The Bone Chamber

23

It took several seconds for Sydney’s eyes to adjust to the interior of what turned out to be a long corridor, and she stood there a few moments, afraid to venture farther until she could see.
Francesca turned on a large flashlight, its beam wavering off the stuccoed ceilings. “I certainly hope you brought a sketchbook,” she said to Sydney. “Signore DeAngelis will ask to see the sketches when I return the key—and I may need to return here someday.”
Griffin nodded to Sydney, and she pulled out her sketchbook as well as a pencil. “How many do you want?”
“Three or four should add some legitimacy,” Francesca replied, then aimed her light at the ground, indicating they should follow. “Do be careful. The floor is uneven, and the staircase is narrow and steep—about forty feet straight down. There’s an iron railing, but it’s not very sturdy.”
Although Sydney had no idea what to expect, she was unprepared for the immensity of the chamber as they descended. It looked nothing like the catacombs that she’d seen in pictures. The professor’s flashlight revealed neatly stuccoed walls with row upon row of half-moon niches, about two feet in height and width, each of which had two terra cotta lids set into its base. Below each niche was a marble plaque with what Sydney supposed were the names of the deceased.
As they moved into the chamber, a soft light began to filter down from light wells that had been cut at one end of a vaulted ceiling. Fronds of maidenhair fern growing from the cracks in the ancient wall swayed as the air stirred around them, sending up sparkling dust motes into the shafts of light. Sydney looked around in awe. “It’s beautiful.”
“If you like mausoleums,” Griffin said.
Sydney, ignoring him, opened her sketchbook and started drawing. “How old is this place?”
“First century A.D.,” Francesca said. “The columbaria were burial clubs where slaves and freed slaves gathered socially to commemorate and inter the ashes of their club members who had preceded them in death.”
“And the lids in each niche?”
“The one thing besides the frescoes on the wall and the mosaics on the floor that the treasure hunters didn’t bother to remove. Each niche contains two large terra cotta jars, out of sight, behind the walls.” Francesca lifted the lid of one. “Cremated bones in each pot,” she said, replacing the lid. “Bones are still here, but most of the decorations—freestanding urns or anything of value—were stripped during the eighteenth century and added to the pope’s coffers,” she said, glancing at Griffin as though he might be inclined to pass on that information to Dumas.
His response was to ask, “Exactly what are you looking for that couldn’t wait?”
“A hidden chamber. Something that hasn’t yet been discovered that has a connection to another ossuary chamber.” She gave Griffin a patronizing smile. “That means bones.”
“I’m so glad you clarified.”
Sydney threw Griffin a dark look, turned the page in her sketchbook to start a new drawing. “You were saying?” she asked the professor.
“The purpose of my…grant is to prove the location of the final resting place of Raimondo di Sangro, Prince of Sansevero.”
“And why would this be important?” Griffin asked.
“For history’s sake. He is not buried in his own crypt, and there are some historians who believe that he is instead resting in a chamber elsewhere. And if you wonder at the historical significance of this, then you might also wonder at why the Vatican was interested in di Sangro’s final resting place. They questioned a friar who helped di Sangro make his final arrangements and learned that he hid three…clues you might say, each one hidden in other burial chambers, which would eventually allow entry to his final burial chamber. The friar revealed only the location of this first key or clue, but so far it has eluded even the most ardent historians as well as the Vatican, and to this day remains unsolved.”
“And yet,” Griffin said, “you say you are looking for proof of the burial site, as if you have an idea of where it is?”
“A very good idea. Unfortunately, without the hidden clues, death will surely fall on those who search within.”
“Another curse?”
“A reality. Trust me,” she said, leading them deeper into the chamber. “According to the records I found at the Vatican, what I’m searching for is located ‘past the great pyramids of the Nile, graffito behind the wall beyond the tomb of the harpists.’”
“Graffito?” Sydney asked.
“Graffiti,” she replied. “Markings on the wall added by someone after this place was built. This particular chamber has already been searched because of that clue, by the Vatican in the late 1700s. Nothing was found, which is why we thought that the friar had to have been talking about the true pyramids of the Nile, and why Alessandra organized the search of the Egyptian tomb. Of course, we know now that her search there was fruitless, which leads us back here. It’s the only place that fits. I’ve been here before, but I can assure you that I have never found anything remotely close to a clue.”
“They’re paying you money to research this?” Griffin asked, his voice filled with skepticism.
“Not to worry. It’s a private grant, as opposed to the government paying you money to follow me around. But do feel free to save the taxpayers some hard-earned cash and leave.”
Sydney wanted to strangle Griffin. If they were going to find out anything, it was not going to come about by antagonizing the professor any more than they already had. “Well, I for one am interested in what you’re doing,” she said as they followed Francesca to what looked like the end of the chamber, only to discover that it opened into another equally huge chamber branching to the right. Niches had also been set into its walls for several stories from top to bottom, an impressive sight. “How big is this place?”
“About three times the size of the chamber we are standing in. This particular columbarium is roughly in the shape of the letter E,” she said, leading them toward the farthest branch of the E. “And the door that I’m searching for is at the end of the last chamber. When this columbarium was searched and stripped in the late 1700s by the Vatican after the questioning of the friar, the entrance to the lower chamber was never discovered. Someone had taken great pains to disguise it,” she said, pausing at the entrance. “That is one more reason I think this is the right location.”
“How was it found?”
“The present owner, Signore DeAngelis, was having repairs to his water pipes, and you can imagine his surprise when his plumbers broke into a huge chamber, complete with painted ceilings and frescoes. Thankfully he had the presence of mind to bring in the soprintendenza archeologica and various scholars to study it, which was how this particular entrance was found. Once they determined that the entrance had been sealed off sometime in the late 1700s, they decided to excavate it, and to restore it to its original state. Their consensus was that the chamber had been hidden to prevent further looting, perhaps the very looting for which the Vatican was responsible. The curious thing is that after the tomb was stripped, and before it was sealed, someone went to the pains to lay a new mosaic floor in a lower chamber at the end of this branch. No one really knows why.”
“Hard to imagine why anyone cares,” Griffin mumbled.
“You might not,” Sydney replied. “But I find it fascinating.”
“Well,” Francesca continued, eyeing Sydney’s sketch of the wall of niches, “the next century, the 1800s, was the era of the great fakes. Charlatans, like the notorious Marchese Campana, palmed off”—she wiggled her fingers in quotation marks—‘“newly discovered’ antiquities, which they sold to greedy collectors and museums. Even the British Museum got stung. My theory is that the fakery started half a century earlier, which would explain why the mosaic floor was relaid—to lend an aura of authenticity to fake urns and frescoes that went on sale to credulous buyers. They very well may have paraded them down here, using the place as a showroom. What I can’t explain is why they sealed off the chamber after having gone to the trouble of putting in the new floor. Unless, perhaps, they were caught selling fakes and trying to hide the evidence.”
Francesca led them through the door at the end of the chamber, where they descended another set of steps, not so steep as the last. At the bottom, Sydney saw the floor Francesca spoke of, an expanse of finely made multicolored mosaic tiles set in what seemed to be a random circular pattern. Aiming the beam of her light, Sydney took in her surroundings and was struck by the beauty of the place. The ceilings were still intact in all their original bright colors, and the walls between the niches had been frescoed with joyous paintings—crocodiles, ibises, hippopotamuses, and lotus leaves.
Flashlight tucked beneath her arm, Sydney sketched away. Francesca had other ideas besides standing there and soaking in the history of the place. She began lifting lids in each niche, those that she could reach, then shining her light carefully on those she couldn’t, clearly looking for something.
Sydney and Griffin watched her for several moments, until she finally seemed to remember their presence. “Since you’re here, you might as well help. I need every loculus checked, every lid of every olla lifted, at least of those you can reach.”
“There are hundreds in here,” Griffin said. “It’ll take forever.”
“Isn’t it convenient that there are three of us?”
“And what is it we’re looking for?”
“Something scratched on the wall or perhaps written on the inside of one of the lids. Something that tells me where this other hidden chamber is.”
Tunisia
0805 Hours

The delivery truck turned into the drive, then stopped at the barricade. The guard stepped out of his hut, walked up to the driver’s door. Marc, dressed in coveralls matching the logo on the truck, handed a clipboard with an invoice attached. “Delivery.”
The guard took it, looked at papers clipped to the board. “Oil?”
“Motor oil. High grade.”
“Wait here.” He returned into his office, then exited a few moments later with the schedule of deliveries in hand. “You’re a day early. You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”
According to the schedule Marc had photographed, other than the oil that wasn’t due for delivery until tomorrow, there wasn’t anything scheduled until later in the week. It was the best they could do, and Marc pointed to his forged invoice. “Our paperwork says today. Tomorrow we have a full delivery schedule, and we won’t be able to make it back here until next week.” He waited.
The guard eyed him, and then Rafiq, who sat in the passenger side, twenty years added to his looks with gray hair and a mustache, thanks to Lisette’s makeup skills. The guard turned his attention back to the paperwork, finally saying, “Open up the truck.”
Marc exited, walked to the back of the truck followed closely by the guard, and slid open the rear door, revealing case after case of motor oil. The guard signaled for Marc to lower the lift, so that he could get up and inspect the cargo. He took a knife from his belt, slit open one of the cases, pulled out a can of oil, then punched the top of the can with his knife. He removed the knife, touched his finger to the tip, rubbing the oil, then smelling it, as he walked between the stacks of cases toward the front of the bed, where he was about to do the same to another case. There was a damned good chance that he was about to drive his knife into either a case containing the explosives or the combustible fluid needed to incinerate the bioweapons. The former was bound to raise his suspicions when his knife didn’t come out covered in oil. The latter was a different problem. The slightest spark and they were toast.
The guard shoved the tip of his knife into the top of the case to open it, and Marc called out, “You want a case of the oil to take home?”
The guard hesitated, looked over at him. “Two cases.”
“Two cases,” Marc said, patting the two toward the front. He hopped up on the lift, then removed two cases. “Where do you want them?”
The guard walked over to Marc. “Bring them into there,” he said, pointing to the guard shack. Marc followed him in, glancing at the monitors as he placed the cases on the floor before them.
“Not there,” the guard said, pointing toward the desk. “There.”
Marc lifted the cases and moved them behind the desk, where they would no doubt stay until the guard was off duty. In about forty minutes, the oil would be the last thing the guard would be thinking about, and Marc walked out, again trying to get a glimpse of the monitor of the warehouse. No sign of Tex. He wasn’t sure if that was good news or bad.
The guard called for an escort, who drove up a few minutes later in a jeep old enough to probably use half the oil in the truck at any given time. The escort was also uniformed in the same security coveralls, armed with a semiauto. He stood about five inches shorter than Marc, and when he removed his cap from his head, he swiped at his forehead with his sleeve as he looked over the paperwork. “Why are you a day early?”
Marc gave a casual shrug. “I only know I was supposed to deliver it today.”
The second guard returned the invoice to Marc. “Follow me. If I am not with you, you will be shot.”
Finally. Marc climbed into the truck, started it, and followed the jeep into the compound. The compound was like a mini military base, with a handful of bunkhouses, perhaps where the guards and laborers slept, and a number of Quonset huts. The Quonset they needed was closer to the airstrip, which bordered the open desert. Fortunately, the oil was destined for the same locale, and guard number two stopped his jeep in front of the tan Quonset, got out, and unlocked the door.
“Ready?” Marc asked Rafiq.
“Ready.”
Rafiq got out and opened the back of the truck, while Marc took the clipboard in one hand, and a pair of leather work gloves in his other, and walked into the hut after the guard. He glanced around, noticing that the cameras were pointed toward the large doors of the interior, and the office area, where a second guard stood sentry. That, he figured, was the entrance to the actual lab, or where Tex was hidden, otherwise why have a man guarding an empty office? In the meantime, Marc wanted their escort guard out of sight of the camera. “We need to have this signed before we make the delivery,” he said, stepping outside the door near the back of the open truck.
The guard took the paperwork just as Rafiq walked up and asked, “Where do you want us to put the oil?”
“That way,” he said, pointing toward the interior.
Which was when Marc hit him over the head with the lead weight hidden in his gloves.
The guard crumpled to the ground, and Rafiq and Marc dragged him away from the doorway, into the back of the truck, where they stripped him of his uniform, gagged him, then tied his feet together and his hands behind his back. By the time he came to, Rafiq, being the shorter of the two, was dressed in his clothes, and pointing his gun at the man’s head.
The guard looked around, his eyes wide, his nostrils flaring. His muffled cries barely made it through the gag.
“We’re looking for someone,” Marc said. “A man was brought into that warehouse yesterday. He was hurt. Did you see him?”
The guard nodded.
“Where is he?”
Rafiq lowered the gag.
“Die you pigs of hell.”
Rafiq pressed his gun into the man’s temple. “One more chance. Where is he?”
“He’s dead. Like you’ll be.”
When he started to scream, Rafiq stuffed the gag back in his mouth, saying, “Another sound and you die. Be quiet and live. Understand?”
Apparently he didn’t. He tried to kick out at them, and Rafiq hit him over the head with the gun butt.
Marc looked at his watch. Twenty minutes. Twenty minutes to find Tex. He moved a few cases rigged with explosives onto the dolly, and for benefit of the camera, Rafiq escorted him, directing him into the interior.
Rafiq stood guard, his hand on his weapon. “You’re sure he was in there?”
“Like I said, it was a quick glimpse, but those cowboy boots sure looked like his.”
“Where do you think he was?”
Marc looked around, saw the remaining guard glance their way, but then, seeing Rafiq in his uniform, relax. Marc nodded toward the far side, his heart pounding. If they didn’t find Tex…“Over there. That pallet that looked like it was filled with sacks of rice. You’ll have to go look while I unload the truck.”
Rafiq ran his fingers through his hair, then put on the guard’s cap so it sat low, covering his face. “I don’t like this. What if we can’t find him?”
“We have no choice. We go ahead as planned.”
Rafiq nodded, then walked across the floor, past the shelves and pallets to have a look. He returned a few minutes later. “Looks like maybe dried blood, but nothing else. If he’s in here, he could be anywhere.”
Rafiq was right. Some of the pallets were stacked on shelves up to the roof. There were dozens of barrels that contained the alleged biohazard material that needed to be destroyed. Anyone of those could hold a body, conscious or unconscious. He could be stuffed behind any number of boxes and cartons stacked around the premises, and they had yet to make entry into the actual lab.
“I’ll finish,” Marc said. “You take another look, while I set the charges.”
Several minutes later, Marc was unloading the last of the cases inside the Quonset, placing them in precise locations meant for optimal performance. “Anything?” he asked Rafiq, hoping for good news.
“No. I’m sorry.”
“Let’s take out the other sentry. See what he’s guarding. Maybe Tex is there.”
Marc, his clipboard in hand, approached the other guard. “I think there is some sort of mistake on here,” he said, holding out the clipboard.
“This area is forbidden,” the guard said.
“Can you just take a look? I have a full truck, and this says only half. Should I just deliver it all?” He casually walked past the guard into the office, placing the clipboard onto the desk, noting a steel door just inside.
The guard followed him in. “You are not permitted—” And then Rafiq took him out as easily as they had the first guard.
Marc searched him, found an electronic key for the door. He opened it and saw a stairwell that led down. He grabbed two boxes of the explosives, and then he and Rafiq descended. Inside several men and one woman in white lab coats were working at tables in the vast underground space of glass-enclosed cubicles. One looked up in alarm, a sheen of sweat on his dark skin, and it took Marc a moment to recover his senses once he recognized him. In English, he said, “Dr. Balraj? We were told to deliver these supplies for your work.”
Balraj eyed the boxes with suspicion, stepping out of his room. “What supplies?”
“Particulate matter. For aerosol,” Marc said, having no idea if that sounded scientific enough when it came to bioweapons. He hefted the boxes, trying to get a better grip. “It was ordered from Aron Blackman Industries.”
Dr. Balraj narrowed his gaze, staring hard at Marc, then at Rafiq, who now stood guard in the doorway. Aron Blackman was Balraj’s assistant, the one who’d been killed in the hit-and-run. The doctor cleared his throat, saying, “I hope you brought the right size particulates.”
“I’ll put this out of your way,” Marc said, walking past him to place one of the boxes at the far end of the lab, where a dark-haired woman in her late thirties worked intently over a microscope. As Marc passed her, he noticed her watching him in the reflection of the glass of her cubicle. As soon as he set down the box and turned, she was back to her microscope. The other scientists barely spared a glance, intent on whatever it was they were working on. Marc figured they didn’t speak English, or they would have noticed the boxes were labeled “Motor Oil.” Either that or they were used to supplies coming in mismarked due to the nature of their work. He returned upstairs, brought down several more boxes and placed them as well, while Rafiq did his best to look the threatening guard.
“Any other labs?” Marc quietly asked Dr. Balraj when he’d finished.
“Not at this facility. Everything is contained in here and the warehouse above us.”
“I’d suggest you follow our lead. Rafiq?”
Rafiq stepped behind Balraj, pointing his pistol at the man’s back. “You will come with us to help unload the boxes.”
Balraj raised his hands, and this time the scientist closest to them looked up, saw the gun, and immediately returned his attention back to his microscope. Taking someone at gunpoint around here was no doubt commonplace, Marc thought as Rafiq indicated that Dr. Balraj should walk toward the stairs.
“Are there very many boxes?” Balraj asked.
“Why?” Rafiq replied.
“Perhaps you would care for some extra help?”
Rafiq looked at Marc, who said, “How many helpers did you have in mind?”
“Just one. Dr. Zemke. The woman at that last station.”
Marc glanced over, saw her openly watching them. He gave a slight tilt of the head and Rafiq waved his pistol at her, saying, “You. Come.” She rose, walked toward them, her gaze fixed on Rafiq, who ordered, “Up the stairs. We have work for you.”
“Who are you?” she asked at the top of the stairs.
“Friends,” Marc said. “Quickly. We don’t have much time.” Marc and Rafiq led the two scientists out of sight of the cameras to the back of the truck. “You haven’t seen a beat-up American in a tux and cowboy boots, have you?”
They both shook their heads no. After he shut them safely inside the cargo area with the bound guard, he took one last look around, then glanced at his watch. “We have five minutes,” he told Rafiq, who was busy stuffing his guard’s uniform beneath the truck seat.
Tex or no Tex, this place was going up.