The Bone Chamber

was found just outside the very building where this display was located.”

“Or maybe it has nothing to do with the display. Either way, I’ll head to the Smithsonian next.”

“I’ll keep in touch, let you know what’s going on here.”

“Likewise. Stay out of trouble, Fitz. And do not, under any circumstances, get yourself involved with whatever these guys are involved in. Doc Schermer’s a pretty laid-back guy, and if he’s insisting you get out, I think you should listen.”

“I’m holed up in a Roman hotel room in my bathrobe. What sort of trouble could I possibly get into?”

12

Sydney walked to the balcony and threw open the door, realizing there was little she could do about this information until Griffin’s return. The air had warmed somewhat, probably due to the low gray clouds that now filled the sky, threatening rain. Warm enough, she decided, to sit outside with something to drink. She thought about getting dressed, but was comfortable in her robe, and she cinched the belt tight, retrieved another small bottle of prosecco, when the phone rang.

It was Griffin. “I hope you’re awake?”

“Yes. And I’m glad you called. There’s something I found out-”

“No time,” he said, his voice sharp, clipped. “I’ll be at the hotel in about one minute. I’m being followed. Have been since I left the ambassador’s residence.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“I don’t want them to know I’m on to them, and I can’t have them follow me to the safe house. Meet me out front.”

It wasn’t until she caught her reflection in the mirror that she realized there was a flaw or two with this plan. “Now?”

“Something wrong?”

“I’m not exactly dressed at the moment.”

“Nice visual,” he said. “I need you out there to see what they’re doing. Don’t contact me. Just observe.”

“Out where?”

“The lobby should do nicely.”

He hung up before she could protest, and she glanced at her clothes, then out the window, saw him pulling up. “One minute? Try thirty seconds,” she said. No time to dress, she ran out the door, still carrying the little bottle of prosecco. It wasn’t until she stepped onto the elevator that she realized she’d forgotten her key and she was barefoot. Okay, so maybe she’d be dismissed as a crazy American waiting for a friend. If that was the worst of her problems, she could deal with it, she thought, dropping the little bottle of prosecco into her pocket as the elevator stopped and the door opened. She stepped around a young woman who was busy trying to catch a towheaded toddler, who tried to run toward the open elevator.

Sydney ignored the polite but direct stares of the hotel staff, as well as the few tourists lounging about in the chairs. Had this been Florida, no one would have given her a second glance, probably assuming she was on her way to the beach or the pool. But this wasn’t, which made the whole experience somewhat awkward. She only hoped it didn’t get her booted out of her hotel, and she did her best to ignore the looks, waving off the concierge, who asked if she needed assistance.

She headed for the doors, exited, and tried to remain unobtrusive-as if that were even possible, dressed as she was-beside a column just as Griffin got out of a Peugeot that he apparently had picked up after he’d dropped her off. He handed his key to the valet, as though he were a guest, waited for his ticket, gave a casual glance toward Sydney, raised a brow at the sight of her robe. He walked past her, dropped his ticket, and as he bent down to retrieve it, his back to the street, said, “Do you see a blue BMW?”

“It’s pulling up now.”

“Keep an eye on them. Maybe they’re only here to see where I’m staying. I can deal with that.”

“And if it’s not that?”

“Plan B. I’m open to suggestions.”

“I hate Plan B,” she muttered, glancing past him as the BMW came to a stop. She watched as the passenger exited, following Griffin toward the lobby doors. The man was tall, wearing dark slacks and a sport coat, his pale blue shirt open at the collar. Mirrored sunglasses masked his square face and reminded her of the guard from the Smithsonian. The BMW pulled up the street slightly, just out of sight, with only its back bumper in view. She didn’t like the way this looked, the driver waiting, ready for takeoff. Quiet area, few witnesses…

The man approached the lobby doors, his hand poised inside his jacket, and she decided that if this was a hit, if he did have a gun, he could easily take out Griffin, then her and the doorman, who paid them little attention. Time for a distraction, she decided, loosening the belt on her robe, allowing the terry to fly open, revealing her black underwear and bra as she walked. “Darling?” she called out, loud enough for the man to hear. “Is that you?”

All at once, the doorman, Griffin, and the man tailing him turned her way, and she put a little extra swing into her step to make sure her robe stayed open. “Darling?” she called again, seeing the man reaching into his coat toward the small of his back. “I seem to have left my key somewhere.”

The man following Griffin hesitated, and she caught a glimpse of the butt of his gun in his waistband. Griffin turned on his heel, but stopped as the lobby door opened, and out stepped the woman with the little towheaded toddler, who fled from his mother’s arms, laughing as he ran right between the suspect and Griffin. His mother ran after him. “Gianni! Gianni!” she called out. “Vieni a me subito! ”

Sydney’s heart thudded at the sound of the child’s laughter. Directly in the line of fire. Griffin stepped toward the man, stopped when he saw the boy, no doubt worried about the same thing. And what could she do, armed with nothing but a bottle of prosecco? Maybe she could throw it at him, distract him enough to give Griffin a shot-assuming Griffin was armed. Instead, she strode up to the man, shouting, “You’re late!” He looked at her in confusion, his gaze flicking down to her exposed skin. “You promised to meet me.”

His expression hardened. Dismissed her. He turned away. Again started to draw his weapon. She came up behind him. Grabbed the bottle of prosecco in her pocket. Shoved the top of it into his back. Grasped his arm with her free hand, and hoped the Bureau’s reputation extended to this country. “FBI. Capisce?”

He froze. The mother ran up, grabbed her child, then retreated back into the hotel, blissfully clueless.

“Reach for that gun,” she said, “and you die.”

“You’re making a mistake,” the man said in English, his accent thick.

“Not as big as yours,” Sydney replied. The understatement of the year, she thought, pressing the prosecco harder against his back as Griffin appeared at her side, taking the man’s gun, slipping it into his own waistband. He raised a brow at the sight of the small bottle, but otherwise said nothing, and she dropped it into her pocket, cinched her robe closed, as Griffin placed the man in a discreet wristlock. From the corner of her eye, she saw the driver step into view. He looked as though he was ready to approach, investigate. “What about his friend?”

Griffin looked that direction just as the driver ran back to his car, sped off, wheels screeching across the cobbled drive. “Looks like your friend abandoned you.”

“He’ll be back.”

“But you’ll be gone. In the meantime, walk quietly into the lobby,” Griffin said, with a slight twist to the man’s wrist to ensure compliance. The doorman opened the glass door, let them in. Griffin said something to him in Italian, and Sydney overheard the word carabinieri and assumed he was asking that the police be called. That and no doubt something about an office, since the doorman ran up to the desk, and the well- dressed man from behind the counter rushed forward, and ushered them into a room just off the lobby.

Griffin said something to the manager, who nodded, then left them alone. The moment the door closed behind him, Griffin shoved the man in the chair, drew the gun on him, and told Sydney, “You don’t happen to have a spare