The Bone Chamber (13 page)

She wasn’t surprised he knew her passion for fine art. Not with the background Griffin had done on her. And as much as she was tempted by the thought of getting to see some actual paintings, it wasn’t worth the price. “Sorry. I only packed business casual.”

“See?” Griffin said. “She can’t do it.”

“We have connections, darlin’.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Sydney replied. “There’s nothing you or anyone else in here could say that would make me change my mind. Nothing.”

To which Tex said, “You want to nail the group we think killed your forensic anthropologist friend?”

It seemed several heartbeats passed as his words sank in. “Nothing except that.”

Before they left the hotel, two of Griffin’s Italian team members, both special agents in the
carabinieri
, returned to
acquire the proper dress and jewelry for Sydney. Her measurements and shoe size were taken, followed by some rapid transactions in Italian via the phone. Within a half hour, a delivery was made directly to the hotel from Salvatore Ferragamo on the Via dei Condotti, consisting of black satin pumps and a low-cut, black evening dress that gathered just below the bodice into a shimmering fall of crepe and velvet that brushed at her toes. Tex left for the safe house to change into his formal wear, and while they waited for him to return, she was briefed on what they expected of her, while Griffin paced the room, clearly not happy with this latest turn of events.

“Calm down,
amico mio
,” Giustino, the shorter of the two
carabinieri
, said to Griffin, as his partner, Marc, helped Sydney fasten a diamond bracelet, then showed her how to work the transmitter and receiver. “She will be fine. It is not as if you are taking some unsuspecting citizen off the street and dropping her into the den of the lion.”

“No,” Marc said. “We are dropping an unsuspecting FBI agent into the den.”

“But a beautiful and well-trained one,
non è vero
?” Giustino said.

Griffin threw the two men a dark look, then said to Sydney, “It’s not too late to back out.”

“If this gets me closer to finding out who killed Tasha and the ambassador’s daughter, and who tried to kill me, then I’m in.”

Marc said, “You do understand,
signorina
, that if something happens, if you or Tex are caught, we cannot acknowledge you? This is NOC.” He pronounced this last as “knock,” which meant nonofficial cover. No ties to any governments. Everything under the radar.

“You mentioned that twice.”

“We cannot even go in after you.”

“You
are
giving me a gun?”

Giustino said, “There is a small-caliber pistol in your evening bag. But as with everything else, if you get caught with it in Italy, you are—how do you say—on your own?”

“Even if the
carabinieri
give it to me?”

“
Mi dispiace, signorina
, we are not involved in this affair, just as Griffin and the Stati Uniti are not involved in this.”

Truly on her own, then. About to embark on her first unsanctioned black ops mission. And hoping she wasn’t about to make the biggest mistake of her life.

A shaft of moonlight broke through the clouds,
allowing Sydney a glimpse of the pungent bay tree forests, as Tex drove the Lancia Thesis up the winding narrow and steep road in the Alban Hills. Their destination was the sixteenth-century Villa Patrizia. “Wait till you see this place,” Tex said. “Built on a crag overhanging the volcanic circle of Lake Nemi by one of the more eccentric Orsini dukes. Probably why Adami bought it.”

“So how is it no one ever came after this guy?” Sydney asked Tex.

“You can’t topple a well-loved public figure like Adami without irrefutable proof.”

“He’s American?”

“As apple pie as a gangster can get. Born Carl Adam in New Jersey. Moved to Italy and became Carlo Adami. That’s his identity now, and since he’s lived the past twenty-something years in Italy, married his wife and made his fortune, or rather, increased hers, he’s become untouchable. He’s handsome, rich, and the king of philanthropists. Donates millions of euros. Travels to Africa and Sudan, fights for orphaned AIDS babies, even holds and kisses
them. That’s the figure the public sees. No one wants to look too closely at how his numerous international holdings in energy and construction companies prosper anytime there’s a war or civil unrest in the Mideast or third world countries. Or how some of that philanthropic money being thrown around the globe is funding terrorists, who keep that civil unrest going. That’s why our operation is unsanctioned. We, being Italy and the U.S., need the evidence before we point the fingers. And he has too many important people from both countries in his pocket for us to be able to get it via the normal investigative route.”

“So why would he have Alessandra murdered?”

“That, darlin’, is the million-euro question. Something we haven’t quite pieced together. We’re fairly certain it had to do with his arms smuggling, or a cover for it.”

“So she was working with your team on this?”

“She’s the one who brought it to our attention. She seemed to think that Adami was working on finding the source to some plague he could use for his bioweapons. Unfortunately, we couldn’t convince Alessandra not to go on this expedition he was financing. She insisted it would look better if she went herself. When she tried to contact Griffin about a week before she was murdered, he was working an operation in Tunisia. Didn’t get her message until too late.”

“Any idea what she wanted?”

“None. She only said it was urgent he contact her. A few days later she went missing, and we’ve been scrambling ever since,” he said, flicking on the high beams as they approached yet another steep uphill curve.

“But you were able to make a connection between her and Adami?”

“Last summer she stayed with her father at the Vatican embassy residence, and at a party, Adami approached her, asking if she knew of any good archeologists, as he was financing an expedition. Naturally, we assumed this was a cover for his arms smuggling. We got word that he was looking to start building up bioweapons. So far no proof. Can’t even find his damned lab. But a few weeks after she returned to the States for school, she telephoned the CIA, saying that
she had some information she thought they might be interested in. Something called the third key, which translates to
la terza chiave
in Italian. We figured it had to do with a Freemason lodge in Italy called C3, if only because the initials are the same.”

“C3?” She thought of Xavier Caldwell’s conspiracy paper. “Any chance it’s connected to something called Propaganda Due?”

He looked over at her, then back at the road. “A big chance. How’d you come up with that?”

“A kid in Alessandra’s class at UVA wrote a paper on Freemasonry right before they went missing. He thought P2 was still going strong and had infiltrated the U.S. government.”

“Not sure about that last part, but we do think that C3 is possibly an offshoot of the old P2, Propaganda Due, a clandestine Masonic lodge that was shut down about twenty years ago. The Italian government nearly collapsed when it was found that P2’s members consisted of
numerous
top officials in Rome, all corrupt and on the take. Everyone from the highest-ranking politicians to the police and judicial officials, even a number of high-ranking Vatican officials, all commingling with the mafiosi.” He slowed for a turn, and Syd caught a glimpse of the steep cliffs and the lake below. “The downfall caused the collapse of the Banco Ambrosiano, a major financial institution which was controlled by the Vatican. And that’s not even counting the murders connected to the whole affair.”

“Was Adami part of that operation?”

“Damned straight he was. As usual, he managed to survive the scandal. Claimed he didn’t know the P2 Masonic lodge wasn’t the social club he’d thought. Which is how we came up with my cover. A rich American Freemason, looking to buy some artwork from him.”

Xavier’s conspiracy paper aside, it seemed the Freemason connection certainly opened doors, she told herself. “And all you intend to do tonight is to plant a listening device?”

“An undetectable device. It’s our best chance to figure out where he might be making and storing bioweapons. We want to prove it, destroy them, and shut him down.”

As they neared the villa, Sydney smoothed her dress, adjusted the diamond bracelet at her wrist, then pulled the visor down to look in the mirror. “How about a test,” she said, turning her head from side to side as though looking at the diamond earrings, but in reality checking to make sure the tiny transmitter in her ear was not visible. Griffin, Giustino, and Marc were holed up in a van farther down the hill near the small town of Nemi, monitoring their progress. Once at the villa, Tex would have to leave her to break into Carlo Adami’s office to plant the listening device.

“Testing, one, two, three,” came Griffin’s voice.

“Perfect,” she said.

Tex stopped at the tall wrought-iron gates, adorned with the Orsini coat of arms, and showed his invitation to one of the uniformed guards, who took it, leaned down, looked into the car, eyed Sydney, then returned the invitation to Tex. “Enjoy your evening,
signore è signorina
,” he said, waving them through.

The gates slid open, and Tex drove up the long winding drive, lit on either side by torches set into shallow pans. The flickering flames cast eerie shadows across grotesque moss-covered statues of satyrs chasing nymphs. The drive ended in a broad ellipse before the great Renaissance mansion, and Tex pulled up to wait their turn behind a Ferrari that had stopped behind a Mercedes. Angry clouds threatened rain, but the stylishly dressed guests seemed not to notice. Not one umbrella or raincoat marred the perfection of the Fendis, Versaces, and Armanis worn by the men and women emerging from the various luxury vehicles. A few moments later, two of several crimson-liveried valets walked up to the Lancia, one opening the door for Sydney, another for Tex. The keys were left in the vehicle.

“You be careful with that there car, son,” he said, in a thick drawl. He didn’t wait for a response, just took Sydney’s arm possessively, playing his part of the rich Texan. Sydney, keeping up her role as arm candy, laid her hand over his, and gave her best ingénue smile, having to look up at him. At six-three, with shoulders that looked like a linebacker’s, and thick wavy blond hair shimmering in the torchlight, he
was an impressive sight in his tux. He led her up the steps to mingle with the guests, as they waited for their introductions to the count.

A white-gloved waiter bearing a tray of
spumante
approached. “
Prosecco, signorina? Signore?
”

“
Grazie
,” Sydney said, taking a glass.

Tex took one as well, leading her through the gilded columns of the cavernous salon, whose baroque mirrors reflected light onto the fanciful parrots that darted in an impossible flight across the frescoed ceiling. Sydney, in her black velvet and crepe Ferragamo gown and simple diamond earrings, blended in with the other women, who, according to Tex, included
contessa
s and
principessa
s among the guests. A discreet servant informed them that an al fresco supper, as well as their host, Carlo Adami, awaited them in the Raphael Loggia, which she discovered was the name of the great veranda that overlooked the gardens and Lake Nemi. There were propane heaters set up to keep the guests warm. A long table, draped with the finest damask, had been covered with plates of canapés, bowls of iced caviar, and other delicacies of antipasto. Mingling among the guests was another waiter, this one holding a tray of frosted vodka glasses, which Sydney declined. Tex immediately went for the vodka, leaving his wineglass on the tray. At one end of the spacious loggia, a tall, dark-haired man, perhaps in his late forties, broke away from a cluster of guests and approached them.

“Ah! Signore Jamison,” he said to Tex, who was using the name Roger Jamison instead of James Dalton. “I am so happy that you and your charming friend could attend my small gathering.” He turned his attention to Sydney, saying, “I do not believe that I have had the pleasure of making your acquaintance.”

“This here little lady is Cindy Kirkpatrick,” Tex said, putting his arm around Sydney. “And this, honey pie, is our host, Carlo Adami.” Sydney eyed the man who was allegedly behind the killings. He didn’t fit any stereotypes, unless one was trying to pigeonhole the suave, debonair multimillionaire murderer. His dark eyes swept over Sydney, and she imagined that if one didn’t know his background, one
might easily be charmed by his easy smile and the slightest of dimples on his chin.

But she did know his background, which made it all the harder to appear pleasant, neutral.

“Your home is magnificent,” she said, falling on the only truthful statement she could think of at the moment, and she held out her hand. “Thank you so much for inviting us.”

Adami took her hand in his, bowing over it, before turning his attention back to Tex. “I cannot wait to show you my Tiziano. I am certain that once you see the painting, you will not regret your journey. Perhaps after I see to my guests?”

“Looking forward to it,” Tex said, lifting his vodka glass, then downing it.

Adami excused himself, and continued welcoming new guests as they arrived. After about a half hour of Tex making a show of drinking more alcohol than was good for him, with much of it discreetly poured into the potted persimmon trees that were conveniently located at the corners of the loggia, he made a loud declaration of going off to find the “little boys’ room.” And since his words made little impression on the guests, who were unfamiliar with the term, he announced in stentorian Texas Italian, “
Dough-vay eel gaaby-netto?
” The
principessa
s and politicians politely pretended not to hear, and one of the waiters immediately ushered Tex out of the salon and presumably to the room in question. Sydney was thus left to wander and to gather bits and pieces of conversation that could be recorded by Griffin and the others monitoring her and Tex from the van.

A number of fine paintings had been hung between the mirrors of the salon, and Sydney decided she’d use them for her cover. She stopped to view a portrait over the marble fireplace of a girl in red velvet, wondering if it was really by Leonardo da Vinci. If it was merely an exquisite copy, she’d have no way of knowing. She’d never seen a real Leonardo outside a museum. Moving on, she strolled the perimeter of the salon, admiring each work of art, pausing by first one group of guests, then another. Tex’s pretended ignorance of Italian had the desired effect. The guests continued their conversations, paying her little attention. Unfortunately,
Sydney’s limited understanding of the language made it difficult to know if she was picking up anything useful. She figured Griffin would notify her via the receiver if something came up, so she continued on, perusing a painting or statuette, attempting to stand close enough for the transmitter to pick up what the guests were saying, before moving on to the next piece of art. Finally she spied Carlo Adami with several men near the winding double staircase, and wandered in that direction, hoping to capture something there as well.

Adami held court among a group of distinguished-looking men, and no one glanced her way. As she stopped to admire a marble bust of the Emperor Nero set on the left balustrade of the double staircase, the conversation seemed to change course, more of a hushed whisper, urgent, and one word caught her attention.
Massonico
. Considering that part of Tex’s cover was that he was a Mason, and Adami was suspected in dealings in the P2 Masonic lodge, that made this particular conversation something she wanted to overhear. The men had other ideas, however, and moved beneath the giant arch that spanned from one side of the staircase to the other. Probably just as well, and so she crossed the room to the other staircase beneath the great parabolic arch, which allowed her a visual on the men, but was far enough away to appear as though she had no interest in anything they were discussing, even if she could understand it.

And it might have been left at that, had she not noticed a rare bust of the Emperor Gaius Caligula in the far corner beneath the arch, something she might not have known had her history of art professor not been almost fanatical about teaching them Roman art. She wandered over to get a better look, discovering that though she was thirty feet away and on the opposite corner from where Adami stood, the acoustics now worked in her favor. Like the arch in New York’s Grand Central Terminal, even though she stood well away from the men, and far enough away to seem uninterested in anything but the marble statuary, their whispered conversation sounded as though she was standing right behind them.

Keeping her back to the men, she pretended great interest in the bust of Caligula, all while listening. She understood little of it, hoping it was loud enough for the transmitter to pick up, especially when she caught the phrase
la pir-amide grande
. Immediately she thought of the ambassador’s daughter and the crime scene photo, the gruesome triangular shape carved from the young woman’s face. Attempting to put the image from her mind, Sydney tried to concentrate on what they were saying, noting that one phrase seemed to pop up again and again, something that sounded like “cheetray.”