The Bone Chamber

30

The dark-eyed street girl left to get her brother, while Sydney and Francesca returned to the long taxi line. Griffin kept an eye on them, as he took out Adami’s cell phone from the special pouch that Giustino had given them. The case helped to ensure that their own conversations were muffled, but the GPS would not be inhibited.
Griffin hit redial. A man answered. Not Adami. The voice sounded much like the leather-clad man from the Capuchin Crypt.
“This is Griffin.”
“I see you are in Naples.”
“Did you follow us on the train?”
“Why would I need to do that? The phone has GPS. We know where you are. And your friend here has every confidence in your abilities.”
“My sources tell me that someone is paying a pirate cab to follow us. It’s not yours, is it?”
There was a rustling sound, as though he covered up the phone to speak to someone. A moment later, he came back on. “Signore Adami informs me that we sent no one. We will be meeting you at the appointed hotel.”
“What hotel?”
He gave him the address. “There will be a room waiting for you under your name. When you have the map, I will meet you there.”
“Who would be following us?”
“I can assure you it is not we.” And then he hung up the phone.
Griffin replaced the phone into the pouch. A moment later, the street girl dragged her brother by his hand, his accordion strapped over one shoulder.
“My brother, Mario.”
In Italian, Griffin told them that he needed a distraction, one that the driver wouldn’t know was directed at him, but that would allow Griffin uninterrupted access to his cab for at least sixty seconds. The two kids grinned, apparently thinking this an easy prospect.
Griffin moved around the kiosk as Mario and his sister raced across the piazza toward the pirate taxis, so called because the vehicles’ owners either failed or refused to be regulated by the government, which forced them to remain on the fringes, hoping to pick up a fare from anyone who didn’t want to wait in the long official taxi queue. The pirate cabdriver who was allegedly being paid to watch Francesca, definitely had his attention fixed on the two women, who were about halfway through the rapidly moving line. Griffin crossed the piazza toward the driver, figuring he had no more than five minutes to take care of business, before they hit the front of the line. And just when he wondered what it was the two street kids had planned, he looked up to see Mario slapping the hoods of the pirate taxis, darting in and out between the cars, while his sister chased him.
As Griffin came up behind the suspect cab, Mario ran in front of it, drumming the hood with both hands, laughing. The driver leaned his head out the window, yelling at Mario. Mario laughed, ran off a few feet, then returned and did it again. This time the driver opened his door, only to have it hit Mario’s sister, who seemed to appear out of nowhere. She started crying loudly, and when the driver told her to shut up, she started wailing that the man had hit her. Mario then called out for the carabinieri, that his sister had been hurt, which immediately set the driver on alert. He looked around, tried to quiet the two kids, no doubt worried that the police might show up.
It was the opening that Griffin needed. From a small case from his backpack, he had removed a jet-black device no bigger than a dime, and maybe twice as thick as a nickel. Flipping it over, he pushed a tiny switch with his thumbnail to turn it on. He glanced over at the trio, the girl still crying, the driver trying to shush her, but desperately watching the taxi line, seeing his chance at easy money evaporate the closer the two women got to the front. Griffin casually walked past the taxi, tossed the bug into the open door—not his preferred method, but right now, the most efficient method—and continued past it, judging that it probably landed on the floorboard of the front passenger seat. The driver wouldn’t be looking for it, his attention would be fixed on whatever cab he was following.
Griffin made eye contact with Mario, as he started across the piazza toward the taxi queue. And just as suddenly as it started, Mario grabbed his sister, telling her to quit being such a big baby. That she wasn’t hurt. The two kids ran across the street and waited for Griffin by the newspaper kiosk.
“We did good, yes?” Mario asked.
“You did excellent.” Griffin removed a hundred euros from his wallet, then handed them to Mario. “Grazie.”
The girl smiled at the sight of the money. “If you want help with your tunnels, come to San Gennaro—Duomo of Naples.” Suddenly she grinned. “I saw it on the signorina’s map.” And then, before Griffin could question her further, she and Mario darted off into the crowd.
Heaven help the next unwary traveler, he thought, rejoining Sydney and Francesca as they reached the front of the line, about to get into a taxi.
Griffin gave the man the name of the hotel. About ten minutes later, the cab pulled up in front of the hotel, its seventeenth-century edifice giving testament to a past grandeur that had faded due to neglect or lack of money over the last couple centuries. The property was either owned by Adami, or the owner was in his pockets, which meant that anyone who worked within was suspect. They exited, and Griffin paid the driver. The pirate cab had indeed followed them, was parked just down the street. Griffin escorted the women toward the hotel’s front door, at the same time, removing the listening device from his backpack, something that resembled a portable music player, replete with little white headphones that completed the look. He put one earpiece in his right ear, said, “It sounds like he is making a call…He is. Saying our taxi dropped us off at the hotel, and where should he wait to collect the rest of his money…”
They entered the lobby, crossing a marble floor, the brown and white swirls having lost their gleam long ago. Only the wood-paneled walls and the counter were polished. Griffin gave his name to the lone man at the reservation desk, and was given a key, then directed to the elevator. Inside the lift, he lost the signal completely. “Let’s hope the room faces the front street,” he said. But judging from the direction they had to take when they stepped off the elevator, it did not.
“Why hope for a room at the front?” Sydney asked, as he unlocked the door, and they entered. There were two double beds, a table and two chairs cramped into a space that barely fit the furniture. The only thing that saved the room was the tall French window that overlooked a narrow alley, the light pouring in giving the illusion of spaciousness.
“The digital listening device I planted in the cab. Direct line of sight brings a clearer signal.” He moved to the window. Could just make out the main street from his view of the alley.
Francesca moved straight toward the bathroom. The moment she closed the door behind her, Sydney said, “I get the feeling she’s still hiding something.”
“As long as she doesn’t take too long in revealing it. All we can do is watch and wait. Unless you’re any good at reading maps,” he said, nodding at the rolled-up parchment in the bag she’d tossed onto the bed.
“Tunnels leading to ancient burial sites aren’t my forte.”
“Mine either. But I have it on good authority that we want to head toward the San Gennaro. At least that’s what your little street urchin told me.”
“Quite the entrepreneur, that one.”
“Quite.”
A few minutes later, Francesca emerged from the bathroom, took a seat in a chair by the window, tapping her fingers on the small table. “How long will we be here?”
“That depends,” Griffin said. “How much time do you need, Professor?”
“Enough time to contact—to get a computer and look up my notes, and try to pin the last coordinates from the map.”
Griffin stepped closer to the window, pressing the earpiece tighter. “Quiet,” he said. “The cabdriver is talking.”


Sydney glanced toward Griffin, decided he was listening to the cabbie, maybe even missed what Francesca had said about contacting someone. She moved closer to the professor. “Contact who?”
“No one. A misstatement.”
“I don’t think so.”
“I know the risks. Please let me handle this my way.”
Apparently Griffin had been listening to her. “Had we done that from the beginning, you’d be dead.”
“It’s dangerous. I realize that.”
He pressed a button on the receiver, removed the headphones, and turned up the volume so that they could hear what had been recorded. Sydney understood little, as they were speaking Italian, but of course Francesca understood every word. Sydney did, however, recognize the name of the hotel where the taxi driver dropped them off. Then another voice saying, “Grazie,” and then the sharp ping of gunfire, muted by the tiny device, but still recognizable.
Francesca’s face paled. She sank back in her chair. “Why? They said they wouldn’t hurt anyone if we brought them the map.”
Griffin wrapped the earphones around the receiver, dropped it into his pocket. “I don’t believe these are Adami’s men. Someone else is following us. Who, I have no idea. But whether it’s them or Adami, any witnesses are liabilities. That includes anyone who has contact with them, even cabdrivers or government agents. Are you starting to understand how serious these people are, Professor?”
She nodded.
“Now is there something you wanted to tell us about your contact in Naples?”
“I’m supposed to meet a colleague who knows the history of Sansevero. He e-mailed me the other morning, saying that he had found the right tunnel, but he ran into a dead end, and he thought if he could find another entrance, it would lead to the right chamber.”
“This e-mail, it was on your computer when it was stolen?”
“Oh my God.”
Griffin handed her his personal cell phone. “You need to call him now, and tell him to leave his house, office, or wherever else he’s known to hang out. Then have him meet up with us somewhere not even remotely associated.”
“What if—”
“No time for what-ifs,” he said, urging them toward the door. “If we’re lucky, we buy your friend a bit of time while they search for us. Let’s not make it too easy.”
They were just exiting the stairwell into the main lobby, when Sydney saw a man at the registration desk. She put her arm out, stopping Francesca and Griffin from moving forward. “Time for Plan B. I’m sure I saw that man on the train.”
“What is Plan B?” Francesca asked.
And Griffin said, “In this case, I’d say the service entrance.” They turned back into the stairwell, wandered through a hallway then through a side door, exiting into a narrow street that was blocked by a delivery truck unloading towels and linens to the hotel. Griffin gave Francesca a secure phone to call her contact, and when she finished, he asked, “Where are we meeting your friend?”
“A café not too far from here. We can walk.”
The streets at the center of town were narrow, cobbled, and filled with pedestrians, small cars, and scooters. The café was about five minutes from the hotel. The inside was dark, and Sydney’s eyes hadn’t yet adjusted to the change in lighting. Francesca led them to the back, where they took a seat at a table, but had a clear view of the door. About ten minutes later, a man walked in, his features silhouetted by the light from outside. Francesca stood, called out his name, and that’s when Sydney realized the identity of the professor’s so-called colleague.
Xavier Caldwell.
The missing student from UVA.