Map of Bones: A Sigma Force Novel

by James Rollins

  GRAY AND the others fell out of the rented Mercedes E55 sedan and stumbled onto the pedestrian plaza of the lakeside town of Como. Morning strollers and window-shoppers dotted the cobblestone square that led down to a promenade bordering the still blue waters.

  Kat yawned and stretched, a cat slowly waking. She checked her watch. “Three countries in four hours.”

  They had driven all night. Across Germany to Switzerland, then over the Alps into Italy. They had traveled by car, rather than by train or plane, to maintain their anonymity, passing borders with false identification. They did not want to alert anyone that their group had survived the attack in Cologne.

  Gray planned on contacting Sigma command after they had secured the bones from the basilica in Milan and had reached the Vatican. Once ensconced in Rome, they would regroup and strategize with their respective superiors. Despite the risk of a leak, Gray needed to debrief Washington on the events in Cologne, to reevaluate the mission’s parameters.

  In the meantime, the plan was to rotate drivers while en route from Cologne to Milan, to let everyone get a bit of shut-eye. It hadn’t worked out that way.

  Out of the car, Monk stood at the edge of the plaza, bent over, hands on his knees, slightly green in the face.

  “It’s her driving,” Vigor said, patting Monk on the back. “She goes a bit fast.”

  “I’ve been on fighter planes, doing goddamn loopty-loops,” he grumbled. “This…this was worse.”

  Rachel climbed out of the driver’s seat and closed the door to the rental car. She had driven the entire way at breakneck speed, flying down the German Autobahn and taking the hairpin turns of the Alpine roads at physics-defying velocities.

  She pushed her blue-tinted sunglasses to her forehead. “You just need some breakfast,” she assured Monk. “I know a nice bistro along the Piazza Cavour.”

  Despite some reservations, Gray had agreed to stop for food. They needed gas, and the place was remote. And with the attack only six hours old, confusion still reigned back in Cologne. By the time it was known that their bodies were not among the dead at the cathedral, they would be in Rome. In a few more hours, the necessity for maintaining the ruse of their deaths would be over.

  In the meantime, they were all road-weary and famished.

  Rachel led the way across the plaza toward the banks of the lake. Gray followed her with his eyes. Despite the overnight drive, she moved with no sign of fatigue. If anything, she seemed enlivened by her Alpine racing, like it was her form of yoga. The haunted look in her eye from the night of terror had faded with each passing mile.

  He found himself both relieved at her resilience and somewhat disappointed. He remembered her hand squeezing his as they ran. The worry in her eyes as she straddled the ledge of the cathedral’s tower. The way her eyes fixed on him at that moment, trusting him, needing him.

  That woman was gone.

  Ahead, the view opened up, drawing his eye. The lake was a blue jewel set within the rugged green peaks of the lower Alps. A few of the mountains were still tipped with snow, reflected in the placid waters.

  “Lago di Como,” Vigor said, striding beside Gray. “Virgil once described this as the world’s greatest lake.”

  They reached a gardened promenade. The path was fringed with sprawls of camellias, azaleas, rhododendrons, and magnolias. The cobbled walkway continued along the edge of the lake, lined by chestnut trees, Italian cypresses, and white-barked laurels. Out in the waters, tiny sailboats skimmed along with the mild morning breezes. Up in the green hills, clusters of homes perched precariously atop cliff faces, shaded in hues of cream, gold, and terra-cotta red.

  Gray noted the beauty and fresh air seemed to be reviving Monk, or at least the solid footing was. Kat’s eyes also took in the sights.

  “Ristorante Imbarcadero,” Rachel said, pointing across the piazza.

  “A drive-through restaurant would’ve been fine,” Gray said, checking his watch.

  “Maybe for you,” Monk said dourly.

  Vigor stepped next to him. “We made good time. We’ll reach Milan in another hour.”

  “But the bones—”

  Vigor silenced him with a frown. “Commander, the Vatican is well aware of the risk to the relics in the Basilica of Sant’Eustorgio. I was already under orders to stop in Milan to collect them on my way back to Rome. In the meantime, the Vatican has secured the bones in the basilica’s safe, the church has been locked down, and the local police have been alerted.”

  “That won’t necessarily stop the Dragon Court,” Gray said, picturing the devastation in Cologne.

  “I doubt they’d strike in full daylight. The group skulks in shadows and darkness. And we’ll be in Milan before noon.”

  Kat added, “It won’t delay us much to place a take-out order and be back on the road.”

  Though far from satisfied, Gray conceded the point. The group needed to refuel as much as their automobile.

  Reaching the restaurant, Rachel opened a gate to a bougainvillea-adorned terrace overlooking the lake. “The Imbarcadero serves the best local dishes. You should try the risotto con pesce persico.”

  “Golden perch with risotto,” Vigor translated. “It is wonderful here. The fillets are rolled in flour and sage, shallow fried, and served crisp on a thick bed of risotto, soaking in butter.”

  Rachel guided them to a table.

  Somewhat mollified, Gray allowed himself to appreciate Rachel’s enthusiasm. She spoke rapidly in Italian to an older man in an apron who came out to greet them. She smiled easily, making small talk. They hugged afterward.

  Rachel turned back and waved to the seats. “If you want something lighter, try the courgette flowers stuffed with bread and boraggine. But definitely have a small plate of agnolotti.”

  Vigor nodded. “A ravioli with aubergine and bufala mozzarella.” He kissed his fingertips in appreciation.

  “So I take it you’ve eaten here a few times,” Monk said, dropping heavily into a seat. He eyed Gray.

  So much for anonymity.

  Vigor patted Monk’s shoulder. “The owners are friends of our family, going back three generations. Rest assured, they know how to be discreet.” He waved to a rotund server. “Ciao, Mario! Bianco Secco di Montecchia, per favore!”

  “Right away, Padre! I also have a nice Chiaretto from Bellagio. Came by ferry last night.”

  “Perfetto! A bottle of each then while we wait!”

  “Antipasti?”

  “Of course, Mario. We are not barbarians.”

  Their order was placed with much bravado and laughter: salmon salad with apple vinegar, barley stew, breaded veal, tagliatelle pasta with whitefish, something called pappardelle.

  Mario brought out a platter as large as the table, piled with olives and an assortment of antipasti…along with two bottles of wine, one red, one white.

  “Buon appetito!” he said loudly.

  It seemed Italians made a feast out of every meal—even take-out orders. Wine flowed. Glasses lifted. Bits of salami and cheese were passed around.

  “Salute, Mario!” Rachel cheered as they finished the platter.

  Monk leaned back, attempted to stifle a belch and failed. “That alone overfilled the tank.”

  Kat had eaten just as much, but she was now studying the dessert menu with the same intensity with which she had read the mission dossier.

  “Signorina?” Mario asked, noting her interest.

  She pointed to the menu. “Macedonia con panna.”

  Monk groaned.

  “It’s only fruit salad with cream.” She glanced at the others, eyes wide. “It’s light.”

  Gray sat back. He didn’t suppress the bravado. He sensed they all needed this momentary respite. Once under way, the day would be a blur. They’d blow into Milan, grab the relic bones, and then take one of the hourly high-speed trains into Rome, getting there before nightfall.

  Gray had also used the time to study Vigor Verona. Despite the festivities, the monsignor seemed l
ost to his own thoughts again. Gray could see the gears churning in the man’s head.

  Vigor suddenly focused on him, matched his gaze. He pushed back from the table. “Commander Pierce, while we’re waiting on the kitchen, I wonder if I might have a private word. Perhaps we could stretch our legs on the promenade.”

  Gray settled his glass and stood. The others glanced to them curiously, but Gray nodded for them to remain there.

  Vigor led the way off the terrace and onto the main promenade that bordered the lake. “There’s something I’d like to discuss with you and perhaps get your opinion.”

  “Certainly.”

  They walked down a block, and Vigor stepped to a stone railing that abutted an empty dock. They had privacy here.

  Vigor kept his view on the lake, tapping one fist on the railing. “I understand that the Vatican’s role in all of this is centered on the theft of the relics. And once we return to Rome, I suspect you plan on cutting ties and pursuing the Dragon Court on your own.”

  Gray considered vacillating, but the man deserved an honest answer. He could not risk further endangering this man and his niece. “I think it’s best,” he said. “And I’m sure both our superiors will agree.”

  “But I don’t.” A bit of heat entered his words.

  Gray frowned.

  “If you’re right about the bones being the source for the strange amalgam powder, then I believe our roles here are more deeply entwined than either organization suspected.”

  “I don’t see how.”

  Vigor glanced to him again with that focused intensity that seemed to be a Verona family trait. “Then let me convince you. First, we know the Dragon Court is an aristocratic society involved in the search for secret or lost knowledge. They’ve concentrated on ancient Gnostic texts and other arcana.”

  “Mystical mumbo jumbo.”

  Vigor turned to him, cocking his head. “Commander Pierce, I believe you yourself have undergone a study of alternate faiths and philosophies. From Taoism to some of the Hindi cults.”

  Gray flushed. It was easy to forget that the monsignor was an experienced field operative for the Vatican intelligenza. Clearly a dossier had been gathered on him.

  “To seek spiritual truth is never wrong,” the monsignor continued. “No matter the path. In fact, the definition of gnosis is ‘to seek truth, to find God.’ I can’t even fault the Dragon Court in this pursuit. Gnosticism has been a part of the Catholic Church since its inception. Even predates it.”

  “Fine,” Gray said, unable to keep a trace of irritation out of his voice. “What does any of this have to do with the massacre at Cologne?”

  The monsignor sighed. “In some ways, the attack today could be traced back to a conflict between two apostles. Thomas and John.”

  Gray shook his head. “What are you talking about?”

  “In the beginning, Christianity was an outlaw religion. An upstart faith like none other in its time. Unlike other religions that collected dues as a required part of their faith, the young Christian family contributed money voluntarily. The funds went to feed and house orphans, bought food and medicine for the sick, paid for coffins for the poor. Such support of the downtrodden attracted large numbers of people, despite the risks of belonging to an outlawed faith.”

  “Yes, I know. Christian good works and all that. Still, what does—”

  Gray was cut off by a raised palm. “If you’ll let me continue, you might learn something.”

  Gray bridled but kept silent. Besides being a Vatican spy, Vigor was also a university professor. He plainly didn’t like his lectures being interrupted.

  “In the early years of the church, secrecy remained paramount, requiring surreptitious meetings in caves and crypts. This led to different groups being cut off from one another. First by distance, with major sects in Alexandria, Antioch, Carthage, and Rome. Then, with such isolation, individual practices began to diverge, along with differing philosophies. Gospels were popping up everywhere. The ones collected in the Bible: Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. But also others. The Secret Gospel of James, of Mary Magdalene, of Philip. The Gospel of Truth. The Apocalypse of Peter. And many others. With all these gospels, different sects began to develop around them. The young church began to splinter.”

  Gray nodded. He had attended the Jesuit high school where his mother had taught. He knew some of this history.

  “But in the second century,” Vigor continued, “the bishop of Lyons, Saint Irenaeus, wrote five volumes under the title Adversus Haereses. Against Heresies. Its full title was The Destruction and Overthrow of Falsely So-called Knowledge. It was the moment where all early Gnostic beliefs were sifted out of the Christian religion, creating the fourfold Gospel canon, limiting the Gospels to Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. All others were deemed heretical. To paraphrase Irenaeus, just as there are four regions of the universe, and four principal winds, the church needed only four pillars.”

  “But why pick those four gospels out of all the others?”

  “Why indeed? Therein lies my concern.”

  Gray found his attention focused more fully. Despite his irritation at being lectured, he was curious where all this was leading.

  Vigor stared out across the lake. “Three of the Gospels—Matthew, Mark, and Luke—all tell the same story. But the Gospel of John relates a very different history, even events in Christ’s life don’t match the chronology in the others. But there was a more fundamental reason why John was included in the standardized Bible.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of his fellow apostle, Thomas.”

  “As in Doubting Thomas?” Gray was well versed on the story of the one apostle who refused to believe Christ had resurrected, not until he could see it with his own eyes.

  Vigor nodded. “But did you know that only the Gospel of John tells the story of Doubting Thomas? Only John portrays Thomas as this dull-witted and faithless disciple. The other Gospels revere Thomas. Do you know why John tells this disparaging account?”

  Gray shook his head. In all his years as a Roman Catholic, he had never noticed this imbalance in viewpoint.

  “John sought to discredit Thomas, or more specifically, the followers of Thomas, who were numerous at that time. Even today you can still find a strong following of Thomas Christians in India. But in the early church, there was a fundamental schism between the gospels of Thomas and John. They were so different that only one gospel could survive.”

  “What do you mean? How different could they be?”

  “It goes back to the very beginning of the Bible, to Genesis, to the opening line. ‘Let there be light.’ Both John and Thomas identify Jesus with this primordial light, the light of creation. But from there, their interpretations widely diverge. According to Thomas, the light not only brought the universe into being but still exists within all things, especially within mankind, who was made in the image of God, and that the light is hidden within each person, only waiting to be found.”

  “And what about John?”

  “Now, John took a totally different view of matters. Like Thomas, he believed the primordial light was embodied by Christ, but John declared that only Christ held this light. The rest of the world remained forever in darkness, including mankind. And that the path back to this light, back to salvation and God, could only be found through the worship of the divine Christ.”

  “A much narrower view.”

  “And more pragmatic for the young church. John offered a more orthodox method for salvation, of coming into the light. Only through the worship of Christ. It was this simplicity and directness that appealed to the church leaders during this chaotic time. Contrarily Thomas suggested everyone had an innate ability to find God, by looking within, requiring no worship.”

  “And that had to be squashed out.”

  A shrug.

  “But which is right?”

  Vigor grinned. “Who knows? I don’t have all the answers. As Jesus said, ‘Seek and you shall find.’”


  Gray pinched his brows. That line sounded pretty Gnostic to him. He glanced out to the lake, watching the sailboats scud past. Light shone brilliantly off the waters. Seek and you shall find. Had that been the path he had been on himself by studying so many philosophies? If so, he had come to no satisfactory answers.

  And speaking of unsatisfactory answers…

  Gray turned back to Vigor, realizing how far off track they had gotten. “What does all this have to do with the massacre in Cologne?”

  “Let me tell you.” He held up one finger. “First, I think this attack harkens back to the age-old conflict between John’s orthodox faith and Thomas’s ancient Gnostic tradition.”

  “With the Catholic Church on one side and the Dragon Court on the other?”

  “No, that’s just it. I’ve been pondering this all night. The Dragon Court, while it seeks knowledge through Gnostic mysteries, does not ultimately seek God, only power. They want a new world order, a return to feudalism, with themselves at the helm, confident that they are genetically superior to lead mankind. So no, I don’t think the Dragon Court represents the Gnostic side of this ancient conflict. I think they are perverters of it, power-hungry scavengers. But they definitely have roots back to that tradition.”

  Gray grudgingly conceded the point, but he was far from swayed.

  Vigor must have sensed this. He lifted a second finger. “Point two. In the Gospel of Thomas, there’s a story that tells of how Jesus pulled Thomas aside one day and told him three things in secret. When the other apostles asked him what was told to him, he answered, ‘If I tell you even one of the things, you will pick up stones and throw them at me; and a fire will come out of the stones and burn you up.’”

  Vigor stared at Gray, waiting, as if it were a test.

  Gray was up for it. “A fire from stones that burns. Like what happened to the parishioners at the church.”

  He nodded. “I’ve thought of that quote since I first heard of the murders.”

  “That’s a pretty thin connection,” Gray said, unconvinced.

  “It might be if I didn’t have a third historical point to make.” Vigor lifted a third finger.

  Gray felt like a lamb being led to the slaughter.