Map of Bones

by James Rollins

  He tapped a sheet on his desk. “From this fresh handwriting—a woman’s, if I’m not mistaken—this map must have been embellished by your own hand.”

  He waved her over.

  Rachel had no choice. Raoul shoved her forward.

  She tripped over a stack of books and had to grab the edge of the desk to keep from falling. She stared down at the map of the Mediterranean. The hourglass was drawn upon it, as were the names of the Seven Wonders.

  She kept her face stoic.

  They had found her map. She had sealed it in a pouch of her dry suit. Now she wished she’d burned it.

  Alberto leaned closer. His breath reeked of olives and sour wine. He drew a fingernail along the axis line that Gray had scribed. It stopped at Rome. “Tell me about this.”

  “It’s where we’re supposed to go next,” Rachel lied. She was relieved her uncle had not drawn on the map in ink himself. He had simply extended the line with his finger and the straight edge of Gray’s knife.

  Alberto turned his head. “Now, why is that? I’d like to hear all about what went down in that tomb. In great detail. Raoul has been good enough to supply digital snapshots, but I think a firsthand account would be of more value.”

  Rachel kept silent.

  Raoul’s fingers tightened on her arm. She winced.

  Alberto waved Raoul away. “There’s no need for that.”

  The pressure relented, but Raoul did not let go.

  “You have the American for that, don’t you?” Alberto asked. “Maybe you’d better show her. We could all use a little fresh air, no?”

  Raoul grinned.

  Rachel felt a knot of terror tighten around her heart.

  She was led out of the cabin and forced up the steps. As she climbed, Raoul reached and slid a palm up her robe, along her thigh, fingers kneading. She scrambled upward.

  The stairs led to the open stern of the hydrofoil. Sunlight glared off the white decking. Three men lounged on side benches, casually carrying assault rifles.

  They eyed her.

  She cinched her robe tighter, shuddering, still feeling Raoul’s fingers on her. The large man climbed up, followed by Alberto.

  She stepped around a short wall that separated the stairwell from the deck. She found Monk.

  He was lying on his stomach, naked except for boxers, his wrists bound behind him and his legs hog-tied at the ankle. It looked like two of his fingers had been broken on his left hand, bent back at impossible angles. Blood smeared the deck. He opened one swollen eye when she stepped out.

  He had no quip for her.

  That scared her more than anything.

  Raoul and his men must have taken their anger out on Monk, the only target.

  “Untie his arms,” Raoul ordered. “Get him on his back.”

  The men responded quickly. Monk groaned as his arms were freed. He was flipped onto his back. One of the guards held a rifle at Monk’s ear.

  Raoul grabbed a fire-ax from a stanchion.

  “What are you doing?” Rachel hurried to stand between the large man and Monk.

  “That depends on you,” Raoul said. He hefted the ax to his shoulder.

  One of the men responded to some discreet signal. Rachel’s elbows were grabbed and pinned behind her back. She was carted backward.

  Raoul pointed his ax, one-armed, at the third man. “Sit on his chest, hold his left arm down at the elbow.” Raoul strode forward as the man obeyed. He glanced back to Rachel. “I believe the professore asked you a question.”

  Alberto stepped forward. “And don’t leave out any details.”

  Rachel was too horrified to respond.

  “He has five fingers on this side,” Raoul added. “We’ll start with the broken ones. They’re not of much use anyway.” He raised the ax.

  “No!” Rachel choked out.

  “Don’t…” Monk groaned to her.

  The guard with the rifle kicked Monk in the head.

  “I’ll tell you!” Rachel blurted out.

  She spoke rapidly, explaining all that had happened, from the discovery of Alexander’s body to the activation of the ancient batteries. She left out nothing, except for the truth. “It took us some time, but we solved the riddle…the map…the Seven Wonders…it all points back to the beginning. A complete circle. Back to Rome.”

  Alberto’s eyes glowed with the telling, asking a few pertinent questions, nodding every now and then. “Yes, yes…”

  Rachel finished. “That’s all we know.”

  Alberto turned to Raoul. “She’s lying.”

  “I thought so.” He swung the ax down.

  4:16 P.M.

  RAOUL ENJOYED the woman’s scream.

  He pulled his ax head from where it had embedded in the deck. He had missed the captive’s fingertips by the breadth of a hair. He yanked the ax to his shoulder and turned to the woman. Her face had paled to a shiny translucency.

  “Next time, it’s for real,” he warned.

  Dr. Alberto stepped forward. “Our large friend here was good enough to get an angled flash on that center pyramid. It shows a square hole in its surface. Something you failed to mention. And a sin of omission is as good as a lie. Is that not so, Raoul?”

  He raised the ax. “Shall we try again?”

  Alberto leaned closer to Rachel. “There’s no need for your friend to come to harm. I know something must have been taken from the tomb. It makes no sense to blindly point to Rome without an additional clue. What did you take from the pyramid?”

  Tears rolled down her face.

  Raoul read the tortured agony in every line of her face. He grew hard, remembering a few moments ago. Through a one-way mirror, he had spied as one of the captain’s bitches had fingered through all the woman’s private places. He had wanted to perform the body-cavity search himself, but the captain had refused. His boat, his rule. Raoul hadn’t pressed. The captain was in a sour enough mood upon learning of Seichan’s demise, lost with so many of Raoul’s men.

  Besides, he would soon be performing his own private inspection of the woman…but he planned on being much less gentle.

  “What was taken?” Alberto pressed.

  Raoul widened his stance, hefting the ax higher over his head. His freshly sutured hand ached, but he ignored it. Maybe she wouldn’t tell…maybe this could be stretched out….

  But the woman cracked. “A key…a gold key,” she whimpered, then sank to her knees on the deck. “Gray…Commander Pierce has it.”

  Behind her tears, Raoul heard a trace of hope in her voice.

  He knew a way to squash that.

  He brought the ax down in a steady hard swing. The ax severed the man’s hand at the wrist.

  4:34 P.M.

  IT’S TIME to go,” Gray said.

  He had given Vigor and Kat an additional forty-five minutes to call all the local hospitals and medical centers, even discreet calls to the municipal police. Maybe they had been injured, unable to contact them. Or they were cooling their heels in a jail cell.

  Gray stood up as his sat-phone rang from his pack.

  All eyes turned.

  “Thank God,” Vigor gasped.

  Only a handful of people had the phone’s number: Director Crowe and his teammates.

  Gray grabbed his phone and swung up its antenna. He moved closer to the window. “Commander Pierce,” he said.

  “I will keep this brief, so there’s no confusion.”

  Gray stiffened. It was Raoul. That could only mean one thing…

  “We have the woman and your teammate. You’ll do exactly as we say or we’ll be mailing their heads to Washington and Rome…after we’re done playing with their bodies, of course.”

  “How do I know they’re still—?”

  A shuffle sounded at the other end. A new voice gasped. He heard the tears behind the words. “They…I…they cut off Monk’s hand. He—”

  The phone was taken away.

  Gray tried not to react. Now was not the time. Still, his finger
s clenched hard to the phone. His heart climbed into his throat, constricting his words.

  “What do you want?”

  “The gold key from the tomb,” Raoul said.

  So they knew about it. Gray understood why Rachel had revealed the secret. How could she not? She must have traded the information for Monk’s life. They were safe as long as the Court knew Gray retained the key. But that didn’t mean worse mutilations would not be performed if he didn’t cooperate. He remembered the condition of the tortured priests in Milan.

  “You want a trade,” he said coldly.

  “There is an EgyptAir flight leaving Alexandria at 2100 hours for Geneva, Switzerland. You will be on that flight. You alone. We will have false papers and tickets in a locker, so no computer searches will trace your flight.” Directions to the locker followed. “You will not contact your superiors…either in Washington or Rome. If you do, we’ll know. Is that understood?”

  “Yes,” he bit off. “But how do I know you’ll stick to your end of the bargain?”

  “You don’t. But as a gesture of goodwill, when you land in Geneva, I’ll contact you again. If you follow our directions precisely, I’ll free your man. He’ll be sent to a local Swiss hospital. We will pass on satisfactory confirmation of this for you. But the woman will remain in custody until you give over the gold key.”

  Gray knew the offer to free Monk was probably sincere, but not out of goodwill. Monk’s life was an advance on the deal, a token to lure Gray into cooperating. He tried to shut out Rachel’s earlier words. They had cut off Monk’s hand.

  He had no choice.

  “I’ll be on the flight,” he said.

  Raoul was not done. “The others on the team…the bitch and the monsignor…are free to go as long as they stay quiet and out of the way. If either sets foot in Italy or Switzerland, the deal is off.”

  Gray frowned. He understood keeping the others out of Switzerland…but why Italy? Then it struck him. He pictured Rachel’s map. The line he had drawn. Pointing to Rome. Rachel had revealed much—but not all.

  Good girl.

  “Agreed,” Gray said, his mind already wheeling out in various scenarios.

  “Any sign of subterfuge and you’ll never see the woman or your teammate again…except for body parts mailed out daily.” The connection ended.

  Gray lowered the phone and turned to the others. He repeated the conversation verbatim, so all would understand. “I will be on that flight.”

  Vigor’s face had drained of blood, his worst fears realized.

  “They could ambush you at any point,” Kat said.

  He nodded. “But I believe as long as I keep moving toward them, they’ll let me. They’ll not risk losing the key in a failed attempt.”

  “And what about us?” Vigor asked.

  “I need you both in Avignon. Working on the mystery there.”

  “I…I can’t,” Vigor said. “Rachel…” He sank to the bed.

  Gray firmed his voice. “Rachel has bought us a slim chance in Avignon, some leeway. Paid with Monk’s blood and body. I won’t let their efforts be squandered.”

  Vigor looked up at him.

  “You have to trust me.” Gray’s demeanor hardened. “I’ll get Rachel. You have my word.”

  Vigor stared at him, attempting to read something there. Whatever he found, he seemed to gain some resolve from it.

  Gray hoped it was enough.

  “How do you—?” Kat began.

  Gray shook his head, stepping away. “The less we know of each other’s movements from here, the better.” He crossed and gathered up his pack. “I’ll contact you when I have Rachel.”

  He headed out.

  With one hope.

  5:55 P.M.

  SEICHAN SAT in the dark, holding a broken bit of knife.

  The spear through her shoulder still held her pinned to the wall. The inch-thick lance had sheared up under her collarbone and out the top of her shoulder, missing major blood vessels and her scapula. But she remained hooked in place. Blood seeped continually down the inside of her wetsuit.

  Every movement was agony.

  But she was alive.

  The last of Raoul’s men had gone quiet about the time the last flashlight had died. The firebomb Raoul had set to destroy the far chamber had barely reached this room. The heat had come close to parboiling her, though, but now she wished for that heat again.

  A chill had set in, even through her suit. The stone surfaces leached the warmth from her. The blood loss didn’t help.

  Seichan refused to give up. She fingered the broken blade in her hand. She had been picking at the stone block, where the sharpened end of the spear had embedded. If she could dig it free, loosen the shaft…

  Rock chips littered the floor. Down there was also the broken hilt to her dagger. It had shattered shortly after she’d started.

  All she had left was a three-inch remnant of blade. Her fingers were bloody from the blade and the coarse rock. It was a futile effort.

  Cold sweat oiled her face.

  Off to the side, a glow grew. She thought it was her imagination. She turned her head. The entry pool was shining. The illumination grew.

  The water stirred. Someone was coming.

  Seichan clutched the bit of knife—both fearful and hopeful.

  Who?

  A dark shape splashed up. A diver. The flashlight blinded her as the figure climbed out.

  She shadowed her eyes against the sudden brightness and glare.

  The diver lowered the flashlight.

  Seichan recognized a familiar face as he yanked back his mask and approached. Commander Gray Pierce.

  He stepped toward her and lifted a hacksaw. “Let’s talk.”

  DAY FOUR

  14

  GOTHIC

  JULY 27, 6:02 P.M.

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  DIRECTOR PAINTER Crowe knew he was in for another sleepless night. He had heard the reports out of Egypt of an attack at the East Harbor of Alexandria. Had Gray’s team been involved? With no eyes in the sky, they had been unable to investigate through satellite surveillance.

  And still no word had been passed from the field. The last messages had been exchanged twelve hours ago.

  Painter regretted not relating his suspicions to Gray Pierce. But at that point, they had only been suspicions. Painter had needed time to finesse some further intelligence. And still he wasn’t certain. If he proceeded more boldly, the conspirator would know he’d been discovered. It would put Gray and his teammates in further jeopardy.

  So Painter worked his end alone.

  A knock on his office door drew his eyes from the computer screen.

  He turned off his computer monitor to hide his work. He buzzed the lock. His secretary was gone for the day.

  Logan Gregory entered. “Their jet is in final approach.”

  “Still headed into Marseilles?” Painter asked.

  Logan nodded. “Due to land in eighteen minutes. Just after midnight local time.”

  “Why France?” Painter rubbed his tired eyes. “And they’re still maintaining a communication blackout?”

  “The pilot will confirm their destination, but nothing else. I was able to worm out a manifest through French customs. There are two passengers aboard.”

  “Only two?” Painter sat straighter, frowning.

  “Flying under diplomatic vouchers. Anonymous. I can attempt to dig through that.”

  Painter had to work carefully from here. “No,” he said. “That might raise some alarm bells. The team wants to keep their activity cloaked. We’ll give them some room. For now.”

  “Yes, sir. I also have requests from Rome. The Vatican and the Carabinieri have not heard anything and are getting anxious.”

  Painter had to offer them something or the EU authorities might react harshly. He considered his options. It would not take long for the authorities in Europe to ascertain the jet’s destination. It would have to do.

  “Be cooperative,”
he finally said. “Let them know of the flight to Marseilles, and that we’ll pass on further intel as we learn more.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Painter stared at his blank computer screen. He had a narrow window of opportunity. “Once you contact them, I’ll need you to run an errand for me. Out to DARPA.”

  Logan frowned.

  “I have something that I need personally couriered over to Dr. Sean McKnight.” Painter slid over a sealed letter in a red pouch. “But no one must know you’re headed over there.”

  Logan’s eyes narrowed quizzically, but he nodded. “I’ll take care of it.” He took the pouch, tucked it under his arm, and turned away.

  Painter spoke to him. “Absolute discretion.”

  “You can trust me,” Logan said firmly, and closed the door with a click of the lock.

  Painter switched back on his computer. It showed a map of the Mediterranean basin with swaths of yellow and blue crisscrossing it. Satellite paths. He laid his pointer over one. NRO’s newest satellite, nicknamed Hawkeye. He double-clicked and brought up trajectory details and search parameters.

  He typed in Marseilles. Times came up. He cross-referenced with NOAA’s weather map. A storm front swept toward southern France. Heavy cloud cover would block surveillance. The window of opportunity was narrow.

  Painter checked his watch. He picked up the phone and spoke to security. “Let me know when Logan Gregory has left the command center.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Painter hung up the phone. Timing would be critical. He waited out another fifteen minutes, watching the storm front track over Western Europe.

  “C’mon,” he mumbled.

  The phone finally rang. Painter confirmed that Logan was gone, then stood up and left his office. The sat-recon was down one floor, neighboring Logan’s office. Painter rushed down there to find a lone technician jotting in a logbook, nestled in the arced bank of monitors and computers.

  The man was surprised by the sudden appearance of his boss and jerked to his feet. “Director Crowe, sir…how can I help you?”