The Bone Chamber (15 page)

Griffin stood on the cliff overlooking the sheer walls
of the deep crater lake, the rain beating down on his coat. He brushed the water from his face, tried to keep his vision and senses clear as the
comandante
of the Nemi police questioned him in heavily accented English. “And what is it you are doing at Lake Nemi at such a late hour?”

“Writing an article on travel,” Griffin called out over the wind. He’d already given the officer a fake U.S. passport with the name Roger Reynolds, and apologized up front for not being able to speak a single word of Italian. “I saw the car go over the cliff and came up to see if I could do anything to assist.”

“A gracious effort,” the
comandante
replied. “But as you can see, there is nothing to be done.”

An answer Griffin would have to be content with. Not even Giustino or Marc, two high-ranking
carabinieri
, could step in, make their presence known at this time. Hence the delay in Griffin’s arrival. He’d had to leave his team down in Nemi before coming up to investigate. By the time he’d arrived, the local police were already on the scene, and everything he’d gleaned was from overheard
conversations and eavesdropping on their radio traffic. Apparently Carlo Adami was being questioned back at his villa. Adami’s only admission was that a car was stolen and the guards shot at the driver. He was, however, allowing the police access to his grounds, small consolation, since the locals embraced Carlo, not realizing what he was truly involved in.

For now, all he could do was watch and wait. And hope Tex and Sydney were not lying at the bottom of the steep-cliffed volcanic lake.

There was no sign of the car, no sign of either of them. Just the report of a lone unidentified witness seeing the car with a single headlight go off the cliff.

“
Signore?
”

The
comandante
stood there in the driving rain, waiting for Griffin to acknowledge him. But Griffin couldn’t take his eyes off the lake below. Tex knew the dangers, knew what he was getting into when he’d come into the unit three years ago from the NSA. But they were wrong to assume that Sydney Fitzpatrick had the faintest idea, even if she was FBI. He should never have allowed her to assist.

“Signore Reynolds,” the
comandante
shouted over the wind. “You should step away. There is nothing you could have done. Nothing.”

He laid his hand on Griffin’s shoulder, tried to draw him away, but Griffin refused to move. “You’ll send down divers?”

“As soon as the storm abates. For now you should go back to your hotel. If you like, you may call our office in the morning.”

“Thank you.”

Griffin stood there several minutes more at the cliff’s edge, staring out over the lake, not even bothering to brush the rain from his face, wondering if Tex had left when ordered, perhaps this entire catastrophe could have been averted. “Damn you, Tex,” he whispered, his voice lost in the wind. “Why didn’t you listen?”

When there was no answer, he turned away, not giving up hope that his friend might still be alive, that Sydney might
still be alive. The lights of the villa farther up the hill were visible, and he thought of Tex racing down the hill, recalled with acute clarity the panic he’d heard in Sydney’s voice as she cried out for Tex to respond. What the hell had happened up there?

Hell, he couldn’t even figure out what had happened here. Between the rain and the cops trampling everything in their haste to respond to something they thought was a simple car accident, there was nothing left of the crime scene. Just mud and grass, he thought, walking back to the van, pulling open the door, sliding in, his mind turning about Sydney’s panicked cry, again and again, trying to make sense of it.

There was no sense in death.

“Damn it, Tex,” he said, then slammed his hand on the top of his steering wheel. It didn’t lessen the pain, and knowing he still had a job to do, he turned the key in the ignition, switched on his headlights, and turned on the windshield wipers, listening to the rain beat down on the roof of the van. And that was when he saw the sparkle of something, like broken glass in the road in a place where no glass should be.

This was supposed to be a solo car accident.

He pulled forward slightly, and whatever he saw disappeared, so he shifted to park, engaged the emergency brake, then got out, kept his gaze fixed to the wet road. He walked up. His heart pounded in recognition.

A diamond bracelet. The one Sydney had been wearing when she’d dressed for the party. Here on the side of the road near the stand of bay trees. Not near the cliff where the car went over. Not anywhere it should have been, he thought, looking in both directions, before bending down, picking up the piece of jewelry from the pavement, noting the open clasp.

“Did you find something,
signore
?” the
comandante
called out, walking over.

Griffin palmed the bracelet, shook his head. “No,” he said, casually dropping it into his pocket. “I thought I had, but it was a bottle top.” He made a show of kicking at something, giving a shrug.

The
comandante
nodded, went back to his work, and Griffin looked at the area just off the side of the road, saw the water sluicing down, turning the shoulder into mud. He strode back to the van, then took off, driving down the hill, when what he really wanted to do was drive up to the villa and search it room by room.

Only when he was out of view of the police did he pull over, turn on the cab light, and examine the bracelet. He had no idea if Sydney Fitzpatrick was still alive, but he was fairly certain of one thing. If this bracelet didn’t go over the cliff, chances were good that neither did she.

She was smart, resourceful. Too resourceful at times.

The question now was had she survived?

Leonardo waited until the uniformed officer left Carlo’s presence, and then, when he was sure they wouldn’t be overheard, approached. “There was no identification on the woman. Just a small-caliber pistol in her purse.”

“You are certain she was the same woman you saw at the hotel? The woman who assisted in the capture of Alonzo?”

“Yes.”

Carlo smiled at a few of the guests still lingering about in the
salone
. “No one saw you bring her in?”

“No one. The reports are saying she went over the cliff.”

“Prepare her for the Caligula room. The white robe.”

“For you?”

“Tempting. But once we have her identified, I believe she will turn out to be someone I desire to link to one or more of our important initiates before her demise,” he said, nodding toward the loggia, where a group of men stood smoking cigars and drinking iced vodka, watching the rain beat down.

Leonardo eyed the men, no doubt discussing their common bond, world banking. “And her friend? The driver of the car?”

“Let me think on this. Considering his
alleged
Masonic background, perhaps we should make him a warning to our
distinguished guests on what they can expect should anyone violate the oath of secrecy and our activities find an audience outside of our circle.”

Sydney opened her eyes, or thought she did, but saw nothing. Her head pounded, a sharp pain—unlike anything she’d ever felt—zinged across the back of her scalp when she tried to move, and she hurt all over. More importantly, her limbs failed to obey her commands.

She was either paralyzed, dead, or dreaming. The fact she felt pain in her head pretty much eliminated the last two choices as a possibility, and pain or no pain, since she could struggle, only not move, she was discounting the whole paralyzed thing. At the moment, a couple of those choices seemed preferable to what her instincts were telling her, especially when something scuttled across her legs. Though her head pounded with the movement, she tried kicking out, hoping to discourage any more visiting creatures. She hated the dark.

“Tex?” Her whisper seemed to echo off the walls, then disappear into hardening silence. The damned dark kept her from seeing whether they’d brought Tex in. He’d either been shot or knocked unconscious when the gate hit the car, and she knew he needed help. But who would come here looking for them, wherever here was? Maybe she was in a hospital, sedated after the crash. Unfortunately, this sure as hell didn’t smell like any hospital bed she’d ever been in. It smelled of must and mold of some long-forgotten place. And she felt stones beneath her on the floor, cold and hard. Once again she tried to move, gritted her teeth against the pain, only then realizing what was wrong. Her arms were tied behind her, trussed to her feet. She’d survived the crash of the car, only to be taken captive. She tried scooting across the ground, scraping her arm and leg in the process. Her foot hit the wall, then something leaning against it. It fell across her legs, clattering to the ground with a ringing echo.

A shovel, she realized, and wondered if it was going to be used to bury her.

This was a black ops mission, something she knew before she’d agreed to assist Tex and pose as his girlfriend. They were warned there’d be no rescue. She and Tex were already written off. Hell, she wasn’t even sure that Tex was alive. Griffin couldn’t publicly search for them, would have to create a cover story to account for the accident, even their visit to Carlo Adami’s party, all to cover the planting of the bug in his office, which may or may not have been successful.

She had to get out of here. Her best chance was in the bracelet she’d dropped in the road after they’d dragged her from the car. At least that was her thought until she remembered that no one was going to come looking for them. Which meant that if she couldn’t depend on Griffin or his team, then she was going to have to find a way out of this herself.

Hard to do when one is trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey.

Griffin took his gear bag from the trunk, then left his car at the edge of the woods on the east side of Adami’s property. He climbed the hill, not wanting to drive past the police working the accident scene. Normally Adami would have dogs patrolling the grounds with his guards, but because of the party, the dogs were kenneled. The guards, he hoped, were busy with the commotion at the front; if not, he’d have to deal with them. Once the cops left, once the last guests left, the dogs would be released. And once that happened, the odds of him getting in and out without firing a shot diminished significantly. He’d rather use a knife or his hands. Quiet kills were always more efficient. Right now he needed efficiency, he thought, making his way up the hill through the trees.

The property on this side was surrounded by an eight-foot wall topped by thick shards of glass, and he traversed the perimeter until he came to the back of the palazzo, and the formal garden that would allow him access to the property with some cover, with its hedges, topiaries, and statues at every turn. Getting over the wall was the easy part, because
Adami had overlooked a few beech and chestnut trees growing in the midst of the bay wood forest, some with branches extending right up to the property. He threw a rope up into the closest chestnut, used it to climb the wall, rappelling up one side, waiting to make sure he wasn’t observed, then using the leather gear bag to cover the top of the wall, before rappelling down the other side into the empty gardens as the rain continued down in a steady patter. He didn’t venture toward the house, because he was fairly certain Adami wouldn’t risk moving a body inside, not with the cops, never mind the guests, still present. But neither would the man leave any evidence somewhere where any of the cops or guests could accidentally come across it.

He looked up at the house, saw the lights in the
salone
, nearly empty, a few people standing around, men and women in their finery, along with a handful of men in the loggia, no doubt gossiping at the horrors of the shooting and the accident, probably wondering if it was safe to drive home. And he could well imagine Adami consoling them, telling them that they were welcome to stay until they were sure the roads were safe. Adami’s finesse was unrivaled. He had the police department fooled, the politicians in his pockets, and the people at his feet. No one knew what he was really capable of.

Which was why Griffin was working alone tonight. Tex knew what his duty was, knew the risks, just as Griffin knew. The operation came first. His superiors would consider Tex’s and Sydney’s loss collateral damage, a by-product of the greater good. And the main reason he’d been reticent to have Sydney join them. It was one thing if you knew the risks from the beginning, knew what you were signing into. And even though they’d informed her, told her, he doubted she’d fully appreciated what it was they were asking of her when they sent her into Adami’s villa.

By the time he made it halfway across the massive grounds, the rain slowed to a drizzle, and the wind diminished considerably. Unfortunate. The inclement weather had masked any noises he might make. But it also worked both ways, and he soon heard the sound of heavy boots
crunching in the gravel as a uniformed security guard made his rounds. Griffin pressed against a conical hedge, then circled around a statue of a satyr playing a pan flute, as another guard walked up, joined the first. They stood not three feet from where Griffin hid, and he kept watch, waiting for them to exchange a few words and hopefully move on. Apparently they were enjoying the break in weather. The first guard, the swarthier of the two, took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, tapped one out, offering it to the other man, who shook his head, saying, “Don’t let Adami catch you smoking out here, or you’re likely to end up in the bottom of the lake.”

“Always he wants the perfect show for his guests. But he can’t see here from the house.” He lit his cigarette, cupping the flame from the drizzle, took a long drag, then blew out a stream of smoke. He nodded toward the satyr. “I keep the cigarette butts in the bush by that statue and pay the gardener a few euro to clean them each night for me.”

The only bush near the satyr was the one Griffin stood next to, and he glanced down, saw several cigarette butts. Definitely not good. There was no place to back out, nowhere to turn without alerting the guards to his presence. And the moment the one guard tossed his cigarette into said bush, he was bound to notice that the satyr had grown an extra set of legs…