer. The walls were painted crimson. Portraits of the Venetian bishop in various poses hung on opposing walls. An enormous Murano glass chandelier hung overhead.

The living area was hardly as pristine, resembling a war zone more than a historic villa. Enormous piles of earth and debris occupied most of the black
-and-white checkerboard floor. Perhaps they had been tunneling, he thought. How else to explain this much dirt? It was a preposterous sight.

Now Lars led him up a creaky mahogany staircase. The entrances to the second and third floors had been sealed off with razor wire. On the
fourth floor landing, a carpenter appeared to be engaged in some sort of construction project in the middle of the hallway. Several floorboards were pulled up and stacked in a row. Lars and Zhu stepped around him and proceeded to the end of the hall, where another pair of plain-clothed bodyguards stood.

“Is he awake?” Lars asked one of
the guards.

“Very.
He’s been expecting you.”

Lars opened the door, revealing a
spacious study with dark wood paneling and a high ceiling. Another magnificent glass chandelier provided flattering overhead lighting. Several steamer trunks were lined up against the east wall.

A
n Alsatian sat vigilantly in the middle of the room. He wagged at the sight of Lars, but growled menacingly when Zhu stepped into the room.

“Off,” a wi
zened voice called from the far corner of the room. The Alsatian instantly curbed his aggression.

Sebastian Wolf –
known to his flock as the Shepherd – stood at a workstation that was easily the most modern piece of furniture in the place. The old man wrote long, looping cursive in a large leather-bound book. He wore a dark suit with a white silk tie, and a white shirt with French cuffs and black marble cufflinks. Aside from his full head of perfectly groomed white hair, he looked far more youthful than Zhu had imagined. The skin of his face was somewhat smooth, but he had none of the grotesque signs of excessive plastic surgery. Nobody knew exactly how old the Shepherd was, but even if he didn’t look like an octogenarian, he had to be at least in his mid-80s, if not older.

At the sight of the old man, Zhu was suddenly overcome with emotion.
And there will be a Shepherd who walks among you who has seen into the heart of the tyrants, because he was born among them and has lived among them. And his name will be Sebastian.

He dropped to one knee and bowed his head, sobbing. 
Wolf’s Alsatian,
Magi, growled and bared his teeth. This time the Shepherd did not correct the animal.

“Mr. Zhu,” The
Shepherd said as he put down his pen and smiled in a fatherly manner, “this is no way to rejoice after such a harrowing adventure.” 

He walked to Zhu and reached out to help him up, but the bioengineer grasped the
Shepherd’s left hand and kissed his ring. Wolf pulled back violently, his face suddenly red. Magi barked.

“Stand up!” he commanded. Zhu did so, disoriented as he was by
the Shepherd’s rage. “I am not the pope. Quite the opposite. I am a tool, just as you are a tool.”

The bioengineer instinctively bowed his head again. “
Sorry,” he said. “Forgive me.”

“You may ask God directly for
that.” The Shepherd turned his gaze to Lars, who had been watching the episode with amusement. “Considering the security situation, I had the staff seal off the lower floors.”

“
And we should redouble the guards,” Lars said.

“No. Now that Mr. Zhu has arrived, security must be shifted to protect his work.”
The old man motioned to a round table and chairs. “Now then. Please sit.”

He walked around to the other side. Only now, as his joints creaked as he slowly sat down, did Zhu see signs of the
Shepherd’s advanced age. Behind them, the double doors opened. A physician entered with a black case. The Shepherd motioned him inside.

“Hurry,” the old man said as the doctor removed the cufflink of his left
sleeve and rolled up the French cuff, revealing a surprisingly muscular forearm. He swabbed a vein with alcohol. Then he opened the case, removed a small electronic device and pressed it to the old man’s flesh just above his wrist. It beeped briefly before the physician pulled it away and rebuttoned Wolf’s shirt.

Something as
innocuous as insulin injections, Zhu wondered? Or something more radical meant to reverse aging, such as human growth hormones?

The carpenter’s hammering echoed loudly as the physician opened and closed the doors to leave.

“Termites?” Zhu inquired, recalling the man they had passed pulling up floorboards in the corridor.

“
No,” the old man responded. “Nightingales.”

“A bird infestation?”

“No, Mr. Zhu. As you are no doubt intimately aware, our people are under attack. Many are dead, and I’m afraid there will be many more before we are on the other side of this. After realizing the lengths to which the enemy will go to preserve their stranglehold on power, I made a call to a friend in Japan and had him find the caretaker for Nijo Castle. Do you know it?”

“No sir. Can’t say that I do.”

“Oh, it’s a remarkable ancient fortress in Kyoto.  During the Edo period, the floors were designed so that the nails in the floor would rub against clamps when people walked on it. To prevent against sneak attacks, you understand. It sounds remarkably like nightingale chirping.
Hence the name, nightingale floors. An ancient but effective security measure.” 

The doors opened again.
Two servants entered bearing trays of food and drink. They set them upon the table and backed out of the room. Magi crawled under it, lying obediently at his master’s feet. The old man plucked a piece of meat from one of the trays, reached down, and fed the dog his reward.

The sight of the animal chewing made Zhu’s mouth water. The old man gestured at the covered platters
on the desk. “I was unaware of your preferences,” he told his disciple, “so I had the kitchen make up suckling pig, and some rosemary lamb, and some
pasta alla carbonara
done in the traditional Roman style. I hope something will please you.”

Lars and Zhu ate heartily
without speaking. The old man nibbled on nuts and sipped
aqua con gas
while his guests ate. When at last he saw Zhu’s pace slowing, he spoke.

“
Now then, I know you will have many questions, but first I must ask a few of my own. Do you, Mr. Zhu, believe the conventional wisdom that we are to sit passively by through the ages and await the second coming of our savior?”

The bioengineer swallowed a mouthful of
pork and, with some gristle protruding from his front teeth, said, “No, your…” Zhu almost said ‘your Holiness,’ but stopped himself. “No sir.”

“
Oh, and why is that?”

“I have read the Living Scriptures. I searched my heart and
believe they are true.”

The
Shepherd grew impatient. “Use your own words! Speak from your heart!”

“
Why else,” Zhu tried again, “would God give us the smarts to invent space travel, or split the atom? Not to kill each other! We’re supposed to use our brains and our technology to know all about Him, and truly become one with Him.”

The old man smiled. “Spoken like a true believer. And what responsibility do you take for this belief?”

“I take full responsibility. I’m ready to apply the scientific knowledge God has granted me to fulfill our destiny.”

“The old man stood. Zhu found
the Shepherd’s mannerisms, and even his voice, completely mesmerizing. “Humanity has been led in the wrong direction. We must be the ones to reveal the great lies and wake humanity from its daydream of spiritual passiveness.”

Zhu watched as the old man took the
spumante
in his hands and filled Lars’ and Zhu’s goblets, and then his own.  He raised his glass in a toast.

“Tomorrow you will see that we have acquired
all that you asked for. Tonight, let us pray that the martyrs in Washington and London who have passed may now be one with God’s great unconditional love.”

Blake Carver Residence

Washington D.C.

Carver woke with the
feeling that something wasn’t right. He reached for his phone. Sure enough, it was 4 a.m. An hour earlier than his usual wakeup time. Since he’d been on assignment out in McLean, he’d gotten up every day at 5 a.m. for a run. Except for Thursdays, which was when the ODNI fencing club met in the gym. Although none of the analysts had managed to beat him yet, he enjoyed the challenge of keeping them scoreless.

He never thought his exile from
fieldwork would last this long, and he had to be disciplined to stay in shape.  There was so much sitting around. So much waiting for things to happen.

Carver
had spent most of the night in McLean with Arunus Roth, monitoring intelligence channels, Italian police radio scanners and the GPS for any sign of Adrian Zhu. He had finally gone home at 1 a.m. to grab a little sleep. He’d been dreaming about Zhu, he remembered. Carver’s mind tended to gnaw on problems while he slept, and he found that he often rose with a number of possible solutions.

Not this time. He was still mystified. Had Zhu really been kidnapped?
If so, by whom? Or did he run? But that made even less sense. He was not a prisoner in China. He did not have to defect. After all, he had gone to China to escape ethics questions that were uniquely American.

In five hours, he would have to appear before the committee.
He cursed, pulled the covers back, and got to his feet.

It was too early to
go for a run. Too early to eat. But not too early to hydrate. Carver walked into the kitchen of the one-bedroom duplex and drew a warm glass of water from his water ionizer. He had no doubt that one day the machine’s health benefits would be outed as a sham, but until science proved it wrong, he was going to chug this stuff.

Then, as was his daily custom, he grated about a teaspoon of ginger root directly into the water, and drank it. His mother’s recipe for healthy digestion
still did a body good.

Then he took the potted pipe organ cactus that rested in the kitchen window
– the only living thing in Carver’s one-bedroom condo – and dribbled some tap water into the soil.

On his sister’s insistence, he’d
brought Marty – he had named the cactus after the country music star Marty Robbins, one of his father’s favorites – back from Arizona on his last trip. Marty reminded him of home. And best of all, he could neglect Marty for weeks on end without killing him.

Carver
decided to see if there was anything of interest on the video from Adrian Zhu’s Sapienza University lecture, which he still had not seen in its entirety. He went to his living room, switched on his computer, and began watching the opening segment. Petro Parisi, the head of Sapienza University’s Faculty of Mathematical, Physical and Natural Studies, stepped onstage holding a microphone. The 63-year-old professor, who wore a slim-cut gray suit complete with a pocket square, made a show of giving Zhu’s hipster outfit a long look.

“I must admit,” Parisi said in English over the microphone.
“When I first saw you, and realized how young you are in relation to your scientific achievements, I became rather depressed at my own life.”

Zhu smiled wryly
. “Actually, I’ve always wished I’d been born a few decades earlier. Everything was so wide open. For example, sometimes I think about how free it would feel to live in the age before mobile phones. The thought of leaving the house, and having no way for people to contact you. It must have been so liberating.”

“You must be joking,” the professor said. “Imagine you make a date with someone to meet at a restaurant. You show up. They are running
very late because of traffic, or the flu, or a tyrannical boss. Meanwhile, you are sitting there drinking wine in anger, thinking they forgot about you. Eventually you leave, having no way of knowing that they are about to arrive. Believe me, this was no golden age.”

Carver fast-forwarded through
the rest of the banter and most of the regular presentation, which he had seen from footage of previous appearances at Oxford and Zurich. The Q & A period was what he was interested in.

Now he watched as a queue of journalists lined up at a microphone in the
center aisle. The first reporter began her question in Italian before Professor Parisi admonished her for straying from English, the official language of the conference. “Mr. Zhu,” she began again in English, “Are the nutritional benefits from the milk of your cloned cows really superior to those of existing milk substitutes?”

“
Without question,” Zhu replied. “But to be honest, the challenge of cloning cattle from hair samples, rather than frozen embryos, was a lot more interesting to me than the public benefits of the project.”

A writer from
La Repubblica
had the honor of asking the next question. “Mr. Zhu, you mentioned something about the milk of the cloned cattle called lysozyme. What is that exactly?”

“
A good bacterium,” Zhu said. “It contains proteins and vitamins and other things that help fight off infections and promote growth.”

“Have there been any
negative side effects in the children?”

“
Nope. Next question, please.”

The journalist remained at the mic, fending off the writer behind her with an elbow.
“It’s been rumored that LifeEmberz has actually cloned a human being that has matured beyond the embryo stage. Is there any truth to that rumor?”

The audience let out a collective gasp as they waited to see if Zhu would answer the question. Carver wondered if the journalist had heard the same rumors he had. An
American asset in China had reported – without any proof whatsoever – that Zhu had already successfully cloned a child for the most senior officer of the People’s Liberation Army, using mitochondrial DNA from the exhumed corpse of the official’s great-grandfather. The same asset had produced a dubious-looking set of emails in which a senior Communist Party official appeared to ask Zhu to clone Chairman Mao, the grand patriarch of the Communist Revolution, whose body lay perfectly preserved in a Tiananmen Square mausoleum. He implored Zhu to apply his considerable skills to the cause, explaining that his wife would give anything to have children with Mao’s DNA.

Nothing gave
Carver the creeps more than the idea of making fertilized eggs from the DNA of a totalitarian who had been on ice for decades. Still, a small part of Carver could understand it. How many Americans mothers would love to carry a baby made from the DNA of Abe Lincoln, John F. Kennedy, Ronald Reagan or Bill Clinton?

Zhu
licked his thin lips before speaking. “I’m not at liberty to comment on any research in progress.”

Carver
replayed the sound bite and played it again. And again. He called Arunus Roth, who was monitoring the situation from McLean. “Did you watch this Zhu video?” He didn’t wait for Roth’s answer. “Maybe I’m crazy, but I think Zhu just admitted to cloning a human.”