“As I explained, simple research in trying to locate the final burial site of the prince.”
“You expect me to believe that that’s what this is about? Trying to find the prince’s final resting place?”
“That’s precisely what this is about,” she said as Paolo showed two men to a sun-dappled table on the far side of the patio, his rapid Italian telling Sydney that his customers were locals, not tourists. One man shrugged out of his leather jacket, glancing over at them as Sydney’s phone bounced around on the table, clattering against her water glass.
Sydney scooped up the phone, glad it was too early for much of a lunch crowd. She looked at the number. “That was fast,” she told Doc Schermer, when she answered.
“Not sure if this is what you’re looking for, frankly because there’s not a lot out there on this Latin phrase, and any Masonic connection is tenuous at best.”
“Let’s have it.”
“‘Here lies dust, ash and nothing’ happens to be the English translation of the epitaph on the tomb of Cardinal Antonio Barberini, whose remains are interred at the Capuchin Crypt in Rome.”
“And the Masonic connection?”
“Depends on how you look at it. Barberini’s uncle was Pope Urban VIII, which sort of gives it an anti-Masonic bent. Of course, your di Sangro guy wasn’t born until the next century, and Freemasons weren’t officially around yet, which means the first papal bull against Freemasonry wasn’t issued for maybe another hundred years after Barberini’s time, which makes it even more-”
“Doc?” she said, knowing his penchant for delving into historical trivia.
“Sorry. Your Masonic connection is that Barberini was the Grand Almoner for France, which means he was in charge of carrying out works of charity.”
“And how does that become a Masonic connection?”
“Like I said, tenuous at best. The Almoner is an office that exists to this day in Masonic lodges in England, in charge of charity and welfare of the members.”
Sydney repeated the info to the others.
Francesca leaned back in her chair, shaking her head. “How is it I never thought of the Capuchin Crypt?”
To which Griffin said, “You think this is the connection you were looking for?”
“It certainly sounds like it. Your friend is correct. It might be tenuous, but that may very well be why di Sangro chose the Capuchin Crypt. Brilliant, if you think about it. Di Sangro would have picked the Capuchin Crypt for both reasons.”
“How is that?” Griffin asked as Paolo brought their food to them, two large platters, one filled with Swiss chard, the other steaming paper-thin egg noodles, covered with fresh tomato and basil sauce.
“He was excommunicated and imprisoned for a time by the pope for his participation as Grand Master of the Naples lodge, so what better way to nurse a grudge than to choose a location for the next key with a connection to the papacy and to the Masons, almost as if he was thumbing his nose at them.”
Sydney’s mouth watered as the scent of tomato and basil drifted toward her. “We do get to finish eating before we leave for this crypt?”
“Trust me,” Francesca said, as she dished the steaming pasta onto her plate. “You want to eat this before it cools. Besides, at this hour, there is no hurry.” Francesca slid the platter of tagliolini toward Sydney. “Like many places in Italy, the Capuchin Crypt closes for lunch and doesn’t open until three. So eat up. We have a lot of bones to look through when we leave here.”
25
Francesca hid her excitement over the discovery of the inscription being connected to the Cardinal Antonio Barberini, and at half past two they left for the Capuchin Crypt. When they arrived at the Via Veneto, the doors of the unobtrusive entrance to the Cimitero Cappuccino were open for business-if you could call leaving a modest donation for the staid woman sitting just inside the doors business, since the monks made most of their money from the postcard concession.
As Francesca shepherded them through the entrance, several British tourists with stunned looks on their faces were leaving the crypt. “They come for the skeletons,” Francesca explained in a whisper, since she was fairly certain that Sydney had no idea what they were about to see. “The place is decorated with the bones of some four thousand Capuchin monks.”
“You’re kidding,” Sydney said.
And Griffin asked, “And what are you looking for here? A sign in the bones?”
“Precisely,” Francesca said, since in truth, she had no idea what it was she was supposed to find. She only hoped that whatever it was stood out to her, and she glanced over at Griffin, about to make up some story, when she saw him watching two men who had entered the anteroom at the back of a small group of German tourists. One man wore a gray jacket, the other a leather coat. Both were holding open guidebooks.
“What’s wrong?” she heard Sydney ask Griffin in a low voice as the three of them entered the narrow crypt corridor.
“Those two men behind us,” he said. “Do you recognize them?”
“The men from the restaurant.”
Francesca whispered, “Surely they’re just tourists.”
“They spoke fluent Italian at the restaurant,” Griffin said.
“Should we leave?” Sydney asked.
“Not yet. I’ll keep an eye on them. You two play tourists and find what the professor is supposed to find so that she can finish her research and we can put her on a plane back to the States.”
Back to the States? No way, she thought, moving down the corridor into the long, vaulted, brightly lit hallway, its walls and ceilings covered in detailed latticework, intricate designs of lacelike patterns that pleased the eye wherever one looked. She glanced at Sydney, watched the agent’s face as she no doubt gradually realized that the exquisite filigrees adorning the walls and ceilings were all made of bones: butterflies were pelvises; rosettes were shoulder blades; the lacy lattices were ribs. Lanterns, hourglasses, stars, and coats of arms all made of bones, bones, and more bones.
“This,” Sydney said, “may be one of the strangest, most macabre and beautiful places I’ve ever been to, and I have seen a lot of strange places.”
“You’d be surprised,” Francesca said, “how many other such repositories there are throughout Europe.”
“Makes you wonder about the mind of the person who created this. Today he’d probably be committed.”
Francesca led them down the corridor. To their left, the hall opened up to several alcoves. The hushed voices and a couple of nervous laughs of the visitors seemed to echo off the walls.
In truth, the crypts were mesmerizing in their surreal and eerie beauty, as long as one didn’t look too closely and think about what the decorations were made of. The first, the Crypt of the Resurrection, held skeleton parts that formed a frame for the painting of Jesus commanding Lazarus to emerge from the tomb. Most of the visitors seemed to pay it little attention, and moved quickly on to the main attractions: the bones. As they passed on to the next alcove, Sydney asked her, “Anything?”
And what was she supposed to say, even if she did find what she was looking for? “Nothing. Sorry.”
Next was the Crypt of the Skulls with its circles of bone flowers predominating in the vault. Brown-robed Capuchin skeletons-their bony fingers clasped, as if in prayer, seemed to be suspended in contemplation in their eternal niches, which were made entirely of skulls and thighbones stacked atop each other, their shape, liked arched fireplaces, reminding her of the niches in the columbarium. Perhaps that was what she was supposed to see?
She and Sydney had just moved to one side of the narrow corridor to allow others a view, when Griffin stepped in behind them and whispered, “The two men. Even if they were just coincidentally tourists who arrived at the same destination, they’re definitely watching us. They haven’t looked at their guidebook once, or at the bones.”
Sydney didn’t turn around. “What do you want to do?”
“We can’t do anything now, or they’ll know
that we know. Keep on walking to the end, casually, and then we’ll start weaving our way back out of here as quick as we can.”
Griffin took Francesca by the arm, she assumed for her protection, and they moved on to the next alcove, pausing only long enough at each display so as not to alert the men that they were aware of their presence. The Crypt of the Pelvises was much the same as the last crypt, except here the wall behind the friars was nothing but pelvises stacked one upon the other. Next was the Crypt of the Leg Bones and Thigh Bones, which contained a depiction of St. Francis, wearing a crown of vertebrae. The last alcove, the Crypt of the Three Skeletons, held a small, delicate, child-skeleton suspended from the ceiling. In one hand, he was grasping a bone scythe, and in the other, he held balance scales that dangled downward. The scales of good and evil come Judgment Day, she thought as Griffin nudged them back along the corridor toward the one-way entrance.
They walked as casually as possible past the group of Germans, and she saw Sydney glance up at the ceiling, which was dominated by a large clock made entirely of vertebrae and phalanges, its hands perpetually on midnight.
“The symbol of eternity,” said Francesca. “But look closely at the hands. You’ll see the bone clock is made up of Roman numerals, I, II, III, IV, V, VI. Note that the Roman numeral six is at the top? Midnight is actually six o’clock.”
“I wonder what the meaning is behind that,” Sydney asked. “Midnight that isn’t really midnight? A clock that isn’t really a clock?”
“Find anything?” Griffin asked Francesca, the tone of his voice telling her that he completely doubted the veracity of their visit.
“Nothing.”
“Good,” he said as they strolled casually past their shadows, who were now making a show of consulting their guidebooks. “Then your research is over and we can get on with our lives.”
“Forgive the bad pun,” Sydney said, quickening her pace to match theirs, “but other than the guys following us, this is one dead end. I think we should get the hell out of here.”
“I agree.”
Francesca glanced behind her. Their two pursuers had dropped the pretense of reading their guidebooks, and were now pushing their way toward them. She had a bad feeling about this, something that intensified when Sydney said, “You know what really bothers me? Those are not the guys who came after us on the Passegiata.”
“You’re sure?” Griffin said.
“I tend to notice guys who are shooting at me,” she said. “How many different groups are after us?”
“More importantly, how’d they know we’d be here?” he said, pushing through the door.
They hurried down the stairs, and Francesca thought that the Via Veneto might offer some protection since it was filled with people waiting for the bus or out for a late afternoon stroll.
Griffin turned to Francesca. “You have any ideas how we can lose them around here?”
She pointed across the street. “Via dei Cappuccini,” she said, indicating the smaller street that intersected with the Via Veneto. “It leads right to the Via Sistina. Maybe we can lose them in the crowd, or down the Spanish Steps.”
“Let’s go.” They crossed over to Via dei Cappuccini, which sloped a short way downhill where it ended in the Via Sistina, a narrow street, with shops, hotels, and plenty of pedestrians.
As they turned onto the busy street, Francesca looked back and saw the men following at a brisk pace about thirty yards behind them. “They’re still on us.”
And Sydney said, “Tell me you have a plan?”
“When in doubt,” Griffin said, “Plan B.”
“I hate Plan B.”
“You don’t even know what it is.”
“And that’s usually the problem,” Sydney replied as they crossed to the opposite side of the street.
“You have a mirror in that purse?” he asked Francesca.
“Yes.”
“Get it out.”
She dug it from her purse just as they approached the Piazza della Trinità dei Monti with its huge Egyptian obelisk overlooking the Piazza di Spagna-the famous Spanish Steps. Tourists and Italians were descending the sweeping stairway, and at first that was where Francesca thought Griffin intended to take them. But just as they reached the end of Via Sistina, Griffin put his hand on her shoulder. “This way,” he said.
They made a hard left onto a dark, narrow street that intersected in a sharp V at the end of Via Sistina. Not a pedestrian in sight. Only parked cars and trucks.
Griffin handed Sydney the mirror, then grabbed Francesca’s hand, holding tight as they raced up the street, not stopping until they reached a set of steps jutting down from a building facade. In the deepening shadows, Francesca saw a gigantic gargoyle face that seemed to be swallowing the door at the top of the short flight of stairs. Griffin shoved Francesca behind the landing. “You, don’t move,” he ordered her. To Sydney, he said, “Watch the street. Let me know when they’re almost on us.”
“And then what?” Sydney asked, as Griffin ducked behind a delivery truck.
“Time to find out who they are and what they’re planning.”
And for the second time in as many days, Francesca wondered if she’d made a very big mistake. One that might cost her her life.
26
Sydney crouched behind the truck beside Griffin, holding the mirror out just far enough to view their surroundings without being seen. A few seconds later, she saw the two men who were shadowing them. “They’ve stopped at the end of the street,” she whispered. “Looking around, like they’re trying to figure out which way to go…Guy in the leather coat is pointing this way…They’re coming.” She waited until they were just a few feet away, then she raised her hand, signaling with her fingers, three…two…one.
Griffin stepped out, grabbed the guy’s leather jacket, pulled him back behind the truck. Sydney saw a glint of silver as Griffin held a knife to the man’s throat.
The other man took a hesitant step toward them.
Griffin shook his head. “Don’t move. Who are you and why are you following us?”
The man looked around him in both directions, before saying in heavily accented English, “We are simply messengers. You have nothing to fear from us. I-we work for Father Dumas.”
“And he works for God,” Griffin muttered, clearly not letting down his guard on the simple belief that God made Dumas any more trustworthy. “Search him,” he told Sydney.
She moved up behind the other man, patted him down. “He’s clean.”
“How about you?” Griffin asked the man he still had a tight grip on. “You carrying?”
“No.”
“And what would that be poking me in my gut?”
“Maybe just a small gun.” American, Sydney realized.
“Then you won’t mind if my associate removes it, for your safety.”
“No.”
“Didn’t think so.”
Sydney pulled a not so small Beretta from his waistband, aimed the weapon at him.
Griffin stepped back, holding the knife at his side. “The gun tells me you don’t work for Dumas. Why are you watching us?”
The guy glanced at Sydney, and the gun she held. “Really, Special Agent Fitzpatrick. There’s no need for lethal weapons. I’m simply the messenger. If we wanted to kill you, you’d be dead.”
She hid her surprise at hearing her name. “Then who was that shooting at us at the Gianicolo Hill yesterday?”
“An unfortunate misunderstanding from…some associates. We now have a strong interest in ensuring that everyone’s needs are met on this venture.”
“Needs?” Griffin asked. “What needs?”
“Let’s just say that you are very close to acquiring something that we want. And to guarantee its safe delivery into our hands, we intend to offer you something-or rather someone that you want.”
Griffin tensed. “I’m listening.”
“Bring us the map, we return your friend.”
“And how do I know m
y friend is alive?” Griffin asked, while Sydney was trying to figure out what the man was talking about. A map of what? Francesca’s map of the columbarium? No. That made little sense. Adami was after bioweapons, not ancient burial sites.
“If you’ll allow me to reach in my pocket,” the guy said, “I have a mobile phone for you to call.”
Sydney kept the gun trained on him. “Slowly,” she ordered.
He lifted his jacket so that they could see inside, then reached in and pulled out a thin cell phone. He held it up, saying, “First, the rules. In exchange for your friend, we require that the map be given directly to us. No copies or photographs of it allowed.” He glanced over at Francesca, who still waited by the stairs, adding, “Not even for academic purposes. And we require that you remain in contact via mobile phone. This mobile phone. Agreed?”
“As I said,” Griffin replied, “I’ll need assurance that my friend is alive.”
“Allow me to make the call.” The man punched in a number, waited a moment, then said, “Signore Griffin is here with me…Yes. It’s been explained.” He handed Griffin the phone.
Griffin held it to his ear, then “Tex? You’re okay?” He listened for a short time, then closed the cell phone. “I agree to your terms on one condition.” The guy said nothing, and Griffin continued. “Call off your trigger-happy watchdogs. If anything happens to any one of us, the deal is off.”
“Of course. There is one other stipulation. You have twenty-four hours. You will use this phone to communicate. The number is programmed in. If we lose communication with you, or you go beyond the allotted time, we will assume you have broken your end of the agreement. Your friend will die, and I can no longer guarantee your safety.”
“I can’t guarantee we’ll find it in that time.”
“That would be most unfortunate.” He looked at his watch. “It is a little after four P.M., and so, being in a generous mood, we shall expect the map by five P.M. tomorrow.”
Griffin dropped the phone in his pocket. “Anything else?”
“My gun.”
The Bone Chamber Page 27
