The Bone Chamber

13

A shaft of moonlight broke through the clouds, allowing Sydney a glimpse of the pungent bay tree forests, as Tex drove the Lancia Thesis up the winding narrow and steep road in the Alban Hills. Their destination was the sixteenth-century Villa Patrizia. “Wait till you see this place,” Tex said. “Built on a crag overhanging the volcanic circle of Lake Nemi by one of the more eccentric Orsini dukes. Probably why Adami bought it.”
“So how is it no one ever came after this guy?” Sydney asked Tex.
“You can’t topple a well-loved public figure like Adami without irrefutable proof.”
“He’s American?”
“As apple pie as a gangster can get. Born Carl Adam in New Jersey. Moved to Italy and became Carlo Adami. That’s his identity now, and since he’s lived the past twenty-something years in Italy, married his wife and made his fortune, or rather, increased hers, he’s become untouchable. He’s handsome, rich, and the king of philanthropists. Donates millions of euros. Travels to Africa and Sudan, fights for orphaned AIDS babies, even holds and kisses them. That’s the figure the public sees. No one wants to look too closely at how his numerous international holdings in energy and construction companies prosper anytime there’s a war or civil unrest in the Mideast or third world countries. Or how some of that philanthropic money being thrown around the globe is funding terrorists, who keep that civil unrest going. That’s why our operation is unsanctioned. We, being Italy and the U.S., need the evidence before we point the fingers. And he has too many important people from both countries in his pocket for us to be able to get it via the normal investigative route.”
“So why would he have Alessandra murdered?”
“That, darlin’, is the million-euro question. Something we haven’t quite pieced together. We’re fairly certain it had to do with his arms smuggling, or a cover for it.”
“So she was working with your team on this?”
“She’s the one who brought it to our attention. She seemed to think that Adami was working on finding the source to some plague he could use for his bioweapons. Unfortunately, we couldn’t convince Alessandra not to go on this expedition he was financing. She insisted it would look better if she went herself. When she tried to contact Griffin about a week before she was murdered, he was working an operation in Tunisia. Didn’t get her message until too late.”
“Any idea what she wanted?”
“None. She only said it was urgent he contact her. A few days later she went missing, and we’ve been scrambling ever since,” he said, flicking on the high beams as they approached yet another steep uphill curve.
“But you were able to make a connection between her and Adami?”
“Last summer she stayed with her father at the Vatican embassy residence, and at a party, Adami approached her, asking if she knew of any good archeologists, as he was financing an expedition. Naturally, we assumed this was a cover for his arms smuggling. We got word that he was looking to start building up bioweapons. So far no proof. Can’t even find his damned lab. But a few weeks after she returned to the States for school, she telephoned the CIA, saying that she had some information she thought they might be interested in. Something called the third key, which translates to la terza chiave in Italian. We figured it had to do with a Freemason lodge in Italy called C3, if only because the initials are the same.”
“C3?” She thought of Xavier Caldwell’s conspiracy paper. “Any chance it’s connected to something called Propaganda Due?”
He looked over at her, then back at the road. “A big chance. How’d you come up with that?”
“A kid in Alessandra’s class at UVA wrote a paper on Freemasonry right before they went missing. He thought P2 was still going strong and had infiltrated the U.S. government.”
“Not sure about that last part, but we do think that C3 is possibly an offshoot of the old P2, Propaganda Due, a clandestine Masonic lodge that was shut down about twenty years ago. The Italian government nearly collapsed when it was found that P2’s members consisted of numerous top officials in Rome, all corrupt and on the take. Everyone from the highest-ranking politicians to the police and judicial officials, even a number of high-ranking Vatican officials, all commingling with the mafiosi.” He slowed for a turn, and Syd caught a glimpse of the steep cliffs and the lake below. “The downfall caused the collapse of the Banco Ambrosiano, a major financial institution which was controlled by the Vatican. And that’s not even counting the murders connected to the whole affair.”
“Was Adami part of that operation?”
“Damned straight he was. As usual, he managed to survive the scandal. Claimed he didn’t know the P2 Masonic lodge wasn’t the social club he’d thought. Which is how we came up with my cover. A rich American Freemason, looking to buy some artwork from him.”
Xavier’s conspiracy paper aside, it seemed the Freemason connection certainly opened doors, she told herself. “And all you intend to do tonight is to plant a listening device?”
“An undetectable device. It’s our best chance to figure out where he might be making and storing bioweapons. We want to prove it, destroy them, and shut him down.”
As they neared the villa, Sydney smoothed her dress, adjusted the diamond bracelet at her wrist, then pulled the visor down to look in the mirror. “How about a test,” she said, turning her head from side to side as though looking at the diamond earrings, but in reality checking to make sure the tiny transmitter in her ear was not visible. Griffin, Giustino, and Marc were holed up in a van farther down the hill near the small town of Nemi, monitoring their progress. Once at the villa, Tex would have to leave her to break into Carlo Adami’s office to plant the listening device.
“Testing, one, two, three,” came Griffin’s voice.
“Perfect,” she said.
Tex stopped at the tall wrought-iron gates, adorned with the Orsini coat of arms, and showed his invitation to one of the uniformed guards, who took it, leaned down, looked into the car, eyed Sydney, then returned the invitation to Tex. “Enjoy your evening, signore è signorina,” he said, waving them through.
The gates slid open, and Tex drove up the long winding drive, lit on either side by torches set into shallow pans. The flickering flames cast eerie shadows across grotesque moss-covered statues of satyrs chasing nymphs. The drive ended in a broad ellipse before the great Renaissance mansion, and Tex pulled up to wait their turn behind a Ferrari that had stopped behind a Mercedes. Angry clouds threatened rain, but the stylishly dressed guests seemed not to notice. Not one umbrella or raincoat marred the perfection of the Fendis, Versaces, and Armanis worn by the men and women emerging from the various luxury vehicles. A few moments later, two of several crimson-liveried valets walked up to the Lancia, one opening the door for Sydney, another for Tex. The keys were left in the vehicle.
“You be careful with that there car, son,” he said, in a thick drawl. He didn’t wait for a response, just took Sydney’s arm possessively, playing his part of the rich Texan. Sydney, keeping up her role as arm candy, laid her hand over his, and gave her best ingénue smile, having to look up at him. At six-three, with shoulders that looked like a linebacker’s, and thick wavy blond hair shimmering in the torchlight, he was an impressive sight in his tux. He led her up the steps to mingle with the guests, as they waited for their introductions to the count.
A white-gloved waiter bearing a tray of spumante approached. “Prosecco, signorina? Signore?”
“Grazie,” Sydney said, taking a glass.
Tex took one as well, leading her through the gilded columns of the cavernous salon, whose baroque mirrors reflected light onto the fanciful parrots that darted in an impossible flight across the frescoed ceiling. Sydney, in her black velvet and crepe Ferragamo gown and simple diamond earrings, blended in with the other women, who, according to Tex, included contessas and principessas among the guests. A discreet servant informed them that an al fresco supper, as well as their host, Carlo Adami, awaited them in the Raphael Loggia, which she discovered was the name of the great veranda that overlooked the gardens and Lake Nemi. There were propane heaters set up to keep the guests warm. A long table, draped with the finest damask, had been covered with plates of canapés, bowls of iced caviar, and other delicacies of antipasto. Mingling among the guests was another waiter, this one holding a tray of frosted vodka glasses, which Sydney declined. Tex immediately went for the vodka, leaving his wineglass on the tray. At one end of the spacious loggia, a tall, dark-haired man, perhaps in his late forties, broke away from a cluster of guests and approached them.
“Ah! Signore Jamison,” he said to Tex, who was using the name Roger Jamison instead of James Dalton. “I am so happy that you and your charming friend could attend my small gathering.” He turned his attention to Sydney, saying, “I do not believe that I have had the pleasure of making your acquaintance.”
“This here little lady is Cindy Kirkpatrick,” Tex said, putting his arm around Sydney. “And this, honey pie, is our host, Carlo Adami.” Sydney eyed the man who was allegedly behind the killings. He didn’t fit any stereotypes, unless one was trying to pigeonhole the suave, debonair multimillionaire murderer. His dark eyes swept over Sydney, and she imagined that if one didn’t know his background, one might easily be charmed by his easy smile and the slightest of dimples on his chin.
But she did know his background, which made it all the harder to appear pleasant, neutral.
“Your home is magnificent,” she said, falling on the only truthful statement she could think of at the moment, and she held out her hand. “Thank you so much for inviting us.”
Adami took her hand in his, bowing over it, before turning his attention back to Tex. “I cannot wait to show you my Tiziano. I am certain that once you see the painting, you will not regret your journey. Perhaps after I see to my guests?”
“Looking forward to it,” Tex said, lifting his vodka glass, then downing it.
Adami excused himself, and continued welcoming new guests as they arrived. After about a half hour of Tex making a show of drinking more alcohol than was good for him, with much of it discreetly poured into the potted persimmon trees that were conveniently located at the corners of the loggia, he made a loud declaration of going off to find the “little boys’ room.” And since his words made little impression on the guests, who were unfamiliar with the term, he announced in stentorian Texas Italian, “Dough-vay eel gaaby-netto?” The principessas and politicians politely pretended not to hear, and one of the waiters immediately ushered Tex out of the salon and presumably to the room in question. Sydney was thus left to wander and to gather bits and pieces of conversation that could be recorded by Griffin and the others monitoring her and Tex from the van.
A number of fine paintings had been hung between the mirrors of the salon, and Sydney decided she’d use them for her cover. She stopped to view a portrait over the marble fireplace of a girl in red velvet, wondering if it was really by Leonardo da Vinci. If it was merely an exquisite copy, she’d have no way of knowing. She’d never seen a real Leonardo outside a museum. Moving on, she strolled the perimeter of the salon, admiring each work of art, pausing by first one group of guests, then another. Tex’s pretended ignorance of Italian had the desired effect. The guests continued their conversations, paying her little attention. Unfortunately, Sydney’s limited understanding of the language made it difficult to know if she was picking up anything useful. She figured Griffin would notify her via the receiver if something came up, so she continued on, perusing a painting or statuette, attempting to stand close enough for the transmitter to pick up what the guests were saying, before moving on to the next piece of art. Finally she spied Carlo Adami with several men near the winding double staircase, and wandered in that direction, hoping to capture something there as well.
Adami held court among a group of distinguished-looking men, and no one glanced her way. As she stopped to admire a marble bust of the Emperor Nero set on the left balustrade of the double staircase, the conversation seemed to change course, more of a hushed whisper, urgent, and one word caught her attention. Massonico. Considering that part of Tex’s cover was that he was a Mason, and Adami was suspected in dealings in the P2 Masonic lodge, that made this particular conversation something she wanted to overhear. The men had other ideas, however, and moved beneath the giant arch that spanned from one side of the staircase to the other. Probably just as well, and so she crossed the room to the other staircase beneath the great parabolic arch, which allowed her a visual on the men, but was far enough away to appear as though she had no interest in anything they were discussing, even if she could understand it.
And it might have been left at that, had she not noticed a rare bust of the Emperor Gaius Caligula in the far corner beneath the arch, something she might not have known had her history of art professor not been almost fanatical about teaching them Roman art. She wandered over to get a better look, discovering that though she was thirty feet away and on the opposite corner from where Adami stood, the acoustics now worked in her favor. Like the arch in New York’s Grand Central Terminal, even though she stood well away from the men, and far enough away to seem uninterested in anything but the marble statuary, their whispered conversation sounded as though she was standing right behind them.
Keeping her back to the men, she pretended great interest in the bust of Caligula, all while listening. She understood little of it, hoping it was loud enough for the transmitter to pick up, especially when she caught the phrase la pir-amide grande. Immediately she thought of the ambassador’s daughter and the crime scene photo, the gruesome triangular shape carved from the young woman’s face. Attempting to put the image from her mind, Sydney tried to concentrate on what they were saying, noting that one phrase seemed to pop up again and again, something that sounded like “cheetray.”
Suddenly the conversation stopped, but she didn’t move in case it resumed.
“Mi piacerebbe mangiucchiare i tuoi capezzolini squisitissimi…” This was no echoing whisper. Carlo Adami had moved up behind her, spoken into her ear, his hot, wine-soaked breath caressing her neck. Her instincts told her that he wanted to know whether she’d been eavesdropping, and if she understood any of it.
She turned, smiled. “Signore Adami. You startled me.”
“My apologies, signorina. And please, call me Carlo.”
“Carlo,” she repeated. “I’m embarrassed to admit that I don’t speak Italian, so whatever you said…”
“It is I who should be embarrassed, cara mia. For taking advantage of the vulnerability of a bellissima donna—a beautiful lady left alone.”
“We’re hardly alone.”
“Something that can be immediately remedied if you but say the word.” He gave a mock sigh. “But being American, you are probably one of those ladies who are faithful to their…fidanzati, no?”
She merely smiled, casually glanced past him, noting the other men had moved from beneath the arch.
“Such a waste,” he said. “This idea that one must have but a single love in one’s life.”
“What about your wife?”
“Giulietta? She is the understanding sort,” he said, leading Sydney by the arm up the stairs, and no doubt out of hearing of the men he’d been conversing with. He stopped her midway, then turned toward the salon. “Do you see that delightful young man standing by the bust of Augustus Caesar? The tall blond man? He’s been her lover these past three years.”
“And it doesn’t bother you that she has a lover?”
“What is it you Americans are so fond of saying?” he asked, apparently forgetting his own heritage. “Variety is the spice of life?”
“Something like that.”
“Here, we say, ‘Ogni medaglia ha il suo rovescio.’ There are two sides to every coin,” he translated. “He makes my wife happy. That makes me happy.” No doubt because she was the one who bought him respectability in this country. “But what I am more interested in is what makes you happy.”
Somehow she doubted that. “For one, your stunning art collection.”
He eyed her, his expression filled with skepticism. “I have noticed your admiration. You seemed particularly fascinated by the Roman busts beneath my staircases.”
“Because I have a penchant for art history, which is what drew me to the busts in the first place. Especially that of Caligula. My understanding was that the majority of his likenesses had been destroyed after his assassination.”
He looked at her with somewhat renewed interest. “Perhaps because of his reputation, at least that written by his detractors.”
“And what was that?”
“That he was considered cruel, insane, and,” he said, leaning in close to her, and lowering his voice, “he indulged in sexual aberrations that offended Rome.” He straightened, watching her closely, and she had the feeling that whatever these aberrations were, he enjoyed thinking about them. “But Caligula’s errant reputation aside—”
“Errant or repugnant?”
“That would depend on one’s point of view,” he said, as he once again ushered her up the stairs, placing his hand at the small of her back to guide her. “What I find interesting is that very few of my acquaintances, certainly none here tonight, could look at any of these pieces and be able to discuss them with any authority. Perhaps that is why Signore Jamison brought you with him? To determine if the Tiziano he intends to buy is real or a forgery?”
“Hardly. My knowledge comes only from haunting museums and taking art history classes. These could all be forgeries or the real thing for all I know.” She hesitated at the top of the stairs. “Where are we going?”
“To show you what makes me infinitely happy.” His sweeping gesture included the vaulted frescoed ceiling—and as Adami and Sydney rounded the corner of the first landing, she looked up and saw naked Cupids flying after thinly draped Psyches with butterfly wings. They flitted among curving acanthus vines that ran over the breadth of the ceiling. Farther on, Pygmies wearing conical hats and wielding long spears hunted crocodiles, and ibises fluttered on a lotus-studded Nile, which seemed to cascade down over the cornices that separated the ceiling from the staircase walls on either side of the great hall. As Sydney’s eyes followed this painted Nile to its logical source above the center balcony that joined the twin staircases, the elegant grace of Greco-Roman temples gave way to the squared, but equally elegant, trapezoidal Egyptian temples with red and gold columns. At the very top, two sphinxes faced each other on either side of a great pyramid. From its central door, the tributaries of the Nile poured, dividing into two rivers, both of which went their separate ways, tumbling down on opposite sides of the double staircase.
Arriving at the top of the stairs, Adami escorted Sydney through the double doors, just under the pyramid. These led into another gigantic oblong room, elegantly furnished. Here, however, the artwork changed dramatically and was clearly a tribute to all things phallic. On the wall were paintings of satyrs with full erections, chasing naked wood nymphs, and young women mounting their lovers. A curio held wind chimes shaped like penises, as well as small statues of creatures and men, erections evident. Adami swept right past the displays and a conveniently placed chaise longue from which to view the artwork, as though barely noticing, and led her to some tall glass doors that opened onto a large travertine-paved balcony. Pushing one of the doors open, he said, “We are now standing above the Raphael Loggia.” As she stepped through the door, she was stunned by the view. The balcony overlooked the formal gardens that ended at a balustraded cliff that dropped sharply into the volcanic lake. Except for the marble nymphs and satyrs, the gardens were now deserted, perhaps because the wind had picked up, bringing with it a few scattered raindrops that mixed with the spray from the fountains and vanished into the winds of the lake.
“What’s on the other side of the fountain?” she asked, pointing to a winding path of moonstone that led to what appeared to be a garden house that overlooked the lake.
“A very, very special place,” he said, watching her as he spoke. “The collection in the room we passed through is but a small part of it. Perhaps one day I will show you…sooner rather than later. What do you think?”
“About your gardens?” she said, deciding that was a safer subject than the one he was intimating. “They’re magnificent.”
“Almost as magnificent as you are,” he said, his voice low, smooth.
“I’m in.” She froze at the sound of Tex’s voice in her ear, almost didn’t expect it.
“You are, perhaps, uncomfortable with my attentions,” Carlo said, eyeing her still.
“I—Yes,” she said, realizing that was as good a cover as one could ask for.
“Che peccato! I shall take you back to the festa.”
“Not yet,” she said, lifting her face, taking a deep breath, grabbing at any chance to stall Carlo. Tex needed at least five minutes in Carlo’s office to set up the listening device. “Don’t you love the way the air smells just before it rains?”
“Sì,” he said, moving closer to her, so that his arm brushed up against hers. “I do.” His voice caressed her, made her think perhaps she’d taken this a step too far, especially considering the room they’d passed through to get here. She was saved from responding when someone stepped out on the balcony.
“Signore Adami?”
Carlo stepped back, looked toward the open veranda door. “Cos’è?”
“C’è una telefonata. è urgentissima!”
He hesitated, then, “Starò lì, subito!” He took Sydney’s gloved hand. “You will forgive me, signorina, but I have some annoying business that I must attend to. A phone call.”
He bowed over her hand, turned it and pressed his lips to her palm. “Ci vedremo presto, cara mia!”
She forced a smile, watched him leave, then turned her back, pretending to look out over the gardens, ignoring the fat raindrops brought in on the wind. Leaning on the balustrade, her hands clasped together, covering her mouth, she said, “Hope you heard that, because he left in a hurry.”
“I did. He’s got an urgent phone call.” Tex’s voice came in clearly through her earpiece. “Which means he’s probably headed right for his office. You can’t stall him for thirty more seconds?”
“I can try,” she said, then turned on her heel and hurried through the offending room and down the winding double staircase. Carlo was weaving his way through his guests, heading through the main hallway toward the back of the house, when she finally spied him. “Carlo?” He didn’t hear her, and she pushed her way through, calling out again. “Carlo?”
He’d just reached the back passageway, stopped, turned her direction.
Suddenly she doubted herself, doubted her ability to handle anything about this operation. She didn’t know what to say, what wouldn’t tip him off. “I just wanted to…thank you. For showing me your gardens.” Lame, but she was at a loss here.
Carlo gave a perfunctory smile, his gaze sweeping over her as he said, “The pleasure was mine, signorina.”
He left her standing there as he strode out of the salon, then down the hallway toward his office, and she breathed a sigh of relief when she heard Tex’s voice saying, “All clear. I’m out the window.”
“Thank God,” she said, snatching an iced flute of vodka from a passing waiter, who smiled at her, undoubtedly thinking she was grateful for the alcohol. She took a sip of the burning liquid, then nearly spit it out as she caught sight of a man walking through the front doors. The driver of the BMW who had followed Griffin from the ambassador’s house to the hotel. And he was walking directly toward her.