The Bone Chamber (27 page)

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.

Sydney had lost count as to how many loculi she’d
inspected, and she stopped, shone her light around the chamber, trying to figure out if Francesca was stringing them along, or if there was a real purpose to what they were doing.

Griffin, however, appeared to be trying to redeem himself in the professor’s eyes, faking his interest in the place, no doubt in hopes of getting the professor to slip up and reveal her true purpose. “Why is this chamber so different than the outer one?” he asked.

“This is where the founders of the columbarium had their loculi—niches. Prime real estate. You notice that in here the niches are lined in marble. There were also beautifully carved freestanding urns in those square niches in the far wall.”

Then, surprising Sydney that he was even paying attention, he asked, “I thought you said they were slaves and freed slaves.”

“Who saved all their money for their final resting places,” Francesca said, sweeping her light over the marble-lined niches. “These are the loculi of the officers of the columbarium club.”

“The officers?”

“Yes, it’s ironic that the slaves and freed slaves’ burial clubs were the one democratic institution in ancient Rome. They elected their own officers, and voted on how they wanted the place decorated. This group obviously was into Egyptomania.”

Francesca’s flashlight skimmed across the painting on the wall, revealing a glimpse of the great pyramids, palm trees, and cone-hatted Pygmies dancing beneath them, beside a great river. Sydney stopped in her tracks. “I’ve seen this before,” she said, slowly walking toward the fresco, unable to look away from the wall. “This was frescoed on Adami’s ceiling. I’m sure of it. He knows about this place already.”

“Adami?” Francesca said. “As in the philanthropist Adami?”

“Hardly a philanthropist,” Griffin replied, frowning at Sydney, no doubt to remind her not to reveal too much of their investigation.

Sydney turned to a fresh page in her sketchbook. “I thought that the painting had something to do with Adami’s Freemason lodge, because of a conversation I overheard about a pyramid.”

“Possibly,” Francesca said. “Egyptian symbolism figures strongly in Freemasonry. But during the first century
A.D
., the Romans were infatuated with all things Egyptian. You have only to look at that huge Pyramid of Gaius Cestius, just outside the Aurelian Wall at the Porta San Sebastiano.” She led them farther past the fresco. “In the early 1700s at the birth of Freemasonry, Egyptian symbols such as the Nile and the pyramid held sway, which may be why Adami chose to include them.”

She shone her light across the fresco. “Many Freemasons would have you believe that they trace their origins to early Egypt. Here is a perfect example.” She walked a few feet, sweeping her flashlight across a mosaic in one of the niches, a mosaic set in the pattern of a skull. “You are no doubt aware of the most famous of Masonic symbols, the angle and compass? Observe. This skull could be hanging from what could be interpreted as a Masonic angle, and it is rest
ing on what well might be a Masonic compass in a mosaic in a columbarium from the first century.”

“I thought the Masons were a modern invention,” Griffin said, while Sydney’s pencil raced across her page, trying to capture the detail of the skull mosaic.

“Historians insist that the Masons didn’t come into being until the 1700s, the late 1600s at the earliest, yet here on a wall dating back to the first century
A.D
. are several symbols that are commonly found in Masonic iconography. Masons wanted to believe this proves their origins to early Egypt. All it proves, however, is that like the rest of the world before and after, Egyptian iconography was just as popular in the first century as it was in the eighteenth century.”

Sydney examined the skull she’d drawn, then turned back to the page with the Egyptian fresco. “So what I saw on Adami’s wall?”

“Probably nothing more than a typical Renaissance depiction of ancient Egypt.” She looked around the chamber and sighed. “Unfortunately, I have a feeling that this fresco and mosaic may also signify the customary first-century depiction of ancient Egypt and nothing more. Of course, that depends on how you interpret the phrase, ‘past the great pyramids.’ It could mean any point beyond these frescoes.”

“You mean you had a
specific
location to search?”

“Look.” She rounded on him. “I’m not the one who insisted that you follow me. So yes, I had a specific place to search, and by assigning you a different wall, I hoped I might search this one in peace.”

Sydney saw Griffin take a calming breath, probably telling himself that he’d be better off taking the professor to an interrogation room and questioning her as he would any other source he needed to squeeze information from.

Francesca retraced her steps, walking past the frescoed pyramids, past the river that was supposed to represent the Nile, past the palm trees and a stretch of what appeared to be barren hills, where two columns had been depicted flanking an opening in the hills where a harp stood. “The tomb of the harp.”

Sydney looked at the pyramids, then at the harp. “There’s a clue hidden here? Something leading to yet another chamber?”

“That’s my hypothesis.”

“And then what?” Griffin asked.

“And then I follow it to see where it leads. Nothing more.” She stood there, staring at the wall. “As you can see, the problem is that there is nothing else. This is the farthest I’ve ever penetrated.”

Griffin raised his hand in a gesture of silence.

“What’s wrong?” Sydney asked.

“I’m not sure. A sound up the stairs.”

Sydney heard something as well. An echo of a scrape, and Griffin said, “You locked the gate after us?”

“Yes,” Francesca said.

“Is there any other way in here?”

“None that I know of.”

Which didn’t sound too positive, Sydney thought, as Griffin drew his gun, then looked around. “Let’s hope it’s the wind, or the owner coming to check on us. But just in case, we need some cover. Can you hide in these fireplace things?” he asked Francesca, flicking his light on the loculi that were off to the right of the Nile painting and the columns.

“Far too small.”

Sydney looked around, and realized they weren’t going to offer much cover at all. And then she saw a niche just beneath the stairs, about wide enough for a person to slip into. “Maybe we can hide beneath the stairs. That will afford some cover for at least two people.”

Griffin glanced over, saw what she saw. In a low voice, he said, “Get the professor under cover.” He shut off his flashlight and moved to the edge of the stairs.

Sydney guided Francesca to the niche. “Can you fit?” Sydney whispered.

“I think so.”

Francesca tucked herself back into the crevice, and Sydney hesitated until Griffin said, “Hurry. Get that light out.” He moved up the stairs until he was just inside the entrance to the outer chamber.

She scooted into the niche next to the professor. And then they waited several minutes in the dark, her mind conjuring up all sorts of possibilities, none of them ending up well. And just when she’d decided that someone had gotten to Griffin, she heard him say, “You can come out. I think I found our intruder.”

Sydney stepped from the space and moved around to the bottom of the steps where Griffin stood holding a tabby. She heard Francesca shuffling behind her and assumed she was following her out. “We’re trying to hide from a cat?”

“It could be worse,” Griffin said. “It could have been a gun-wielding cat.” He let the cat go, giving Sydney a strange look. “Where’s the professor?”

“She was right behind me.”

But when Griffin shone his light into the niche beneath the stairs, there was no sign of Francesca. Anywhere.

Tunisia
0830 hours

The first guard waved at Marc, lifting the barricade so that he could drive the now empty delivery truck past. For whatever reason, the man didn’t question that they weren’t escorted to the gate. Not their problem. Their captive was starting to wake up, and they heard him kicking at the panels in the back of the truck. Unfortunately for him, or perhaps more fortunate, they were already out of the compound. Adami wasn’t known to be the understanding sort of employer, probably even less so once he learned the fate of his warehouse. Marc only hoped that Dr. Balraj and Dr. Zemke were sitting well away from the guard’s feet.

“Call the number,” Marc said, as they turned the corner, out of sight of the compound.

Rafiq took his sat phone, punched in a number, but hesitated before hitting send. His gaze locked on Marc’s, his dark skin looking pale.

“Maybe he’s not in there,” Marc said. “Neither scientist saw him.”

“Locked below, they wouldn’t know. I can’t.”

Marc held out his hand for the phone. Rafiq handed it over.

Marc positioned his thumb on the send button, gripped the steering wheel tightly with his other hand, and then couldn’t help it.
Forgive me
. He pressed the button, tossed the phone onto the seat, then stabbed his foot on the gas pedal. There was a sixty-second delay in the first charge. The longest sixty seconds of Marc’s life.

The explosion rocked the air, and a moment later, the second explosion that incinerated everything inside the warehouse hit. He glanced in his rearview mirror, saw a fireball rising in the sky.

Sydney eyed the tunnel. No way was she going in. She’d had a fear about dark spaces ever since the murder of her father, and that little tunnel seemed awfully dark to her, not that she was about to reveal her secrets to Griffin. “You go after her,” she said.

Griffin shone his light into the tunnel, then looked at Sydney. “After you.”

“Somebody should probably stand guard here, don’t you think?”

“Spider phobia?”

She was tempted to tell him the truth, but then heard Francesca call out, “There’s actually a shaft of light coming in from above. You have to see this.”

“Well?” Griffin said.

“I scoff at spiders. But you have the flashlight.”

He moved beneath the steps, shone his light into the tunnel that was hidden from view until one moved all the way into the niche.
Here goes nothing
, she thought, dropping her sketchbook into her shoulder bag, then trying to tamp down the fear that she’d be in the middle of the tunnel and Griffin’s flashlight would go out and she wouldn’t be able to find her way.

His flashlight was not going to go out. That’s what she told herself as she crawled after him, then came to a turn, and realized that it led to more stairs, these leading upward.

This stairwell was even narrower than the one they’d taken to descend into the columbarium. She could stand, but the ceiling was low and Griffin had to stoop as they ascended what seemed to be about two stories. And as the professor had promised, there was a bit of light coming in through the arched ceiling at the top of the steps where Francesca was waiting.

“What is this place?” Sydney asked, moving next to Francesca.

“It seems to be some sort of private viewing area of the columbarium we just left.” She pointed over the ledge, and Sydney looked out, realized they were indeed looking at the chamber from above. A stunning view, and she started a new drawing to capture the center of the mosaic floor below. From this height, the center of the mosaic appeared to be a large circular labyrinth, unrecognizable from the ground level, due to the proximity.

While Sydney sketched, Francesca began an earnest search, directing Griffin to help. Sydney was nearly finished when Francesca called out. “There’s something scratched on the wall below this painting.”

Sydney drew her gaze from the lower chamber to the wall where Francesca was standing. Another skull. While the mosaic of the skull and symbols they’d seen in the lower chamber might loosely bear resemblance to something Masonic, there was no doubt in Sydney’s mind of a Masonic connection with this painted skull. Above and below it, in much sharper detail than the first-century version, was a definite Masonic square and compass. And below it, as Francesca indicated, was something etched into the wall: “
Hic iacet pulvis cinis et nihil
.”

“Latin?” Griffin asked. “Meaning what?”

“‘Here lies dust, ash, and nothing,’” Francesca translated, her voice filled with excitement. “It has to be the key.”

“The key to what?” Griffin asked.

“That leads to the next clue,” she said quickly.

“Then by all means,” he said to the professor. “Lead us on.”

They returned the columbarium gate key to Signore DeAngelis, who was delighted when Sydney presented him with a sketch of the maidenhair ferns growing among the loculi. Griffin kept careful watch on Francesca, insisting that she would remain with him from this point on, as they walked down the stairs and up the street to where they’d left the van. The stone walls on either side of the street towered overhead, and they walked single file as cars zipped past them on the narrow road.

“So it seems you have found the first sign,” Griffin said, when they’d reached the van. “Where is it leading to next?”

“Right now I have no idea,” Francesca replied. “It will take more research. Perhaps another trip to the Vatican.”

“So you can take off again? I think not.”

“Maybe,” Sydney said, as she slid into the front passenger seat, “we should return to the safe house. We might even hear something about Tex.”

Griffin kept an eye on Francesca as he walked around the van, opening the side door, apparently to make sure the professor didn’t bolt. “We can’t afford to compromise the place.”

“Can we afford to at least have lunch?” Francesca asked. “I’m starved. And at the very least, we can decide on the next course of action. I would very much like to find this second sign.”

“Do you know of any restaurants nearby?” Griffin asked.

“Just up the road. The Hostaria Antica Roma. A rather apropos setting if I do say so myself.”

The restaurant was about a three-minute drive up the road, and just as she said, very apropos, Sydney thought, if one didn’t mind dining in a place that once housed the dead. “Part of the charm,” Francesca said, smiling at their expressions when they saw what made up the walls of the patio setting: ruins of a columbarium, much like the one they’d just left.