The Bone Chamber

38

Griffin shook himself. Sure, with Sydney’s help they’d rescued Tex, but at what price? The map was lost and he had no one to blame but himself for their failed mission.
“Easy does it,” Tex said, as Dumas cut the cords at his wrists. When he was free, he rubbed the circulation back, glaring at Griffin. “I spent how many days tied up in some room of his, and you let him get that map? You do realize what it leads to? Why he wanted it?”
“It’s not his fault,” Sydney interjected. “There’s something I—”
“Now isn’t the time,” Griffin told her.
“Hell if it isn’t,” she said. “When Adami figures out that that map isn’t quite what he bargained for, we’re going to be in a world of hurt.”
“What are you talking about?” Griffin asked.
She lifted her shirt.
Francesca sucked in her breath. Tex whistled. “That what I think it is?”
“When Griffin sent me into the bathroom to destroy it, I figured why not cut out the important parts? Give him what’s left over?”
“Jesus Christ,” Griffin said. “We need to get the hell out of here. Now!”
“Xavier is waiting at the café for Alfredo,” Dumas said. “My car is there.” Dumas took one side of Tex, Griffin the other, just in case he needed help, but Tex held his own as they raced around the corner.
“Where are they?” Griffin asked.
Dumas looked about the piazza. “There!” he said, pointing to a table at the café.
Alfredo and Xavier saw them and ran across the cobbled piazza, Alfredo carrying Sydney’s black bag on his shoulder. He held it out. “This was left in my van.”
Griffin took the bag and handed it to Sydney. “Right now, the farther you are from us, the safer you’ll be,” he told Alfredo. “Adami will undoubtedly be coming after us and the map.”
“Where should we go?” Alfredo asked.
“Take Xavier to the nearest carabinieri office. Have them contact the vice-comandante generale in Rome. Give them my name and they’ll know what to do.”
“Very good,” Alfredo said.
“And thanks for your help. Both of you.”
The two took off toward Alfredo’s van, and Dumas directed the others to his car parked nearby. He unlocked it, then threw Griffin his keys. “You’re better at evading,” he said, getting into the front passenger seat.
Francesca and Sydney got into the back. Tex was just about to slide in beside them when Griffin looked up, saw a black Mercedes drive past the intersection. The telltale sound of tires skidding on pavement told them that he and Tex had been spotted. “Hell,” he said, digging out his phone and tossing it into the backseat for Tex, before he got in. “HQ has a chopper on standby at the airport. Get it here.”
Tex called HQ as Griffin hit the gas, sped off. Traffic was incredibly thick on the main street. He pulled in at the first opening, not pausing to see if Adami was following.
“May I see it?” he heard Francesca ask Sydney.
Griffin eyed Sydney in the rearview mirror. “Do not pull that thing out under any circumstances.”
Francesca wasn’t about to let the matter drop. “I have to know how you did it?”
“Did what?” Sydney asked.
“Fooled Adami into making him think he had the map?”
“Technically he did have it. Just not all of it.”
“But I saw it!”
“Only what was left of it. I unrolled it just far enough so he couldn’t see that I’d cut out most of the labyrinth from the middle and the list of words of what I presumed was some sort of key or legend.”
Francesca gave a horrified gasp. “Do you realize what you’ve done? The history you’ve decimated?”
“And the lives she saved?” Griffin replied, braking to avoid a motorcycle that pulled out in front of him.
That, at least, shut Francesca up, but any chance of peace was lost when Dumas slammed his hand on the dashboard. “What about the lives I may have lost?”
Griffin checked the mirrors, saw the roof of a black vehicle about four cars back. “You sure it can’t wait for Sunday confessional? I could use your help trying to save the lives in this car right now. He’s behind us.”
“But what he told you about the ambassador.”
“What the hell? You didn’t think I believed that shit?” When there was no answer, Griffin glanced over, saw the look of self-loathing on the priest’s face. “For Christ’s sake. You mean you knew the ambassador was relaying info to Adami?”
“No. But I should have known.”
“How?” Griffin said, looking into the mirror. Adami’s driver veered into the opposing lane, passed two cars, then jumped in again. “He was as much a part of ATLAS as you and I.”
“Yet you didn’t pass on information, thereby endangering the team.”
Griffin felt Sydney’s gaze on him. “No, but my failure to pass on information caused issues.” He hit the horn, trying to get the car in front of him to pull aside.
“That makes us quite the pair. You trust no one, and I put all my trust in God.”
To which Tex said, “This Kumbaya shit is all well and good, but I could sure use a shot of Johnnie Walker and a shower, and if Adami catches up to us, I’m not getting either.”
Griffin checked his mirror. The black Mercedes was closing in on them. He whipped the wheel, made a hard right turn down a narrow street. “Find out where that chopper is, Tex.”
Tex made the call. “They’re tracking our cell now.”
Griffin turned left down an alley, then down another street that opened into a plaza. He blasted the horn. Pedestrians fled. The Mercedes was on their tail. Silvio leaned out the window, pointed a gun at them. And then the welcoming thrum of helicopter rotor blades filled the air. Griffin looked up, saw the military helicopter hovering above an Egyptian obelisk in the plaza’s center.
The chopper maneuvered down, and two uniformed carabinieri leaned out, submachine guns in hand. He saw Giustino behind the crew, talking to someone on his headset. “The cavalry’s here,” Griffin said.
“Adami’s backing off,” Tex replied.
“They’re leaving!” Dumas cried, and he made the sign of the cross.


Not until they’d landed safely at the carabinieri helipad, and Giustino guided everyone into an office, did Griffin agree to let Sydney pull out the map. She spread it out on the table and he studied the portion of the labyrinth she’d cut out, as well as the words listed down the side. “Not bad, Fitzpatrick,” he said. “But it would’ve been nice to have gotten us the whole thing.”
“I was working on a time crunch.”
Francesca ran her fingers against the cut edge, looking sick to her stomach. “Ruined. Almost half of the labyrinth is missing. To be so close…”
“These words,” Sydney asked her. “Any idea what they mean?”
It was Dumas who answered. “Possibly Old French, archaic. They’d need to be researched. That of course can be done once it is rightfully returned to the Vatican.”
“Like hell it will be,” Griffin replied. “And even if it does belong to the Vatican, you think the pope will do a better job protecting the world from the threat of a plague released by a madman?”
“With God’s help.”
“What were you saying earlier about putting all your trust in God? Maybe a little trust in ATLAS’s capabilities?”
Dumas gave a heavy sigh. “Agreed. There has been too much death where this thing has been concerned.”
“Maybe you should put it away,” Griffin told Sydney, taking out his phone to call headquarters. “Less temptation for everyone.”
Sydney removed her sketchbook from the bag Alfredo had returned. She opened it to slip the map in, and Father Dumas saw one of the sketches of the loculi in the columbarium. “May I?”
“Sure,” she said, handing him the sketchbook. “I wish I’d had more time there. It was an amazing place.”
Giustino was talking to a fellow carabinieri near the door, arranging vehicle transportation for Griffin and the others back to Rome. He looked up, stopped when he realized Griffin was trying to make a call, and signaled for the other officer to step out with him. Even so, Griffin moved to the far side of the room for some privacy. The thought of telling McNiel about Ambassador Harden weighed on him, but he had no choice.
McNiel answered.
Griffin heard several people talking in the background. “You’re up late.”
“Damage control,” McNiel replied. “The thing we tried to avoid by keeping Alessandra’s murder from the press? It’s happening now. Ambassador Harden unwittingly started a firestorm at his daughter’s funeral, stating he wouldn’t rest until he learned who had killed her. We barely got him away from the press, before they started asking if he knew if his daughter was having an affair with Congressman Burnett. It’d be nice to bury this thing without exposing ATLAS.”
“About that,” Griffin said, watching as Sydney pointed out the details on one of the sketches, talking avidly about the columbarium to Dumas and Tex. “It might be too late. Who’s there with you?”
“I’m sitting here with the directorate and half the ATLAS oversight committee. What do you have to report?”
“Good news and bad. I’ll give you the good first, which you can relay,” he said, emphasizing the word as a warning. “We found Tex. He’s safe.”
“Thank God.” He heard McNiel repeat the information. Heard the congratulations being passed around the room. After a moment, McNiel said, “And this other news?”
“Ambassador Harden. He’s been passing on information to Adami. And Adami hinted that Harden was reporting to someone higher up.”
A long stretch of silence on the other end, then finally, “Yes, of course we heard about the warehouse and the bioweapons being destroyed. Everyone here is ecstatic.”
Translation: McNiel wasn’t about to reveal to anyone in that room that he knew there might be a mole. “Unfortunately,” Griffin continued, “Adami got part of the map. A very small piece if that’s any consolation. But it also renders the part we have as unusable. There was nothing we could do.”
“Clearly we know your next mission.”
Recover the rest of the map to stop Adami. Griffin realized the others had grown silent, and he glanced up, saw them all staring at him. Tex had an odd look on his face. “I should go,” he said. “I think we should get Tex to a hospital.”
“Tell him I’m glad he’s safe.”
“I will.”
Griffin disconnected. “What’s going on?” he asked them.
“This,” Sydney said, lifting up the sketchbook, showing him her drawing of the mosaic on the columbarium floor. And then she held up the parchment and what was left of the labyrinth beside it.
The map. There on the columbarium floor the whole time.
Outside, he heard the helicopter starting up. He shook himself, ran from the room. Giustino and the other officer were just getting on. “Giustino!”
Giustino stopped, looked back.
“Any chance we can commandeer that helicopter one more time? There’s something important we need to see in Rome. And time is of the essence.”
The following evening,
en route to Fiumicino airport, Rome

Sydney shifted in the front seat of the car, trying to get a glimpse of the Colosseum, its arches lit against the black night sky. “Are you sure we don’t have time to stop? It’s the Colosseum, after all. When in Rome…”
“Not a chance,” he said. “You have a plane to catch, and I intend to make sure you’re on it.”
“There is no way I’m going to miss it. It’s not as if I have a reason to stay this time. I know who killed Tasha, and you now have a complete copy of the map—though Francesca wasn’t too happy to learn you ripped up the floor of the columbarium after you got your photos. I think she would like to have had her own photos to publish, since as far as she knows, no one has ever seen the floor from that high up to determine the pattern on it.”
“She can’t complain too much, since she will be helping us research the Old French so that we can decipher the labyrinth and find out where the map leads to. Once we have the location secure and stabilized, she can publish the photos anywhere she wants.”
“And the scientists you rescued? Do they get any credit?”
“What they’re getting is new identities to ensure their safety and keep their work from falling into enemy hands. According to Dr. Balraj, Dr. Zemke did more to set back Adami’s plans than Adami ever realized. She was genetically engineering a super-plague that was more of a super-dud. It looked virulent in the lab, but its DNA was faulty.”
“No one ever suspected her?”
“One of his scientists did, but she managed to convince him that the test sample he was viewing had been contaminated. She said it was a matter of days before they would have realized that she was working against them. Regardless, Adami had enough material down there to cause some serious damage, even without creating a super-plague. Her fear is that Adami will find this new source and start over again.”
“Any chance he’ll succeed?”
“Since he has very little of the map, I’d say no. Not that we’re about to take any chances, should he have another lab equipped to pick up where he left off. Thanks to Dr. Balraj and Zemke, we have a fair idea where that lab might be,” he said, slowing behind a bus that pulled out from the curb. “Our next step is to recover the lost part of the map from Adami, before he or his associates attempt to discover the location it leads to. And once we discover that location and what the map leads to, our team of scientists will go in and assess exactly what it is we’re dealing with. In other words,” he said, glancing over at her, then back to the road, “nothing that we can’t handle on our own, which means you are no longer needed.”
“You could at least wait until after I’m on the plane to gloat.”
“Trust me. I won’t be gloating until you are well across the Atlantic. Past experience tells me I’ll need all my wits about me to get you on that plane and home for Thanksgiving.”
“Aren’t you the funny one.” She leaned back in her seat, thinking that if truth be told, she was glad to be going back to San Francisco. “What about you? Who are you spending Thanksgiving with?”
“I’m not—” His phone rang and he pulled it from his pocket, answered it. Suddenly he slowed, turned a corner, and pulled over, and Sydney knew that whatever news he was being told, wasn’t good. When he disconnected, he looked troubled. “That was McNiel. They picked up Harden this morning. Apparently he was denying any involvement with Adami, until they finally mentioned that his daughter had been a part of ATLAS. McNiel says he turned white as a sheet, then broke down.”
“So it was true,” Sydney said. “The ambassador was feeding Adami info.”
“Info that probably got his daughter killed. But Harden also implicated someone pretty high up the political ladder. He asked for a lawyer, and promised that once he had a chance to speak with his counsel, he’d tell us the name of the person he was working for.”
“That’s good, then.”
“Except that he and his attorney were both killed in a vehicle collision on their way to Langley a few hours ago.”
It was a second before the implication of it all hit her. “I take it that it wasn’t an accident.”
“McNiel’s fairly certain it wasn’t. Unfortunately for the parties involved, Harden’s lawyer had a written confession in his briefcase, and it survived intact. Harden implicated Jon Westgate.”
“Who is that?”
“He used to be a low-level crime boss who hailed from Adami’s hometown in New Jersey. And you’ll never guess whose number popped up several times on Westgate’s cell phone. Martin Hoagland.”
“Hoagland?” Sydney repeated. “As in Congressman Hoagland?”
“The same. He always felt he should have headed the committee for ATLAS.”
Sydney couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “This was out of spite?”
“Trust me,” Griffin said, pulling away from the curb, then back out to the main street. “If Hoagland did it for anything, it was for control. He and Adami are cut from the same cloth. Power and domination.”
“And what better way to dominate world powers than having inside intel into an organization such as ATLAS.”
“Exactly,” he said. “Only now he’ll have to attempt doing it from a federal prison cell.”
At the airport, Griffin and a carabinieri contact escorted her through the security entrance at the airport, where she’d be flown home on the ATLAS jet.
Their contact waited a discreet distance from the door that led out to the tarmac, and Griffin held out his hand. “I never did thank you for what you did to help Tex.”
She shook hands with him, said, “I sort of owed you one. I’m only sorry it wasn’t as dramatic as that night at Adami’s villa. Now that would make for a good war story at the bar. You’re sure I’m not allowed to talk about any of this?”
“Sorry.” He looked down at her hand, seemed to realize he was still holding it, then let go. “You know, if you ever get tired of the Bureau…”
She smiled. “Sorry. I have a job.”
“At the FBI Academy?”
“I like it. For a reason.”
“To hide.”
“Wrong. It’s giving me time to think where I want to go next.”
“If you change your mind,” he said, handing her bag to her, “you know how to reach me.”
“I do.”
They stood there for several seconds, the silence turning awkward, until Griffin said, “I don’t need to personally walk you to that plane, do I?”
“I’m going. I’m going.” She started toward the jet, thinking about everything that had happened since she’d left Washington. She was damned lonely at times, and hell, life these past few days had been more exhilarating than anything she’d done in a long time. She glanced back, saw that Griffin had turned to leave, was walking toward the security door where the carabinieri contact was waiting.
“Griffin!”
He stopped, turned, a bemused expression on his face. “You have a real problem getting on planes.”
Suddenly she was uncomfortable, not sure what he’d say. What she was even going to ask. She’d be on that plane tonight, alone.
He tilted his head, waiting.
“You never did say what you were doing for Thanksgiving…” she finally ventured.
“No plans.”
“Well, if you find yourself in San Francisco, you could stop by my mother’s house. She cooks a mean turkey, and with your connections, I’ll bet you have no trouble finding the address.”
Griffin stood there a moment, his hands shoved in his pockets, as though mulling it over. Suddenly he smiled. “Tell her to set an extra place. I’d like that. A lot.”




FACT OR FICTION

One of the more infamous conspiracy theories is that of the Freemasons running a shadow government in the U.S., and controlling the global economy. Proof of this can be found on the back of a dollar bill: the Illuminati’s “all-seeing eye” over the pyramid, which forms one half of a six-pointed star, with five of those points touching the letters to form the anagram that spells MASON. According to these theorists, that same shadow government that originated with our country’s Founding Fathers who were Masons, is still in power today.
Conspiracy theories aside, in this day and age it would be damned difficult to infiltrate and corrupt an entire country’s government, installing criminal networks in with the politicians and the national bankers, all to control the global economy.
Or would it?
In the early 1980s, the Italian government and banking system nearly toppled because of the infiltration and corruption from one Freemason lodge, Propaganda Due, or P2. P2 became a clandestine lodge from 1976 on after being expelled by the Grand Orient of Italy. Counted among its ranks in the lodge before and after the expulsion were prominent journalists, parliamentarians, industrialists, and military leaders, as well as the heads of all three Italian intelligence services. There were also high-ranking members of the Catholic Church listed in the membership, which perhaps explains how the Holy See’s bank became involved in the scandal with Banco Ambrosiano, becoming a major shareholder in a bank used by both the Mafia and P2’s shadow government—as well as the American government, which used the bank to funnel covert money from the United States to the Contras, among other things.
Add to that the mysterious death of Pope John Paul I in 1978 after a mere thirty-three days in office, allegedly linked to his investigation into the bank’s ties to the Mafia. Then a few years later, the murder of the chairman of the Banco Ambrosiano, found hanged beneath the Blackfriars Bridge in England, his pockets filled with stone and masonry—perhaps a not-so-veiled warning as to what happens to Freemasons who violate their oath of secrecy. His death was originally ruled a suicide—and rumor has it that it was investigated by Freemasons, hence the botched initial investigation. In other words, you have the makings of some great fiction—if not for the fact it was real life. For this novel, I was counting on the possibility that not all the P2 players were caught, and intended to start up again where they left off.
Anything can happen in a circle to which only a select few are invited. Such is the history of Freemasonry, the largest secret organization in the world. But where did they come from? John J. Robinson, author of Born in Blood: The Lost Secrets of Freemasonry, argues—quite convincingly—that after the King of France (assisted by the pope) hunted down the Templar Knights in 1307, the Templars went underground and emerged several centuries later as Freemasons. If true, what happened to the Templar treasure? And what was listed among the contents of this legendary cache? Unfortunately, when it comes to the treasure, history is murky. Was it simply accumulated wealth from the Templars’ vast banking and land holdings, or, as some historians surmise, the treasure from Solomon’s Temple, which contained some of the most amazing religious artifacts known to mankind, including the Ark of the Covenant?
That, of course, got me to thinking about the Bible and the plagues brought down to earth by Moses, so that the pharaoh would free the people of Israel. Scientific evidence has been offered to show that the plagues were possible, and that there was a natural explanation—whether one believes or not. Some historians have surmised that the Ark may contain the staff that Moses used to bring forth the deadly plagues. Is it possible that this Ark, built to specific standards as indicated in the Bible, contained the original source or location of these plagues, so that Moses could bring them forth at the right time?
More importantly, can a deadly plague remain dormant for centuries, only to emerge as dangerous or even more so than it once was? My medical sources and research state yes. (For further reading on this subject, try: Plague Wars: The Terrifying Reality of Biological Warfare, by Tom Mangold and Jeff Goldberg.)
But back to the Templars and Freemasons. I bring up the historical figure of Raimondo di Sangro, Prince of Sansevero, and perhaps my own contribution to the idea that the Templars emerged centuries later as the Freemasons. In 1750, di Sangro, a genius (mad genius according to some), became the first Grand Master of the Freemasons in Naples, and because of this was excommunicated by the pope. (And why is it that the church is so dead set against the Masons?) How does this connect di Sangro to the Templars? Quite simply, the principality that gave him his namesake, the town of San Severo, was sold to the Templar Knights in 1233. If the Templar Knights emerged as the Freemasons in the 1700s, it is certainly conceivable that a man, a Freemason, whose principality was owned by the Templars, could be hiding a treasure that they intended to guard—a treasure still being sought to this day.
Beyond that, the prince’s body has never been found, he did plan to enlarge his crypt, and his entire chapel is filled with Freemason iconography. Adding to the mystery are the vast miles of tunnels beneath Naples equal in size to the entire Vatican City, and even more still unexplored to this day—it certainly sparks the imagination that there might be a chamber or two left holding secrets that we may never know about. Why not a missing treasure or map?



Acknowledgments

This book would not have been a twinkle in my eye without author extraordinaire James Rollins, who helped me come up with the first germ of a plot by showing me the back of a dollar bill and its relation to conspiracy theories. That plot grew with the help of my dear friend and writer Susan Crosby. Thanks also to my fellow investigator Arnd Gartner, history buff, who (not on duty—should our bosses read this) helped me with plot points. And to John Clausen; he knows why.
Any FBI agents depicted are not based on real persons. But if I were to include any qualities of real agents it would be those of my good friend Supervising Special Agent George Fong, for answering questions and coming up with a really cool plot idea when I needed something plausible with which to threaten the world. Any deviation from reality is my fault, not his. I also owe thanks to Peter Mygdal, MD, who helped vet one such idea to determine if it was still plausible two thousand years later when this book takes place.
Thanks also to my mother, Dr. Francesca Santoro L’Hoir, who accompanied me on my research trip to Rome and Naples, sharing her extensive knowledge of Italy and the columbaria. While in Rome, we dined at the Hostaria Antica Roma (one of her favorite restaurants); therefore thanks are owed to Paolo Magnanimi for the use of his name, his restaurant and the wonderful food he served. If you go, try the tiramisu. It’s to die for.
Last but not least, thanks to my agent, Jane Chelius. To Barbara Peters, Robert Rosenwald, and all at Poisoned Pen Press who ensured a top-notch special edition hardcover. To all at HarperCollins for an awesome book and cover. To Wendy Lee, for all her help. And most of all to my editor, Lyssa Keusch, who let me try something different, embracing the idea for The Bone Chamber the moment she heard it.
For a Couple Worthy Causes

To my friends who contributed to the LHS cheer/drill team fundraiser, on behalf of my daughter: Special thanks to Dan Randolph of The Randolph Investigative Group for your sponsorship. You guys rock! And to HarperCollins for sending books for a raffle.
For the character auction: On behalf of the team, to Ron Nicholas McNiel II, for his son, Ron Nicholas McNiel III. To Natalie Bay and Kris Talley for their friend, Denise Woods. And on behalf of Sacramento DART (Drowning Accident Rescue Team), to Robin Morgan, for her daughter, Amber Jacobsen.




About the Author

ROBIN BURCELL, an FBI-trained forensic artist, has worked in law enforcement for more than two decades as a police officer, detective, and hostage negotiator. A two-time Anthony Award winner, she is the author of a previous Sydney Fitzpatrick novel, Face of a Killer, as well as four novels featuring SFPD Homicide Inspector Kate Gillespie: Every Move She Makes, Fatal Truth, Deadly Legacy, and Cold Case. You can visit her website at www.robinburcell.com.
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