The Bone Chamber

by Robin Burcell

  Alec Harden was expecting a report on his missing daughter, and Zach did not relish the duty of informing him that her status had changed from that of missing to most likely dead. Despite the forensic drawing that solidified their suspicions of it being Alessandra Harden, they lacked the evidence such as DNA or dental for that one hundred percent verification, the sort that told a waiting family member that there could be no mistake.

  “Mr. Griffin, a pleasure as always,” Ambassador Harden said, rising from a wingback chair to shake Zach’s hand. He was in the midst of late afternoon tea, a steaming cup by the window with a view of the spacious gardens of the American Academy across the narrow street. A group of Fellows of the Academy were playing croquet under the tall parasol pines, and their laughter drifted into the high-ceilinged room.

  “Mr. Ambassador. Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  Zach waited until the maid left the room. Once they were alone, he said, “It’s about your daughter.”

  “You found her? Thank God.”

  “I-” He took a breath, knew there was no good way to impart such news, then said, “She was murdered.”

  Alec Harden’s face paled. His mouth parted, but no words came, and Zach let him be, allowed the words to sink in as he dropped into his morocco leather chair, closing his eyes. Outside, wooden mallets clicked on wooden balls, and one of the Fellows shouted that another had cheated on his shot. Finally, through eyes blurred with tears, Alec asked, “How? Why?”

  “We don’t have all the answers yet, sir, but we’re working on them.”

  “Why so long?”

  “We only just identified her. A forensic artist had to be brought in.”

  “A forensic artist? For what? What does that mean?”

  “Whoever killed her didn’t want her identified.”

  The ambassador stared in mute silence. And then he rose, walked over to a side table, and poured himself a glass of what looked like whiskey from a crystal decanter. He drank it down in one shot, then poured another. When he finished that one, he faced Zach, saying, “That’s why you asked for my DNA-why there was an issue when you found out she was adopted? It wasn’t just a precaution-you knew?”

  “We suspected. We had no way of knowing for sure.”

  “How many weeks has it been? You should have informed me then.”

  “And what if it wasn’t her? Torture you while we waited to learn the truth?”

  “My daughter has been missing for that long. That was torture enough, the not knowing.”

  And Zach could say nothing. He had no children of his own. He could never imagine what it would be like to report a son or daughter missing, never mind learn that they had been murdered. But the request for the ambassador’s DNA had been a precaution, because it was possible they were wrong. And that was when they’d learned that the ambassador and his late wife had adopted Alessandra from Romania when she was an infant. There were no clear records, no chance of a family member’s DNA to be found, so that avenue of identification had been fruitless. Because she had traveled so much with her family, finding any dental records that could be used had been harder than Zach had thought possible. “At this point, our only identification is from the forensic artist’s sketch.”

  “I’d like to see it.”

  Zach removed it from his briefcase, handed it over.

  Alec stared at it, blinking back tears. “That’s her.”

  “It would help if we had some of her DNA. For a positive match.”

  “It’s her.”

  A moment of acquiescence, allowing that he was grieving, and not likely to be thinking in terms of investigations and conclusions. “Of course, sir. But we intend to prosecute once we find who did this, and for that…”

  Alec eyed the drawing, then handed it back. “I-I’d forgotten, but she stopped by here during her break a few weeks ago, off touring Rome, or rather visiting the columbaria of Imperial Rome with her friend Francesca, from the academy across the street.” He took a deep breath, glanced out the window at the croquet game, which was winding down.

  “Maybe there’s something in her room, something she left behind…”

  Alec shook himself, said, “Yes, I’ll take you up.”

  “Perhaps one of your staff can show me, if you’d like to have a moment to yourself, sir.”

  Alec nodded, and Zach opened the door, saw the same woman who had escorted him up, waiting a discreet distance away. He hesitated at the door, turned, saw the ambassador staring out the window. Zach hated to disturb his thoughts, but figured now was better than later. “Was there anything she discussed with you over the phone the last few weeks? Anything unusual? Maybe something she sent home?”

  “I was so busy. We didn’t speak but once or twice a week, and it was she, asking about my health…”

  When nothing more was forthcoming, Zach let himself out and started down the hallway, the closed door and his footsteps doing little to muffle the strangled sobs of a grieving father.

  Leonardo Adami had come to the decision that watching the ambassador’s residence was a waste of time. He was tired of the waiting, even more tired with sharing a car with Alonzo, and was half tempted to switch places with Benito, who watched the ambassador’s residence through his binoculars from the rooftop of one of the nearby houses. In fact, he’d picked up his phone to make the call when Benito announced that Griffin had arrived at the ambassador’s. That was not something they’d anticipated when they’d started watching the place. The three of them had been there all afternoon, as they had been for the last two weeks, waiting to see if any out-of-the-ordinary deliveries were made. None of them had expected Griffin to walk into the midst of their surveillance, and of course now they had to wonder if he knew what they were waiting for, and perhaps had come looking for it himself. This long, they had to wonder if it was going to arrive at all, but where else would the girl have sent it?

  “You’re sure that’s Griffin?” he asked Benito once again. After all, Benito was several houses away on a rooftop.

  “Positive. He went in almost ten minutes ago, and hasn’t come out yet. Maybe you should call the boss.”

  The last thing Leonardo wanted to do was call his cousin and give the impression that he couldn’t handle this on his own. Adami did not like weak links. Instead, Leonardo thought about the other reasons why Griffin might be there. “They must have her identified. He’s come to make the death notification.”

  “Now what?” Benito asked.

  “You’re sure Griffin’s alone?”

  “Positive.”

  “Let us know the moment he leaves,” Leonardo said into the phone. “We’re going to follow him. When he stops, we’ll take care of him there. If we’re lucky, he’ll lead us to his safe house. Adami will no doubt be extra grateful if we eliminate Griffin as well as those bastards he is working with.”

  Washington, D.C.

  Carillo waited until he saw the congressman leave the building, then walk toward a waiting car, before he approached. While he was here in D.C. on a legitimate case that Doc Schermer had dug up for him, his contact with the congressman was unofficial, and he needed to step lightly.

  “Congressman Burnett?”

  The man looked up, appearing mildly annoyed at being stopped. “Yes?”

  Carillo held up his credentials. “Special Agent Carillo, FBI. You have a few moments?”

  “I’m in a-What is this about?”

  “Alessandra Harden.”

  The congressman took a deep breath, this time looking more than annoyed. “I’ve answered these questions ad nauseam. Someone is trying to discredit me. There was no affair, for God’s sake, and I didn’t divulge anything about the committee. Isn’t it time you let this thing go?”

  He started to walk away, and Carillo decided a different tack was needed. Maybe a subject not quite so threatening as an affair with a girl now dead, and he thought about what Sydney had told him on her most
recent call, thinking this kid might have contacted the congressman. That, she thought, might give them a clue as to why Alessandra was murdered.

  “Actually, I’m interested in learning about a student in a class that she was in. A friend of hers who is missing,” he said.

  “Fine,” the congressman said. “You don’t mind if we talk in the car? I’d rather my business not be overheard so I can read about it in the paper the next morning.”

  Carillo glanced into the interior of the Town Car, saw the driver, and no one else. “Not a problem.”

  The congressman got into the backseat, and Carillo followed, closing the door, shutting out the noise from the street beyond.

  “Where to, sir?” the driver asked.

  “I need a cup of coffee.”

  The driver nodded, and the moment the car took off, the congressman leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes. He looked haggard, his brown hair flecked with gray, his skin covered with fine lines around his eyes and mouth. This was not the man who’d graced the posters at election time, the doctored pictures that took ten years off his face. This was the man worried about scandal and career-ruining photos plastered all over the nation’s newspapers.

  “Did you ever speak to a student named Xavier Caldwell?”

  “I believe that was his name. This kid was a nutcase. He said he was a friend of Alessandra’s, and that’s the only reason I agreed to talk to him. He tried to say that the photo of she and I, that the government leaked it to discredit me. A government conspiracy.”

  “Any truth to that?”

  “No doubt in my mind that it was done on purpose, and to discredit me. But I think he’s out there if he thinks my own government did it as part of a national conspiracy. Especially when he added that it was all due to the government’s involvement in Propaganda Due.”

  “Which would be what?”

  “You may have heard of it under the name P2. A Freemason lodge in Italy, shut down in the eighties, after it nearly toppled the Italian government and crippled the Vatican bank. He said he had proof that they were active again, this time in our country, and there would be biological warfare involved.”

  “Okay. So he was out there. About Alessandra?”

  “What about her?” the congressman asked, his voice short. “Regardless of what appeared in the paper, there’s nothing to tell.”

  “Why did it appear?”

  “The photo in question? Someone got a lucky shot, figured they could pin a quote beneath it, and somehow it made its way to a real newspaper. But when you think about it, is it any different from what you see on the cover of any supermarket tabloid? Make up crap and sell a story?”

  “Why don’t you tell me?”

  “Nothing happened.”

  “You realize she’s dead?”

  “Dead?” His jaw dropped, and the blood drained from his face. One couldn’t fake that sort of reaction. “How?”

  “Murdered.”

  “Oh my God.” The congressman closed his eyes a moment, took a deep breath. When he looked up again, he said, “Stop the car, Thomas. I need some air.”

  “Yes, sir.” The driver made a right turn, then pulled over, allowing them to exit the car. “Where would you like me to pick you up?”

  “I’ll walk from here. I’ll call if I need you later today.”

  The car drove off, and Burnett stood there, his hands shoved in his pockets, staring after the car. After several seconds, he turned to Carillo. “I’m sorry, I really am, but nothing happened between us. I didn’t kill her if that’s what you’re asking. For God’s sake, I regret the day I agreed to be on that committee.”

  “What committee?”

  “Atlas. That’s the reason our photo appeared in the paper. She had learned from her father that I was on the committee, and she wanted to know if we were looking into the death of the UVA professor, that microbiologist who killed herself. I sure as hell wasn’t about to admit to her it wasn’t a suicide. I had to say it was investigated thoroughly, but they were friends and she wanted to know if I could have it reopened. Nothing more, I assure you. Unfortunately, it wasn’t like I could go to the press and clarify details.”

  “Atlas?”

  The congressman looked over at Carillo. “Do you agencies ever talk to one another?”

  “You’d be surprised how much we don’t talk.”

  “Hell. I really don’t want to end up in jail for breaching national security secrets. I’m sorry, but I can’t discuss any more of this with you. I-I was rattled about Alessandra’s death. I wasn’t thinking.” He looked more than rattled. A sheen of sweat covered his brow and upper lip. A vein pulsed at his temple. He might not be guilty of Alessandra’s death, but he was certainly worried about something more than a simple photo in the paper.

  “Look. My partner may be in danger, and it has something to do with whatever Alessandra was working on.”

  “I’m sorry. I really need to go.” He stepped to the curb, held up his arm, calling out, “Taxi!”

  A cab pulled up, and Congressman Burnett got in, barely sparing a parting glance in Carillo’s direction.

  Carillo stood there at the curb, going over the conversation. It wasn’t unusual for politicians to sit on committees that weren’t necessarily common knowledge to the rest of the world, but at least he had one more lead that hadn’t existed a few minutes ago.

  He pulled out his phone, called his personal font of knowledge, Doc Schermer. “You ever heard of Atlas?”

  “Are we talking cartography or Greek mythology? A map versus the guy who was forced to hold up the sky?”

  “I thought he was holding the globe.”

  “Common misconception, which may be why a map of the world was called an atlas.”

  “Figures you’d know this. But no, I’m referring to an OGA with that name. Just got done talking to Congressman Burnett, who mentioned it in relationship to that other matter I’m not allowed to discuss. The guy froze up on me. Was worried about breaching national security.”

  “That’s a whole different ball game,” Doc said. “But it fits with what I found out about the congressman on that background you asked me to do. He was sitting on a national security task force, so…” Carillo could hear him clicking away on his keyboard. “Not Atlas, but ATLAS the acronym.”

  “As in…?”

  “As in Alliance for Threat Level Assessment and Security. It’s a global task force that assesses terrorist threats, and when necessary deploys a highly trained strike force to eliminate those threats.”

  “And why is it no one’s ever heard of it?”

  “It wouldn’t be very effective if everyone knew about it, would it?”

  “So they’re a covert agency?”

  “Extremely covert. Most of their operations are NOC, nonofficial cover. Plausible deniability is standard procedure, if you could even get the government to admit there was such an organization.”

  “How come you know about it?”

  “Hello? Didn’t you just get done asking me to research the congressman less than a day ago? That and I was able to finally dig up something on this Griffin. He’s running an international paper that’s more than likely a cover for CIA.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind should someone mistakenly nominate them for a Pulitzer. Back to the OGA.”

  “It’s a multi-agency, multi-country task force, populated by brainiacs in specialized fields, along with your average spies and your not-so-average special ops types on the strike force, of which Griffin is one. From what I’ve been able to deduce, each country involved has their own team, but they work cooperatively. It came about after 9/11.”

  “So how much plausible denial are we talking?”

  “Remember those CIA agents who were arrested in Italy a few years back for some shady operations?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “Put it this way. The government will not admit any involvement whatsoever. If Fitzpatrick involves herself in anything not above board and gets caug
ht? Not only is her job at the Bureau history, but she’s probably looking at jail time.”

  “That’s assuming she survives whatever it is she’s doing. I’m starting to have a real bad feeling about all this.”

  “As well you should. They don’t send out guys like Griffin on the strike force, unless there’s a damned good reason.”

  Sydney woke from her nap, wondering if Carillo had gotten ahold of the congressman, and if so, had the man actually been contacted by Xavier Caldwell. She picked up Caldwell’s papers, scanned the last sheet, then found it. World governments all searching for some key that would lead them to the missing Templar treasure. That was enough to make any sane FBI agent realize that the writer of this paper was reading way too much fiction and Internet propaganda. And that’s precisely what she’d thought at first, except for that niggling memory of the latest display on loan to the Smithsonian. Something to do with the Holy Crusades…Templar Knights were involved in the Holy Crusades.

  For the second time that day, Sydney called Tony Carillo’s cell phone, having the hotel operator place it on her hotel bill. Italy being six hours ahead, she glanced at the clock to determine what time it would be in Washington, D.C., assuming he’d gotten there by now. It was almost five in the evening, not quite dark here, which would put it almost eleven A.M. there. “Give me good news,” she said.

  “I haven’t made it out to the Smithsonian yet, but I did get in touch with the congressman. You ever hear of an agency called ATLAS?”

  “No.”

  “That’s where your boy Griffin works.”

  “What is ATLAS?”

  “Alliance for Threat Level Assessment and Security. Griffin’s on the strike force team. As in the special ops guys who go out and deal with the really, really bad boys. Doc Schermer thinks you need to get your butt out of there and home, if you want to keep your job.” He gave her the rundown of the team.

  “As it turns out, Griffin is insisting I return home, to keep me from becoming involved, so that shouldn’t be a problem. Tomorrow, in fact. I suppose if necessary, I could leave earlier. He’s all for it, scout’s honor.”