The Bone Chamber

12

Sydney walked to the balcony and threw open the door, realizing there was little she could do about this information until Griffin’s return. The air had warmed somewhat, probably due to the low gray clouds that now filled the sky, threatening rain. Warm enough, she decided, to sit outside with something to drink. She thought about getting dressed, but was comfortable in her robe, and she cinched the belt tight, retrieved another small bottle of prosecco, when the phone rang.
It was Griffin. “I hope you’re awake?”
“Yes. And I’m glad you called. There’s something I found out—”
“No time,” he said, his voice sharp, clipped. “I’ll be at the hotel in about one minute. I’m being followed. Have been since I left the ambassador’s residence.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I don’t want them to know I’m on to them, and I can’t have them follow me to the safe house. Meet me out front.”
It wasn’t until she caught her reflection in the mirror that she realized there was a flaw or two with this plan. “Now?”
“Something wrong?”
“I’m not exactly dressed at the moment.”
“Nice visual,” he said. “I need you out there to see what they’re doing. Don’t contact me. Just observe.”
“Out where?”
“The lobby should do nicely.”
He hung up before she could protest, and she glanced at her clothes, then out the window, saw him pulling up. “One minute? Try thirty seconds,” she said. No time to dress, she ran out the door, still carrying the little bottle of prosecco. It wasn’t until she stepped onto the elevator that she realized she’d forgotten her key and she was barefoot. Okay, so maybe she’d be dismissed as a crazy American waiting for a friend. If that was the worst of her problems, she could deal with it, she thought, dropping the little bottle of prosecco into her pocket as the elevator stopped and the door opened. She stepped around a young woman who was busy trying to catch a towheaded toddler, who tried to run toward the open elevator.
Sydney ignored the polite but direct stares of the hotel staff, as well as the few tourists lounging about in the chairs. Had this been Florida, no one would have given her a second glance, probably assuming she was on her way to the beach or the pool. But this wasn’t, which made the whole experience somewhat awkward. She only hoped it didn’t get her booted out of her hotel, and she did her best to ignore the looks, waving off the concierge, who asked if she needed assistance.
She headed for the doors, exited, and tried to remain unobtrusive—as if that were even possible, dressed as she was—beside a column just as Griffin got out of a Peugeot that he apparently had picked up after he’d dropped her off. He handed his key to the valet, as though he were a guest, waited for his ticket, gave a casual glance toward Sydney, raised a brow at the sight of her robe. He walked past her, dropped his ticket, and as he bent down to retrieve it, his back to the street, said, “Do you see a blue BMW?”
“It’s pulling up now.”
“Keep an eye on them. Maybe they’re only here to see where I’m staying. I can deal with that.”
“And if it’s not that?”
“Plan B. I’m open to suggestions.”
“I hate Plan B,” she muttered, glancing past him as the BMW came to a stop. She watched as the passenger exited, following Griffin toward the lobby doors. The man was tall, wearing dark slacks and a sport coat, his pale blue shirt open at the collar. Mirrored sunglasses masked his square face and reminded her of the guard from the Smithsonian. The BMW pulled up the street slightly, just out of sight, with only its back bumper in view. She didn’t like the way this looked, the driver waiting, ready for takeoff. Quiet area, few witnesses…
The man approached the lobby doors, his hand poised inside his jacket, and she decided that if this was a hit, if he did have a gun, he could easily take out Griffin, then her and the doorman, who paid them little attention. Time for a distraction, she decided, loosening the belt on her robe, allowing the terry to fly open, revealing her black underwear and bra as she walked. “Darling?” she called out, loud enough for the man to hear. “Is that you?”
All at once, the doorman, Griffin, and the man tailing him turned her way, and she put a little extra swing into her step to make sure her robe stayed open. “Darling?” she called again, seeing the man reaching into his coat toward the small of his back. “I seem to have left my key somewhere.”
The man following Griffin hesitated, and she caught a glimpse of the butt of his gun in his waistband. Griffin turned on his heel, but stopped as the lobby door opened, and out stepped the woman with the little towheaded toddler, who fled from his mother’s arms, laughing as he ran right between the suspect and Griffin. His mother ran after him. “Gianni! Gianni!” she called out. “Vieni a me subito!”
Sydney’s heart thudded at the sound of the child’s laughter. Directly in the line of fire. Griffin stepped toward the man, stopped when he saw the boy, no doubt worried about the same thing. And what could she do, armed with nothing but a bottle of prosecco? Maybe she could throw it at him, distract him enough to give Griffin a shot—assuming Griffin was armed. Instead, she strode up to the man, shouting, “You’re late!” He looked at her in confusion, his gaze flicking down to her exposed skin. “You promised to meet me.”
His expression hardened. Dismissed her. He turned away. Again started to draw his weapon. She came up behind him. Grabbed the bottle of prosecco in her pocket. Shoved the top of it into his back. Grasped his arm with her free hand, and hoped the Bureau’s reputation extended to this country. “FBI. Capisce?”
He froze. The mother ran up, grabbed her child, then retreated back into the hotel, blissfully clueless.
“Reach for that gun,” she said, “and you die.”
“You’re making a mistake,” the man said in English, his accent thick.
“Not as big as yours,” Sydney replied. The understatement of the year, she thought, pressing the prosecco harder against his back as Griffin appeared at her side, taking the man’s gun, slipping it into his own waistband. He raised a brow at the sight of the small bottle, but otherwise said nothing, and she dropped it into her pocket, cinched her robe closed, as Griffin placed the man in a discreet wristlock. From the corner of her eye, she saw the driver step into view. He looked as though he was ready to approach, investigate. “What about his friend?”
Griffin looked that direction just as the driver ran back to his car, sped off, wheels screeching across the cobbled drive. “Looks like your friend abandoned you.”
“He’ll be back.”
“But you’ll be gone. In the meantime, walk quietly into the lobby,” Griffin said, with a slight twist to the man’s wrist to ensure compliance. The doorman opened the glass door, let them in. Griffin said something to him in Italian, and Sydney overheard the word carabinieri and assumed he was asking that the police be called. That and no doubt something about an office, since the doorman ran up to the desk, and the well-dressed man from behind the counter rushed forward, and ushered them into a room just off the lobby.
Griffin said something to the manager, who nodded, then left them alone. The moment the door closed behind him, Griffin shoved the man in the chair, drew the gun on him, and told Sydney, “You don’t happen to have a spare pair of handcuffs to go with that lethal weapon, do you?”
She smiled. “Unfortunately, no. Budget cuts have really taken their toll.” She withdrew her sash from her robe. “Will this do?”
“As good as anything.” He handed her the gun, then took the belt. “At least tell me you caught a license number on that car?”
“Sorry. I was a bit occupied.”
“Probably stolen anyway.” He walked behind the suspect, pulling his hands behind him, tying them to the back of the chair with the sash. “My suggestion? Be very careful. The lady has no qualms about blowing your brains out. The wine goes to her head pretty quickly.” Griffin pulled the belt tight, asking, “Who are you, and who do you work for?”
The man said nothing.
Griffin didn’t bother questioning him further. He searched his pockets, found no ID and no more weapons. Five minutes later there was a knock at the door, and someone called out Griffin’s name. He opened the door to four men.
They stepped into the room, remained near the door, conversing quietly in Italian, every now and then glancing either at the prisoner or at Sydney, who had taken up residence in an armchair, where she could keep watch on the man. Earlier the man seemed calm, unruffled over his capture. But the longer the group spoke, each time they glanced his way, he seemed more disturbed. A sheen of sweat soon covered his brow and upper lip, his jaw clenched, and a vein in his temple seemed ready to burst. When two of the men walked over, switching out Sydney’s sash for handcuffs, then each taking one of his arms to escort him out, his face paled. So be it, she thought as they left.
And no sooner had they stepped out the door, when a tall, stocky man walked in after them. She recognized Tex from Griffin’s office in D.C. He gave her an appreciative glance, smiled in greeting, then said to Griffin, “Why is it I never get the pretty girls in bathrobes on my assignments?”
“Luck of the draw. But watch yourself. She’s dangerous.”
“And,” Sydney said, “she’d like to go up to her room to change. Or is that too much to ask?”
“We’ll walk you up,” Griffin said. “Your hotel has been compromised.”
“Which means what?”
“You won’t be staying here tonight. It’s not safe.”
Tex held the door, and she cinched her robe even tighter, feeling very conspicuous as the two of them walked her across the lobby to the elevator. “One minor problem. No key.”
Griffin left her and Tex at the elevator, walked up to the manager, whispered something in his ear, nodded toward Sydney, and the man went behind the long registration desk to retrieve a duplicate key.
Once up in her room, she gathered her clothes and stepped into the bathroom to change. When she came out, the men were standing before the window, and she heard Tex say, “She really took him down with a bottle of prosecco from the minibar? You know, Griff, we could use her—”
“She’s not available.”
“But—”
Whatever Griffin interjected was in Italian, and judging from the tone of his voice as he argued with Tex, not a subject he wanted to discuss, a fact confirmed when Griffin walked out onto the balcony, apparently frustrated with whatever Tex was telling him.
“Is something wrong?” she asked Tex, sitting down to put on her shoes.
“Guess that depends on your point of view. Mine’s thinking you might be perfect for the party at the Adami villa. Lots of dignitaries, and you’d look a damned sight better on my arm than he will, no matter what his disguise, since my so-called date never made her flight out here.”
“A party? You’re kidding, right?”
“We’re using the party as a cover to get me in the door. Have a—”
Griffin stepped back in the room. “Enough!”
“If she’s going, she has a right to know what she’s getting into.”
“And who said she’s going?”
“You have a better idea? The lodge aside, I’m supposed to be a rich American, looking to buy art. We all know rich Americans like to have beautiful women on their arms. And her presence will take notice off of me.”
“It’s too damned dangerous. I don’t want her involved.”
“Maybe,” Sydney said, “someone should ask me?”
“Much like you asked if it was okay to hop a plane to Italy, involve yourself in an investigation you shouldn’t have involved yourself in?”
“And it’s a damned good thing I did,” she said, grabbing the folder of university papers and shoving them in the small suitcase. She zipped it shut. “Or they’d be scraping your sorry ass off the pavement.”
Tex laughed, until he saw her pick up the bag, then her purse, and walk to the door. “You’re not going to let her take off, Griff.”
“Actually, I am, because I can guarantee that once she finds out this covert operation isn’t sanctioned by the government, and that she could very well jeopardize her position with the Bureau, she’ll refuse.”
Sydney stopped cold, thinking about what Carillo had told her about this team Griffin was working on. She’d been tired, wasn’t making the connection until now. “ATLAS is black ops, not special ops?” she said, eyeing them both.
Griffin crossed the room, stood face-to-face with her. “How do you know about ATLAS?”
Anger surged through her. “Tasha died for some black op gone awry? Find another guinea pig, because whatever game you’re playing at isn’t one I want in on.”
“Since you’re not in on it, no worries.”
Tex put his hand on the door to prevent her leaving. “Sounds like she does want in on it, Griff. Or she wouldn’t be protesting so much.”
“Let her go, Tex.”
But Tex didn’t move. “Can I apologize for whatever he did?”
“Or what he didn’t do?” she said, her hand still on the door, thinking about how Griffin had kept Tasha’s death from her.
“I’ll admit he isn’t the easiest man to work with.”
“Work with?” She glanced over at Griffin, who stood there with his arms crossed, glaring at them both. “I didn’t even know who the hell he works for until about an hour ago, and even then, I wasn’t sure. What I do know is that from the moment my plane touched down in Quantico, he’s managed to—”
“Be a royal pain in the ass?”
“Something like that.”
“He’s a tortured soul.”
“Tell him to get in line. A few of us have the market cornered.”
Tex gave her an empathetic smile. “That we do, darlin’. But we get on with our lives. So, give us a chance to convince you to change your mind?”
“You heard her, Tex. She doesn’t want any part of this.”
Tex ignored Griffin, saying, “I’d really like to plant this device in that bastard’s office. You’re perfect for my cover. You studied art, you know the classics, and I’m allegedly there to buy a painting.”
She wasn’t surprised he knew her passion for fine art. Not with the background Griffin had done on her. And as much as she was tempted by the thought of getting to see some actual paintings, it wasn’t worth the price. “Sorry. I only packed business casual.”
“See?” Griffin said. “She can’t do it.”
“We have connections, darlin’.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Sydney replied. “There’s nothing you or anyone else in here could say that would make me change my mind. Nothing.”
To which Tex said, “You want to nail the group we think killed your forensic anthropologist friend?”
It seemed several heartbeats passed as his words sank in. “Nothing except that.”


Before they left the hotel, two of Griffin’s Italian team members, both special agents in the carabinieri, returned to acquire the proper dress and jewelry for Sydney. Her measurements and shoe size were taken, followed by some rapid transactions in Italian via the phone. Within a half hour, a delivery was made directly to the hotel from Salvatore Ferragamo on the Via dei Condotti, consisting of black satin pumps and a low-cut, black evening dress that gathered just below the bodice into a shimmering fall of crepe and velvet that brushed at her toes. Tex left for the safe house to change into his formal wear, and while they waited for him to return, she was briefed on what they expected of her, while Griffin paced the room, clearly not happy with this latest turn of events.
“Calm down, amico mio,” Giustino, the shorter of the two carabinieri, said to Griffin, as his partner, Marc, helped Sydney fasten a diamond bracelet, then showed her how to work the transmitter and receiver. “She will be fine. It is not as if you are taking some unsuspecting citizen off the street and dropping her into the den of the lion.”
“No,” Marc said. “We are dropping an unsuspecting FBI agent into the den.”
“But a beautiful and well-trained one, non è vero?” Giustino said.
Griffin threw the two men a dark look, then said to Sydney, “It’s not too late to back out.”
“If this gets me closer to finding out who killed Tasha and the ambassador’s daughter, and who tried to kill me, then I’m in.”
Marc said, “You do understand, signorina, that if something happens, if you or Tex are caught, we cannot acknowledge you? This is NOC.” He pronounced this last as “knock,” which meant nonofficial cover. No ties to any governments. Everything under the radar.
“You mentioned that twice.”
“We cannot even go in after you.”
“You are giving me a gun?”
Giustino said, “There is a small-caliber pistol in your evening bag. But as with everything else, if you get caught with it in Italy, you are—how do you say—on your own?”
“Even if the carabinieri give it to me?”
“Mi dispiace, signorina, we are not involved in this affair, just as Griffin and the Stati Uniti are not involved in this.”
Truly on her own, then. About to embark on her first unsanctioned black ops mission. And hoping she wasn’t about to make the biggest mistake of her life.