The Bone Chamber

by Robin Burcell

  “As a philanthropist, I have funded a number of scholarly works and studies. Several were of particular interest, involving the studies of ancient temples, burial sites, and religious artifacts. But why does he care how I came about this knowledge?”

  “Let’s just say he had a change of heart, and he shares in your vision of what this thing can do.”

  “And what if I don’t want to share?”

  “You and the little empire you’ve built here using the Freemasons will cease to exist. C3 will be exposed for what it is, an offshoot of Propaganda Due’s Masonic lodge, and you their Grand Master in charge of corrupting public officials for illicit gain.”

  “You think you can touch me?”

  Westgate leaned back in his chair, enjoying this much more than he thought. “If you think otherwise, it would be a fatal mistake on your part.”

  Adami looked him in the eye, as though contemplating just how seriously he should take this new threat. Then he smiled. “I am not so foolish to think that I wouldn’t be here if not for the help of my friends. What did your boss have in mind?”

  “He will be sending two of his men to assist you in the recovery of the map to ensure its safe arrival into his hands.”

  “And if something but the desired result occurs?”

  “It would be in your best interest to guarantee the desired result. Any other outcome, and you may find certain past hidden allegations of your business dealings coming to light in a very public way. Allegations about C3 that will make the Propaganda Due scandal twenty years ago pale in comparison.” Westgate stared at him over steepled fingers, smiling at the sudden pulsing of a vein in Adami’s temple.

  “You do realize,” Adami said, “that we aren’t the only ones searching for the map?”

  “You’re speaking of Alessandra’s friends?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then take out some sort of insurance policy to ensure their cooperation. Your future and that of C3 depends on it.”

  “Done. About Alessandra. My understanding is that she may have brought some information to the Smithsonian.”

  “Did you ever find out what this was?”

  “Niko, the man you helped me to set up at the Smithsonian, followed her and Dr. Balraj. He thinks she may have posted it before he was able to stop her. We believe she sent it to Rome.”

  “Her father’s residence?”

  “We know of nowhere else she might have sent it. And Niko was not able to get what it was or the location from her before he killed her.”

  “And do you know who killed Niko?”

  “I suspect it was that FBI agent who came to the Smithsonian asking questions. Niko telephoned me right after she arrived-a fortunate thing he stayed on after we picked up Balraj and had Alessandra killed. Niko was supposed to kill the agent as well. Apparently he failed.”

  “Apparently.” Westgate tossed an envelope on the table. “Think of this as a present.”

  “What is it?”

  “A photograph of your FBI agent. Sydney Fitzpatrick.”

  “Why bring it here?”

  “She flew into Rome yesterday.”

  Adami reached over, opened the envelope, and slid out the photo. That vein in his temple started pulsing again. “She was here at the party last night. The woman who Griffin carried out.”

  “Why do you think they were here?”

  “Seeing this photo, I presume they were looking into Alessandra’s death. Hoping to find someone who might talk.”

  Westgate leaned back in his chair, sighed. “I have a flight to catch. In the meantime, you might want to make sure this insurance is foolproof. We want that map.”

  Adami said nothing.

  Westgate glanced at the photo on the table of the FBI agent. “Interesting that they showed up here. Were they ever out of your sight?”

  Adami hesitated. “Of course they were. I didn’t realize who they were until my cousin recognized the woman. A shame we lost her. She would have been easier to interrogate.”

  “And you’ve gotten nothing out of the man as to why he was here?”

  “Nothing at all. I don’t even know who he really is.”

  “Maybe you haven’t tried hard enough to find out.” He pushed back from the table and stood. “But I’m sure you’ll remedy that little problem.”

  Adami picked up the photo of the woman that Westgate left behind. There was much to think about. An FBI agent? Something was off there. FBI wasn’t typically involved in international covert operations of this sort. Then again, what if they were? What if the man he held in the chamber was the unwitting party to all this, and the agent had used the poor schmuck?

  But then he thought of the way the man was able to withstand his interrogation. This was no milquetoast nouveau riche businessman. Which altered things considerably.

  Adami didn’t like being played-by either side-and he tossed the photo on the table, then picked up the phone to call his cousin. He needed to make sure that when the endgame was played, when the map was found, he was the winner. “The visitor in the chamber.”

  “Still breathing. Why?”

  “There’s been a change of plans.”

  The late afternoon sun poured in through the double terrace doors of the safe house, bathing the terra cotta-tiled floors in honeyed light. Wanting to banish the dank chill of that chamber in Adami’s villa, Sydney basked in a white linen chair, soaking in the warmth of a Rome autumn. She was fascinated by the safe house, a flat that occupied the entire fifth floor of a seventeenth-century palazzo on Via della Grotta Pinta in the heart of Rome’s historic center. Marc, one of the two carabinieri, had told her that the palazzo used to be a monastery, and the bricks of the double arch in the living room, which had been brought up from the basement, dated back to 57 B.C. The thick walls were whitewashed; the ceilings were held up by wooden beams, of such an age that they were pitted with wormholes; and the apple-green door with its several Byzantine brass locks might look ancient, but it was actually reinforced and completely soundproofed. All in all, the flat consisted of three bedrooms, a bathroom, a radio transmitter room, a long hall, and a kitchen. The living room and kitchen opened up on to a splendid terrace garden, complete with fishpond and bell tower.

  None of them had heard a thing from Griffin since he’d left, apparently at first light. All they could do was watch and wait. And though Sydney wanted nothing more than to take a nap, she didn’t move from the small salon next to the radio transmitter room where Marc sat watching the monitors for each security camera positioned at pivotal locations outside the safe house. Every now and then his glance strayed to a TV positioned next to his workstation, the channel tuned to the local news. Giustino also watched the monitors, but his job was to listen to the receiver for anything that might come out of the device that Tex had planted. It had been quiet since the initial transmission, and they were beginning to wonder if it still worked.

  Sydney paid little attention to the security monitors, since she wouldn’t know what did or did not belong on the busy street outside. Instead, she watched the news on the TV, saw the view of the Tiber River, with the familiar sight of the Vatican in the background. The camera shot moved to a close-up of a bridge in the foreground filled with pedestrians walking past statues of angels. The words Ponte Sant’Angelo appeared on a banner at the bottom of the screen. It meant little to her, and she turned her attention to the front door. “We should have heard something by now.”

  “He will call when he can,” Marc said, intent on the news. He took a drink from his water bottle, then used it to point at the television. “Another one on the Ponte Sant’Angelo. What is that, three suicides this month?”

  Giustino adjusted his earphones, then held his hand up. “Quiet. I think I have something.” Sydney looked over, saw him adjust a slide control. “We’re still in.”

  Marc shut off the TV. He and Sydney walked up, listened in as Giustino put the audio on speaker, and she could make out someone speaking Italian. Giustin
o took notes as a backup in case the recording equipment failed. “We’re definitely in,” he said, then gave a gratified shout, and slammed his hand on the table.

  “What’s he saying?” Sydney whispered to Marc, watching as Giustino took notes.

  “Something about a shipment to Tunisia, once the money is transferred. They expect their new scientist to help in the preparation, as he is now being cooperative…It’s Balraj. They have Dr. Balraj…”

  “Balraj?”

  “He was kidnapped. We thought he was dead. It is, as you say, very big. That’s what we were looking for. We knew Adami was trying to build bioweapons. We didn’t know where he-” His face paled as he looked at Giustino. “Did I hear that correctly?”

  “What is it?” Sydney asked, just as she heard laughing on the monitor.

  He waved for her to be quiet, while Giustino played back the digital recording. She listened to the rapid Italian, understanding next to nothing, until an echo of what she’d heard on the news, the Ponte Sant’Angelo, stood out.

  “They laugh about this report of a suicide off the bridge, and then they discuss what will happen when we-I assume they speak of us here-investigate this death at the…how do you say it? Morgue. And this other man, he asks how will they get us to look for the agent there. The first man says that when news of the death is out, we will know. They stripped him and removed his face.”

  “His face…?” she repeated. “Tex?”

  Giustino said, “What else can we believe? They say agent. They must have guessed as much when Griffin arrived at the villa to find you.”

  Marc sank into his chair, burying his face in his hands. “We must verify this.”

  She stood there for several seconds, while the news washed over her, bringing with it an enormous load of guilt, even though she couldn’t have known that the guy from the BMW was Adami’s cousin, or that he would recognize her. Had Griffin not come back for them, she’d be there, too…

  Sydney walked to the front window, stared out at the great baroque cupola of Sant’Andrea della Valle, trying to recall what Marc had told her of it-anything to get her mind off Tex. After several seconds she turned to the men in the radio room. “Can we get in touch with Griffin?”

  “I’ve already tried,” Marc said. “All we can do is wait for him to check in. We can, however, let HQ know.” He picked up the phone, hit a number on speed dial. When the phone was answered on the other end, he asked for Ron McNiel. She wasn’t sure why she should be surprised that he answered to the same boss as Griffin, which made her wonder who McNiel answered to. When Marc finished his conversation with HQ, he hung up and seemed to sink in his chair.

  “Cosa è?” Giustino asked.

  “Griffin is due to check in with the director in about an hour. McNiel wants to be the one to tell him.”

  “For that we thank God. I do not look forward to sweeping up broken glass.”

  “In the meantime, we prepare for Tunisia come morning,” Marc said. “We need to destroy the bioweapons.”

  And for the next hour, the three of them sat in that room, waiting for word, and Sydney’s stomach knotted every time she heard a noise on the monitor, wondering if it was Griffin. Finally the phone rang. Marc pounced on it, answered, “Pronto! Giornale Internazionale per la Pace Mondiale. International Journal for World Peace,” he repeated in English. They were supposed to be a small free-press newspaper that ran out of several countries. Marc listened to whoever the caller was, said, “Grazie,” then hung up. “It was the director, Signore McNiel,” he said. “Griffin knows. He will be checking the morgue himself to make the identification of Tex.”

  The news did nothing to lessen the tension in the room, something that increased tenfold when Griffin walked in the door two hours later, strode past the three of them to the garden doors without a word, his face grim, his eyes cold, hard. He opened one of the double doors, stepped out to the terrace, then pushed the door shut behind him with enough force to warn the others off. If any of them harbored the thought that it might not be Tex at the morgue, their hopes were dashed as they watched Griffin.

  For thirty minutes he didn’t move, just stood there with his back to them, looking out at the forest of television antennas-transmuted into gold by the November sun-toward the cupola of San Carlo ai Catinari in the distance. Across the courtyard, two cats were stalking a pigeon on the weed-choked tiles of a rooftop. Inside, no one said a thing. Sydney and the others pretended great interest in the radio monitors, even though there had been no traffic since the last report of Adami’s men talking about the morgue. But when Griffin didn’t move after a half hour, Sydney said, “Someone should go to him.”

  “One must stay at one’s post,” Giustino said.

  “And what if he needs help translating?” Marc said.

  “Translating what?” Sydney said. “You all speak Italian.”

  Marc shrugged. “You never know when a foreigner might walk into the room. Why don’t you go?”

  “It should be someone he knows. And likes.”

  The two men looked at each other, both shaking their heads. “His temper I know well,” Marc said. “Fa arrabbiato!”

  Giustino said, “With his bare hand we have seen him break a man’s arm.”

  “What’s another trip to the hospital?” Sydney said. “I’ll go.”

  She walked up to the terrace doors, hesitated at the thought that Griffin might blame her for his friend’s death. One look at him told her otherwise. It was clear he was blaming himself. Steeling herself for whatever might happen, she opened the door and stepped out.

  “Leave.”

  Sydney ignored his order, closing the door behind her. At first she merely stood beside him, shoulder to shoulder. The sun had slipped behind the bell tower that graced the terrace garden of the safe house. Silhouetted against the silver incandescent sky, chimney swifts were darting into their nests. Gradually the sky’s luminescence was dissolving into azure, and finally she dared a glance, looked up at him, saw his attention fixed on a bat flitting in the distance. “I’m sorry,” she ventured.

  “I said leave.”

  “If you wanted to be left alone, you wouldn’t have come back here.”

  He didn’t respond, but neither did he tell her to leave again, and after several long moments, she reached up, put her hand on his shoulder. He stiffened, as though her touch repelled him, and she wondered if he really did blame her. And then he reached up, grabbed her wrist, his grip strong, sure, and she thought of what Marc said, about him breaking a man’s arm when he lost his temper…

  But Griffin didn’t move, just held her wrist in his hand, held it tight, as though he couldn’t let go.

  “Do you know what happened?” she asked.

  Several seconds ticked by and she thought he wasn’t going to answer, then, “Do you know that Freemasons take an oath of secrecy? ‘To all of this I most solemnly and sincerely promise and swear-’” His voice caught. She glanced up at him, saw his eyes closed, his face taut, his jaw clenched. But a moment later, he continued, saying, “The oath is supposed to be metaphorical. The metaphorical penalty of having one’s throat cut across, one’s tongue torn out by its roots and buried in the rough sands of the sea at low-water mark, should one ever knowingly or willingly violate that oath.”

  Sydney froze. “Tell me they didn’t…?” She couldn’t even finish the thought, felt sick to her stomach.

  “They did. And like Alessandra, his face was removed, as well as his fingertips. The medical examiner said it was postmortem. He died from a gunshot wound. They stripped him. All they left was his ring. The desecration was no doubt a warning, but-”

  “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have run. Drawn attention to myself. I panicked.”

  “Panicked? What were you supposed to do? Stand there and let them capture you? The fault lies with me…I shouldn’t have allowed this…” Again he tensed, tried to swallow, tried to breathe, and she wasn’t sure what happened next, if she stepped toward him, o
r he toward her. But a moment later, she was in his arms, and he held her, his face pressed into her hair, until his breathing evened. She tried to pull away, but he said, “Don’t. Not yet.”

  And so she waited, let him hold her, hearing nothing but his heart beating against her, slowing, finally relaxing. After several minutes, she whispered into his chest, “I’m sorry.” When she looked up at him, he was staring off into the distance. She stepped back, and he reached out, let her hair drift over his fingers as though he was reluctant to let her leave. But he didn’t move to stop her this time, and so she left him there, returned inside as the night deepened into purple velvet. As she shut the terrace doors, she saw him silhouetted against the rising moon, rust red, as if it had been spattered in blood. And then he sank onto the garden bench, buried his face in his hands, consumed by his grief.

  She turned away, saw Marc and Giustino looking distinctly uncomfortable. Marc was back to watching TV. Giustino was busy monitoring the equipment. She told them how Tex’s body had been desecrated, his face removed, just like Alessandra’s. Both men looked sick.

  “Any more traffic?” she asked after a while, hoping for some sort of a distraction.

  “None,” Marc said. He nodded toward Griffin, then asked Giustino, “Do you think the director told him about Tunisia?”

  “He’ll want to go.”

  “Can’t be helped.”

  “In his state of-”

  The veranda door suddenly opened, and the three of them turned to see Griffin standing there, eyeing them. “My state of what?”

  “The traffic from Tex’s device. Bioweapons in Tunisia. Adami’s lab. They have Dr. Balraj.”

  Griffin didn’t move for a full second, as though the very mention of Tex’s name pained him, then, “You have the details?”

  “Yes, sir. I reported them to the director.”

  “Let me know the moment the orders are back to us. I want to get an early start.”

  “Sir-”

  “You heard me.” He didn’t even look at them, just walked off toward his own room.