The Bone Chamber

16

In the security room of the Smithsonian, Special Agent Tony Carillo scooted closer to the monitor, trying to get a better view of the woman standing near a display on the Templar Knights in the Smithsonian. She was young, early twenties, wearing a UVA alumni sweatshirt, similar to what Fitzpatrick had described. The girl seemed particularly interested in something in the display case, but from his angle, he couldn’t see what. After a couple of minutes, she walked a few feet, asked a security guard a question, and he pointed in the opposite direction. She turned, walked that way, was met by a man of East Indian descent, and both disappeared into a doorway. That was the last time either was seen on any of the tapes.
“What was she looking at? Or for?” he asked the head of security for the Smithsonian.
“This would have been a traveling display…” He consulted a calendar. “Templar Knights and the Holy Crusade. Relics, armor, that sort of thing.”
“Anything the world hasn’t seen before?”
“Not that I could tell. The display will be here a couple more days, if you want to see it, then it’s back to France.”
“And what’s that she’s holding?”
“The catalog. She would have purchased it from the gift shop. I have a copy here,” he said, handing Carillo a catalog on the display.
It was slick, glossy, and Carillo looked through it, didn’t see anything earth-shattering, but figured it couldn’t hurt to compare the catalog to what was being shown, and once he was taken directly to the display, he checked off each item, figured everything was there. She’d seemed particularly interested in something at the end of the last case. There was an illuminated map, and next to that a belt buckle depicting the Templar cross, a ring with the same cross, an old coin showing the double Templar Knights on horseback, and then a very worn cross engraved with the Crucifixion.
But then he looked at the catalog again, saw the price stamped on the cover. “I don’t suppose you have security tapes of the gift shop, do you?”
“Actually, we do. Just never thought about that.”
“I’d like to have a look.”


Sydney woke with a start, looked around, not recognizing the darkened room. There was a second of momentary panic as she recalled the accident, her basement prison, and she thought about Tex, wondered if they’d found him yet. If they were even looking for him. Griffin had come after her, saved her in direct defiance of any orders. What she wanted to know was, orders from whom? What obscure branch of the government did he work for? Was ATLAS a shadow branch of one of the most covert branches? Very much like her father’s work. Before his death, he’d worked special ops, even black ops for the army, and kept it from his family, work that wasn’t always on the up-and-up.
Was what she’d been doing on the up-and-up? She had only Griffin to assure her it was. Only his word that Carlo Adami, a man with legitimate ties to the U.S. and their allies, one of the most respected businessmen in the world, a man who funded numerous global charitable organizations, was up to his neck in murder and terrorist funding. Publicly accusing such a man of conspiring with terrorists to further his business interests would have been as welcome as someone accusing the pope of conspiring with the devil to help the church.
“You’re awake.”
She glanced over the edge of an eiderdown quilt, saw Griffin watching her from the arched doorway. “Yeah,” she said.
“How do you feel?”
“Sore all over. Groggy from the painkillers.” She remembered nothing after the stop at the hospital, other than sleeping on the long drive. “Where are we?” she asked, eyeing the wooden-beamed ceiling.
He walked into the room, stood at the side of the large double bed. “Our safe house. Your CT scan was clean, so other than a few bruises and scrapes, the cut on your hand from the shovel—”
“The least of my worries…Tex?”
“Nothing yet. But it doesn’t look good.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It wasn’t your fault.”
“But he recognized me. Adami’s cousin. From the hotel. He came after me.”
Griffin didn’t respond.
“Is anyone going to look for Tex?” she asked.
“Tex didn’t follow orders. He should have left. He knew the rules.” Before she could think of what to say, he turned, walked toward the door, and with his back to her, said, “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Where are you going?”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. She knew. Rules or no rules, he was going to look for Tex.


Jon Westgate exited the sedan that pulled up in front of Adami’s villa. The morning sun lit up the hillside. It also blinded him as he was approached by one of Adami’s goons, who patted him down for weapons. If Adami weren’t so bloody important to their operation, he would never have submitted himself to such humiliation. Surely the man knew that all Westgate needed to do was make one phone call, and for all Adami’s millions, he would never survive the next day.
But that was just it. Adami knew. And he also knew that as long as he held the cards he did, Westgate would never make that call. They’d needed him. But that was about to change.
Weapons search over, the goon escorted Westgate up the travertine stairs, through a large salon, then past the impressive double staircase, and a length of windows that looked out over a massive veranda, which bore the remnants of the previous evening’s festivities. They continued on up a back set of stairs that led to a private balcony with an unparalleled view of the lake, where Adami sat eating his breakfast. He looked up, smiled at Westgate, then indicated he should sit.
Westgate pulled out a chair, taking a seat across from Adami.
“Would you care for something to eat or drink?” Adami asked him.
“No, thank you. Tell me about the party.”
Adami took his damned time, sipping at a glass of orange juice, keeping him waiting. “An unexpected visitor,” he finally said, then proceeded to tell him what had happened the night before.
“Griffin was here? How did he get in?”
“The back wall, apparently. The guard who was working it is no longer in my employ.”
No doubt now residing at the bottom of Lake Nemi, Westgate thought. Adami’s penchant for killing aside, he turned his thoughts to what had transpired at the party before Griffin had arrived. “This woman, do you know who she was?”
“Unfortunately, not yet. I sent someone out to the hotel where they first ran into her, but apparently the records were sanitized. We learned from a maid that a woman of her description checked in, but as for any names…” He shrugged in that insolent way of his, as though he couldn’t be bothered by such minute details. “A shame we lost her, though. I had some high hopes of using her to bait some of the attending dignitaries.”
And there was the crux of Adami’s power. He had taken the lessons learned from the old Propaganda Due Masonic lodge, disbanded over two decades ago, and used them to his advantage. On the surface he was the king of altruism. Beneath, he had a number of high-ranking politicians and dignitaries from countless countries in his pocket. Most were brought into the fold by way of Freemasonry, a common bond exploited by Adami. He was careful to nurture this connection until he had them where he wanted them. Some were there due to simple bribery on a grand scale. Others because they believed in the cause, domination of the world’s banking system. A few very powerful heads of state, however, needed a bit more coercion, and therein was the key to Adami’s success, because he had dared to find out what their innermost fantasies were, then presented them with such, only to blackmail them once their wishes were fulfilled.
Surprising how many of them were sexually deviant, when presented the right opportunity. Not surprising how many caved, once they were faced with reality and a few choice photos or tapes of their escapades. And the Freemasons were the perfect venue with which to hide and manipulate those men. The inner circle of a secret society lent itself to corruption, because there were no checks and balances, no oversight. The Catholic Church got that part right when it condemned Freemasonry all those years ago. So yes, aside from the plain, greedy power mongers, or the bribed officials, the new C3 Masonic lodge also had its share of extremely powerful deviant members who would go to great lengths to ensure that their intimate lives didn’t cross over to their public personas.
It was perhaps this, more than the bribery and blackmail, that made Adami such a distasteful partner in crime. And the very thing that made him such a dangerous one. As much intel as Westgate’s boss had available at his disposal, he had yet to learn exactly who had been lured into this sexual den of Adami’s. Certainly a number of top-ranking C3 members, but who else?
He smiled at Adami, decided it best to change the subject. “My boss doesn’t seem to think that this little plan of yours to stir up tension will work. He thinks you should just stick with supplying the bio arms that we agreed upon.”
“Little plan? Trust me. If we find what we’re seeking, it will do more than stir up tension.”
“Well here’s the thing—”
“The thing…?”
“Cut the I’m-Italian-and-don’t-understand-your-Americanisms crap. You’re as Italian as I am.”
“I haven’t been to America in well over twenty years.”
“Your loss, our gain,” Westgate said, tiring of always having to kiss Adami’s self-made “foreign” ass, when everyone knew he hailed from New Jersey. Which made him relish what he was about to do, because it was about damned time someone put Adami in his place. “As I was saying, here’s the thing. This map? We want it.”
“I was under the impression that your boss called it a pipe dream, one that generations of men before me have searched for in vain.”
“That was before he started looking into it. He is interested in knowing how you came about this knowledge.”
“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. Giustino 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, or 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.
No one opposed him, and Sydney waited a beat, then followed him down the hall. “Do you really think you should be running off to some other country in this state of mind?”
“Speaking from experience?”
“What about what you told me on the plane? The whole emotional involvement thing?”
“I’ll be checking all emotions at the door.”
“Did it ever occur to you that that might be worse?”
“I need to do this. It’s clear I can’t place my trust in others.”
“Are you even listening to yourself?”
He stopped so suddenly, turned to face her, that she nearly ran into him. They stood there like that, in the darkened hallway, so close she could hear him breathing. He didn’t move, just looked at her, apparently waiting for her to protest, step back, make some sort of move. When she didn’t, he said, “What the hell is it you want from me?”
The force of his question stunned her, even more so when he closed what little distance remained between them, taking her chin in his hand, holding it, forcing her to look at him. “What do you want from me?” he whispered.
“I—” She couldn’t answer, could barely swallow as she looked up at him, saw the darkness in his eyes.
And then he said four words that started her heart pounding. “Don’t leave me tonight.”


The next morning, Sydney opened her eyes to the sound of bells pealing from the towers and cupolas of hundreds of Roman churches. A soft morning light filtered through the sheer curtains on the window. She stretched out, feeling relaxed for the first time in days. And frustrated, too. Griffin had asked her not to leave him. She didn’t. They slept together. Platonically.
Her senses had been on overload. She was attracted to him, but he apparently had no intention of taking it further, and she wasn’t about to push the matter. He’d just lost his friend, after all. But hell if she hadn’t realized how very much she’d missed sleeping with a man until last night. And how very much she missed having sex.
She sighed, got up, walked to the window, and looked down onto the waking city. An old lady was feeding spaghetti to some wiry cats, who were rubbing up against her legs in gratitude. In the house across the street, a maid was hanging some washing out the window. Iron grates creaked as shops were opened, horns hooted, alarms shrieked. Then she realized just how quiet the house was. She looked around.
Griffin. Tunisia? “Son of a bitch. He left me here.”
She ran her fingers through her hair as she strode down the hall to see if anyone remained behind. Giustino was sitting at the desk, cappuccino in one hand, earphone held to his ear with the other. He glanced up, nodded a good morning, then turned back to the equipment. “They left before dawn.”
“He did that on purpose.”
“Did what on purpose?”
“Didn’t wake me,” she said without even thinking about what her words implied. The moment she realized what she’d said, she felt her face heat up, and hoped it didn’t show.
Apparently it showed quite well, because Giustino gave a quick grin, then swept it off his face as though worried it might offend her. She hurried out of there down the hall to the bathroom, where she showered and changed, then emerged to the scent of espresso, which Giustino had prepared for her in the kitchen, along with some fresh cornetti, crescent-shaped pastries. After breakfast, she walked back to the radio room. Now that she was awake, he had the radio turned up so he could listen without the headphones. No traffic sounded on the monitor. Adami’s office was quiet, just as it had been since last night.
“You make espresso and monitor radio traffic?” she said, trying to keep the conversation light as she set the plate of cornetti on the table. “A man of multiple talents.”
“So my wife tells me.” He waved off her offer of food. “You have plans, yes?”
“One part of me figures I should just fly home. The only reason I’m still here is Tex wanted me for his operation. And now…”
“Tex was a good man. The fault is not yours.”
“I don’t think Griffin wants me to stay regardless.”
“Perhaps why he left your plane ticket,” he said, just as the telephone rang. He glanced over. “If you could answer that. It’s the Journal office line.”
“I don’t speak much Italian.”
“This is no problem. The Journal, she is mostly for the American cover.”
Sydney walked to the desk, picked up the phone. “Pronto! International Journal for World Peace, may I help you?”
“I’m looking for a Mr. Griffin?” Female speaking English, no trace of an accent.
“He’s…on a business trip and I’m not sure when he’ll be available.” She glanced over at Giustino, about to ask if she should take a message, but then thought better of it, saying instead, “I’m a close associate. Is there something I can help you with?” She ignored Giustino’s bemused look, turning her back to him.
“Perhaps. My name is Francesca Santarella. Alessandra Harden asked me to contact Mr. Griffin regarding something she wanted him to have.”
“Alessandra Harden.” She glanced at Giustino, motioning for him to come over to the phone, then hit the speaker button. “As in Ambassador Harden’s daughter?”
“Yes. This number was in her note, saying I should call it when the package arrives. I would have called sooner, but I was away on a dig. The package has apparently been sitting here for about a week.”
Giustino held up his hands, as though to say he knew nothing about it, so she said, “And where is here?”
“The American Academy in Monteverde Vecchio.”
Sydney muted the speaker function, asking Giustino, “Suggestions?”
“Get the package, immediatamente.”
To which she asked Francesca, “Do you think we could come by to pick it up?”
“Alessandra did specify that I give it to Mr. Griffin, and only Mr. Griffin. I’ll know him when he gives me the code.”
Giustino grabbed a pen, wrote: “Get it.”
“As I mentioned,” Sydney said into the phone, “he’s away on a business trip. He has asked us to handle all his matters while he’s gone. This way, it’ll be here when he gets back, and you’re relieved of all responsibility.”
Judging from Francesca’s long hesitation, it seemed she recognized a line of bullshit when she heard one. “In light of Alessandra’s instructions in her letter, it’s a responsibility I’m willing to shoulder.”
“I’m a close associate of Mr. Griffin’s, Ms. Santarella.”
“Then you shouldn’t have any trouble relaying my message. Please have him call me as soon as possible.”
The dial tone filtered through the speaker when the woman hung up. Sydney dropped the phone into the cradle, bringing silence to the room. Before she had a chance to consider her next step, a bell sounded. Giustino checked the security monitor. “Your taxi is here,” he said, as he got up, walked to the door, and pressed the speaker button. “Chi é?”
“Tassì!” a voice answered.
“My taxi?”
“To the airport. Griffin ordered it before he left.”
“Always the efficient one.”
“Don’t take it personally.”
“No problems there.” She walked into her bedroom, stuffed the few things she had into her bag, glanced around the spartan room, then left.
Giustino stood as she walked out. He held out his hand. “I don’t think Griffin would have conveyed this, but our team, we are grateful for your assistance.”
“Thank you,” she said, shaking his hand. “And I’m deeply sorry about the way things turned out. I don’t know if there is any way you can pass that on. Let Griffin know…”
Giustino clasped both hands around hers, as though to let her know he understood. What he said was, “Signore Griffin. He is not an easy man, signorina, especially these last two years, but he is a good judge of character.”
“I’m guessing that means something profound?”
“I have worked with Griffin for a lot of years since this team formed. He is a good man.”
The taxi’s horn blared again, and Sydney picked up her bag, walked to the door, but, unable to shake Griffin from her mind, she asked, “Does he have anyone significant in his life?”
“There used to be a woman who—” He stopped suddenly, then said, “She is—was—He does not like November. That is all I should say.”
When nothing further was forthcoming, she started out.
“Your ticket, signorina.”
He walked over, gave it to her. She took it, thanked him, then walked down five flights of stairs, trying not to look back, not to think that if she were to stay, things might turn out different.
Perhaps because of the warmth from the sun through the car windows, she drifted off as the taxi got stuck in a traffic jam on Ponte Garibaldi. Hers was not a solid sleep, but one filled with images and bits of dreams that ran into each other. Griffin watching her, then Tex’s image, holding up a glass of iced vodka, which he dropped, and she watched the glass tumble down the cliff, to the water below, and when she looked in, a skull stared back at her, its eyes reflecting a pyramid. When Sydney turned to see where the reflection was coming from, she saw her friend Tasha saying something to her about the pyramid, then asking her not to forget her.
“I won’t,” Sydney said, surprised to hear it coming from her lips. She opened her eyes, tried to reconcile the sight of the tree-lined boulevard, the trams, and the milling pedestrians that she saw from the taxi’s windows with the images from her dream.
“Did you say something, signorina?” the taxi driver asked, looking at her in the rearview mirror.
“Do you know where the American Academy is?”
“Sì, signorina. On Via Angelo Masina; in Monteverde Vecchio.”
“Take me there, please.”
“What about your plane, signorina?”
“The plane can wait.”
“As you wish, signorina. Fortunatamente, l’Accademia Americana is just up the hill.” With these words, the cab emerged from the traffic-glutted Viale di Trastevere, turned sharply into Via Dandolo, and after careening around a dozen hairpin corners, finally arrived at the iron gates of the imposing edifice of the American Academy.
Now all she needed to do was to convince Francesca Santarella to let her see what it was that the ambassador’s daughter had mailed to her just before she was killed.