The Bone Chamber

“Your loss, our gain,” Westgate said, tiring of always having to kiss Adami’s self-made “foreign” ass, when everyone knew he hailed from New Jersey. Which made him relish what he was about to do, because it was about damned time someone put Adami in his place. “As I was saying, here’s the thing. This map? We want it.”

“I was under the impression that your boss called it a pipe dream, one that generations of men before me have searched for in vain.”

“That was before he started looking into it. He is interested in knowing how you came about this knowledge.”

“As a philanthropist, I have funded a number of scholarly works and studies. Several were of particular interest, involving the studies of ancient temples, burial sites, and religious artifacts. But why does he care how I came about this knowledge?”

“Let’s just say he had a change of heart, and he shares in your vision of what this thing can do.”

“And what if I don’t want to share?”

“You and the little empire you’ve built here using the Freemasons will cease to exist. C3 will be exposed for what it is, an offshoot of Propaganda Due’s Masonic lodge, and you their Grand Master in charge of corrupting public officials for illicit gain.”

“You think you can touch me?”

Westgate leaned back in his chair, enjoying this much more than he thought. “If you think otherwise, it would be a fatal mistake on your part.”

Adami looked him in the eye, as though contemplating just how seriously he should take this new threat. Then he smiled. “I am not so foolish to think that I wouldn’t be here if not for the help of my friends. What did your boss have in mind?”

“He will be sending two of his men to assist you in the recovery of the map to ensure its safe arrival into his hands.”

“And if something but the desired result occurs?”

“It would be in your best interest to guarantee the desired result. Any other outcome, and you may find certain past hidden allegations of your business dealings coming to light in a very public way. Allegations about C3 that will make the Propaganda Due scandal twenty years ago pale in comparison.” Westgate stared at him over steepled fingers, smiling at the sudden pulsing of a vein in Adami’s temple.

“You do realize,” Adami said, “that we aren’t the only ones searching for the map?”

“You’re speaking of Alessandra’s friends?”

“Yes.”

“Then take out some sort of insurance policy to ensure their cooperation. Your future and that of C3 depends on it.”

“Done. About Alessandra. My understanding is that she may have brought some information to the Smithsonian.”

“Did you ever find out what this was?”

“Niko, the man you helped me to set up at the Smithsonian, followed her and Dr. Balraj. He thinks she may have posted it before he was able to stop her. We believe she sent it to Rome.”

“Her father’s residence?”

“We know of nowhere else she might have sent it. And Niko was not able to get what it was or the location from her before he killed her.”

“And do you know who killed Niko?”

“I suspect it was that FBI agent who came to the Smithsonian asking questions. Niko telephoned me right after she arrived-a fortunate thing he stayed on after we picked up Balraj and had Alessandra killed. Niko was supposed to kill the agent as well. Apparently he failed.”

“Apparently.” Westgate tossed an envelope on the table. “Think of this as a present.”

“What is it?”

“A photograph of your FBI agent. Sydney Fitzpatrick.”

“Why bring it here?”

“She flew into Rome yesterday.”

Adami reached over, opened the envelope, and slid out the photo. That vein in his temple started pulsing again. “She was here at the party last night. The woman who Griffin carried out.”

“Why do you think they were here?”

“Seeing this photo, I presume they were looking into Alessandra’s death. Hoping to find someone who might talk.”

Westgate leaned back in his chair, sighed. “I have a flight to catch. In the meantime, you might want to make sure this insurance is foolproof. We want that map.”

Adami said nothing.

Westgate glanced at the photo on the table of the FBI agent. “Interesting that they showed up here. Were they ever out of your sight?”

Adami hesitated. “Of course they were. I didn’t realize who they were until my cousin recognized the woman. A shame we lost her. She would have been easier to interrogate.”

“And you’ve gotten nothing out of the man as to why he was here?”

“Nothing at all. I don’t even know who he really is.”

“Maybe you haven’t tried hard enough to find out.” He pushed back from the table and stood. “But I’m sure you’ll remedy that little problem.”

Adami picked up the photo of the woman that Westgate left behind. There was much to think about. An FBI agent? Something was off there. FBI wasn’t typically involved in international covert operations of this sort. Then again, what if they were? What if the man he held in the chamber was the unwitting party to all this, and the agent had used the poor schmuck?

But then he thought of the way the man was able to withstand his interrogation. This was no milquetoast nouveau riche businessman. Which altered things considerably.

Adami didn’t like being played-by either side-and he tossed the photo on the table, then picked up the phone to call his cousin. He needed to make sure that when the endgame was played, when the map was found, he was the winner. “The visitor in the chamber.”

“Still breathing. Why?”

“There’s been a change of plans.”

The late afternoon sun poured in through the double terrace doors of the safe house, bathing the terra cotta- tiled floors in honeyed light. Wanting to banish the dank chill of that chamber in Adami’s villa, Sydney basked in a white linen chair, soaking in the warmth of a Rome autumn. She was fascinated by the safe house, a flat that occupied the entire fifth floor of a seventeenth-century palazzo on Via della Grotta Pinta in the heart of Rome’s historic center. Marc, one of the two carabinieri, had told her that the palazzo used to be a monastery, and the bricks of the double arch in the living room, which had been brought up from the basement, dated back to 57 B.C. The thick walls were whitewashed; the ceilings were held up by wooden beams, of such an age that they were pitted with wormholes; and the apple-green door with its several Byzantine brass locks might look ancient, but it was actually reinforced and completely soundproofed. All in all, the flat consisted of three bedrooms, a bathroom, a radio transmitter room, a long hall, and a kitchen. The living room and kitchen opened up on to a splendid terrace garden, complete with fishpond and bell tower.

None of them had heard a thing from Griffin since he’d left, apparently at first light. All they could do was watch and wait. And though Sydney wanted nothing more than to take a nap, she didn’t move from the small salon next to the radio transmitter room where Marc sat watching the monitors for each security camera positioned at pivotal locations outside the safe house. Every now and then his glance strayed to a TV positioned next to his workstation, the channel tuned to the local news. Giustino also watched the monitors, but his job was to listen to the receiver for anything that might come out of the device that Tex had planted. It had been quiet since the initial transmission, and they were beginning to wonder if it still worked.

Sydney paid little attention to the security monitors, since she wouldn’t know what did or did not belong on the