The Bone Chamber

“A newspaper?” She laughed. “Mild-mannered reporter, a la Clark Kent? I thought federal law prohibited intelligence agencies from having cover identities as reporters.”

“Reporters from American media. Unlike Clark Kent, I’m not a reporter,” he said, pulling a business card from his pocket and handing it to her. “I’m an editor.”

“Of course.” She looked at the card, which read, “International Journal for World Peace.” “Convenient. Offices throughout the world, no doubt?”

“Would you expect anything less? My boss is the publisher. Not that he publishes or I edit.”

“A shadow paper.”

“Precisely. It just so happens that the IJWP rents space from the American newspaper that occupies this building.”

“The American paper you rent space from wouldn’t also happen to be owned by the agency you work for?”

“We need a place to go to work every day without raising suspicion that we’re drug dealers or earning a salary without means of support. Unlike the IJWP, our American paper has a staff that fully mans, reports, and publishes on the floors below ours, and we use the AP. A lot.”

“So you’re a covert operative,” she said, walking to the window, looking down to the street below. “Running a paper.”

“A foreign paper. You’d be surprised what we learn from the letters to the editor.” He unlocked his desk, grabbed a set of car keys, then checked the messages his secretary had left for him. When he looked up, he saw Fitzpatrick trying to make a call from her cell phone. “You’ll have to use a landline. No signals in, no signals out on this floor.” He pushed the telephone toward her.

She picked it up, punched in a number. “Hey, Scotty,” she said, then listened to whatever it was her ex told her. “Yeah, I’ve still got a key. Be careful.” She hung up, looked at him, her expression unreadable. “He’s still out on the robbery. They’ve holed themselves up somewhere in the downtown area.”

“Hostages?”

“Only one bank teller, and she escaped when they tried dragging her into their car.”

“Lucky for her,” he said, picking up the inside line to call his secretary and let her know he was back. “Done. We deliver the briefcase, then we’re out of here.”

They stopped for a cup of coffee in the break room, then, coffee in hand, continued on to the director’s office. Griffin knocked, waited for the “come in,” then opened the door. His boss, Ron Nicholas McNiel III, was talking to one of Griffin’s team members, James “Tex” Dalton. Griffin introduced Fitzpatrick to both men.

Tex stood, and with his usual shit-eating grin, said to Fitzpatrick, “You doing anything tonight?”

“She’s visiting her boyfriend,” Griffin said.

“Doesn’t hurt to ask.”

Fitzpatrick smiled at Tex. “If plans change, I’ll let you know.”

“You do that, darlin’,” Tex said, laying on a thick drawl he used to impress the ladies. Like many on Griffin’s team, Tex spoke several languages, but with an added skill of having accents down to an art. He’d recently finished a stint in the Boston area. No one could’ve told he wasn’t Boston born and bred.

“We should be going,” Griffin said, then directed Sydney toward the door.

“Zach?” his boss called out. “Have a minute?”

Fitzpatrick gave a neutral smile. “I’ll wait out here.”

Griffin stepped back in, shut the door.

“They recovered the car that ran over Tasha Gilbert. It matches the description of the vehicle that hit Dr. Balraj’s car a couple weeks ago. They’re doing an analysis on the paint transfer. The color matches.”

“So she was targeted by the same people?”

“So it seems. Why Tasha, though? She has absolutely no connection to Balraj or his assistant.”

A good question, Griffin thought. Dr. Balraj was a microbiologist who was working on the evolution of plagues. On the day in question, Balraj had lent his car to his assistant, who later died in a solo car wreck after the car allegedly blew a tire and went off an embankment and into the river.

At least that was the official story released.

The real story was not for public consumption. There was no doubt that Balraj was the real target, but it wouldn’t do the public any good to know that someone was picking off the world’s foremost scientists one by one, especially when those scientists were known for their work in biowarfare research. As to who was doing it, a print found at the scene of one of the murdered scientists had been matched to a suspect they knew worked for Carlo Adami, an American crime boss based in Italy. Unfortunately, Adami had the man killed before they could prove a connection in any court of law.

“Any word on Balraj?” Griffin asked.

McNiel’s secretary called on the intercom before he could answer. “Congressman Hoagland’s on the phone.”

“Put the call through,” McNiel said. When his extension rang, he said, “Martin, what can I do for you…? No, sir, we do not believe there is any truth to the rumor that Alessandra was having an affair with Congressman Burnett…No, we haven’t heard from her yet, but I’m sure we will, soon. Yes, sir, I do agree that it’s best to clear his name. We are looking into that, but at this point, it won’t help matters to bring it out in the open…”

To which Tex whispered to Griffin, “Clear his name my ass. Hoagland would like nothing better than to publicly humiliate him and gain the chair when Burnett resigns.”

Griffin wasn’t interested in politics at the moment. “What about Balraj?” he asked Tex. “Anything else on that investigation?”

“We don’t know if he’s been kidnapped or killed, but knowing Adami, I’d have to guess the latter.”

“So much for hope,” Griffin said, not that they’d ever held much. He’d been in this business far too long to think that Balraj’s fate would be different from that of the other microbiologists who’d been murdered. The only consolation-if one could call it that in a twisted sort of way-was that it was because of Dr. Balraj that they’d found Alessandra’s body. After his assistant had been killed, two agents were assigned to watch Balraj. They’d lost him somewhere in the vicinity of the Smithsonian, and it was during their search for the microbiologist that they’d found Alessandra-and why they’d been able to keep her murder from the police and the press.

Griffin looked down at his briefcase, thinking about the forensic sketch within. Alessandra had never told them about any meeting with Dr. Balraj-they couldn’t even imagine a reason that she would have contacted him-and so it took them quite some time before they realized she was missing and the body might have been hers. But now, thanks to Sydney Fitzpatrick, there were no doubts…

“Of course, sir,” McNiel said into the phone. “We’ll put every effort into the investigation.” He slammed the phone into the receiver. “Congressman Hoagland is a pompous idiot.” He leaned back in his chair, eyed Griffin. “You have the sketch?”

Griffin opened the briefcase and took out the drawing.

Tex saw it as he pulled it out. “Hell.”

Griffin laid the sketch on McNiel’s desk, and he saw the moment of recognition, the pulse pounding in his neck. “Sometimes I hate this job,” McNiel said. “Alessandra. And now Tasha.”

“What about this third key that Tasha mentioned?”

McNiel turned the drawing facedown. “With what we can gather from the chatter we’ve picked up, our best guess is that the third key is some code for a new super-plague that Adami’s scientists are working on. I’d have to guess that’s why he’s hell-bent on killing off anyone in the business.”

To which Tex said, “Knock off the competition and the possibility that anyone can counteract whatever the hell his scientists are coming up with.”

“Exactly,” McNiel said. “All the more reason to concentrate on finding his lab, which, thanks to Tasha, we know isn’t in Egypt.” He looked at Griffin. “After you notify Alessandra’s father, that is your main objective. Find his lab, destroy it.”

“Understood.”

McNiel straightened a stack of papers on his desk, clearly bothered by the drawing, and doing his best not to show it. “I’m afraid it’s public transportation en route. Tex will be using the jet as part of his cover. Marilee has your ticket on her desk,” he said, referring to his secretary. “And speaking of planes, I thought this artist of yours was to be on a plane back to San Francisco, not on a private tour of our building.”

“She had other plans.”