The Fellowship by William Tyree Read Free Book Online Page B

brownstones. “This is it?” Carver said incredulously. They were only a few blocks from the Capitol Building where Carver’s hearing had been. “We could have walked faster.”
    They got out of the vehicle and walked into the tiny yard. The front door opened and he spotted Fordham inside, beckoning them up the stairs. What was going on here? Carver couldn’t fathom anything happening at a residential address that would require the heads of both the FBI and the ODNI to make a personal visit. Nothing short of a major breech in national security.
    Carver liked Fordham, who was a rare holdover from the previous administration. Last year Fordham had helped put an end to the Ulysses Coup. Sixteen FBI agents sacrificed their lives that week – a huge loss by any measure, especially considering that, until that day in August, only 26 agents had been killed in the agency’s entire history.
    After assuming the presidency, Eva Hudson had set about cleaning house from top to bottom. No one was safe. Of the 17 agency heads making up the intelligence community, only Fordham had been retained. He had proven himself to be an ally. 
    As they entered, Fordham greeted Julian and reached out to Carver with a latex-gloved hand. The presence of latex suggested a crime scene. And yet there was no police tape, no guys in FBI jackets swarming the yard.
    “If you two will suit up, please,” one of Fordham’s men told them. He pointed to a box of aqua latex gloves and shoe prophylactics , which the two men quickly put on. As Fordham led them through the home, Carver heard the sound of a woman in hysterics. He poked his head into the living room, seeking the source of the commotion. He didn’t spot the crier, but the calfskin rugs and original Eames lounge chairs told him that the occupants were people of means with western taste.
    “Who knows about this?” Speers asked.
    “As of now,” Fordham said, “There are only seven people in the circle of trust, including you two and the POTUS.”
    The president? Whatever was going on here, it was huge. Either someone high-profile is dead in this house, Carver thought, or they’ve found a nuke in the basement.
    Carver lingered in the doorway of a small study, where he found the source of the noise. A woman, mid-20s, sporting a blonde boy-cut and a sharp but conservative red dress. Her black flats danced on the floor as the rest of her convulsed in manic weeping. A plainclothes special agent with her back to the door was trying to calm the woman down and conduct an interview.  Carver’s eyes scanned the gray pantsuit that revealed a runner’s haunches and slender, smallish shoulders. He knew those gams.
    “Haley?”
    Haley Ellis turned. The skin of her angular face was tanned and framed by wispy, shoulder-length hair. It was her, all right. The last time Carver had seen her, she had been a senior liaison for Pentagon-White House Affairs.
    “Forgot you two knew each other,” Speers said.
    Carver hadn’t seen Ellis in 13 months.  And that had been on purpose.
    “This way ,” Fordham urged, motioning for Carver to come to the end of the hallway. He held an old rectangular-shaped flashlight that looked large enough to light up FedExField.
    “ Who’s that gal Haley’s talking to?” Carver said.
    “ Mary Borst. She’s the executive assistant to Senator Preston.”
    Carver got tense just thinking about what her days must be like. The executive assistant for anyone on the Hill was never paid enough in relation to the stress they endured. They had to manage huge egos, scheduling and even menial tasks for the Senator, like picking up dry-cleaning and babysitting.
    They came to the basement staircase. “No lights down there,” Fordham commented as he switched on his flashlight, which was less powerful than it looked, and led them down 15 steps.
    The subject of interest was in the middle of the basement, which was unfurnished except for a row of tools and a wooden workbench along the far