The Bone Chamber

sooner, but I was away on a dig. The package has apparently been sitting here for about a week.”

Giustino held up his hands, as though to say he knew nothing about it, so she said, “And where is here?”

“The American Academy in Monteverde Vecchio.”

Sydney muted the speaker function, asking Giustino, “Suggestions?”

“Get the package, immediatamente.”

To which she asked Francesca, “Do you think we could come by to pick it up?”

“Alessandra did specify that I give it to Mr. Griffin, and only Mr. Griffin. I’ll know him when he gives me the code.”

Giustino grabbed a pen, wrote: “Get it.”

“As I mentioned,” Sydney said into the phone, “he’s away on a business trip. He has asked us to handle all his matters while he’s gone. This way, it’ll be here when he gets back, and you’re relieved of all responsibility.”

Judging from Francesca’s long hesitation, it seemed she recognized a line of bullshit when she heard one. “In light of Alessandra’s instructions in her letter, it’s a responsibility I’m willing to shoulder.”

“I’m a close associate of Mr. Griffin’s, Ms. Santarella.”

“Then you shouldn’t have any trouble relaying my message. Please have him call me as soon as possible.”

The dial tone filtered through the speaker when the woman hung up. Sydney dropped the phone into the cradle, bringing silence to the room. Before she had a chance to consider her next step, a bell sounded. Giustino checked the security monitor. “Your taxi is here,” he said, as he got up, walked to the door, and pressed the speaker button. “Chi e?”

“Tassi!” a voice answered.

“My taxi?”

“To the airport. Griffin ordered it before he left.”

“Always the efficient one.”

“Don’t take it personally.”

“No problems there.” She walked into her bedroom, stuffed the few things she had into her bag, glanced around the spartan room, then left.

Giustino stood as she walked out. He held out his hand. “I don’t think Griffin would have conveyed this, but our team, we are grateful for your assistance.”

“Thank you,” she said, shaking his hand. “And I’m deeply sorry about the way things turned out. I don’t know if there is any way you can pass that on. Let Griffin know…”

Giustino clasped both hands around hers, as though to let her know he understood. What he said was, “Signore Griffin. He is not an easy man, signorina, especially these last two years, but he is a good judge of character.”

“I’m guessing that means something profound?”

“I have worked with Griffin for a lot of years since this team formed. He is a good man.”

The taxi’s horn blared again, and Sydney picked up her bag, walked to the door, but, unable to shake Griffin from her mind, she asked, “Does he have anyone significant in his life?”

“There used to be a woman who-” He stopped suddenly, then said, “She is-was-He does not like November. That is all I should say.”

When nothing further was forthcoming, she started out.

“Your ticket, signorina.”

He walked over, gave it to her. She took it, thanked him, then walked down five flights of stairs, trying not to look back, not to think that if she were to stay, things might turn out different.

Perhaps because of the warmth from the sun through the car windows, she drifted off as the taxi got stuck in a traffic jam on Ponte Garibaldi. Hers was not a solid sleep, but one filled with images and bits of dreams that ran into each other. Griffin watching her, then Tex’s image, holding up a glass of iced vodka, which he dropped, and she watched the glass tumble down the cliff, to the water below, and when she looked in, a skull stared back at her, its eyes reflecting a pyramid. When Sydney turned to see where the reflection was coming from, she saw her friend Tasha saying something to her about the pyramid, then asking her not to forget her.

“I won’t,” Sydney said, surprised to hear it coming from her lips. She opened her eyes, tried to reconcile the sight of the tree-lined boulevard, the trams, and the milling pedestrians that she saw from the taxi’s windows with the images from her dream.

“Did you say something, signorina?” the taxi driver asked, looking at her in the rearview mirror.

“Do you know where the American Academy is?”

“Si, signorina. On Via Angelo Masina; in Monteverde Vecchio.”

“Take me there, please.”

“What about your plane, signorina?”

“The plane can wait.”

“As you wish, signorina. Fortunatamente, l’Accademia Americana is just up the hill.” With these words, the cab emerged from the traffic-glutted Viale di Trastevere, turned sharply into Via Dandolo, and after careening around a dozen hairpin corners, finally arrived at the iron gates of the imposing edifice of the American Academy.

Now all she needed to do was to convince Francesca Santarella to let her see what it was that the ambassador’s daughter had mailed to her just before she was killed.

17

Francesca Santarella stood at the massive windows of her studio, located over the main entrance to the American Academy, watching as the electric iron gate swung slowly inward. Roberto, the gatekeeper, had just phoned to tell her an FBI agent was there to see her, something she assumed was related to the strange package that her friend Alessandra had mailed to her from the States. And though she was tempted to tell Roberto not to admit the woman, she wasn’t sure if she could. After all, FBI was FBI, even if they were slightly out of their jurisdiction.

If only she’d been able to reach Alessandra this morning. But she hadn’t, and then, before she could change her mind about this unexpected visitor, Roberto emerged from his cubbyhole, walked up to the gate to admit the woman, mid-thirties-about her own age-dressed in slacks and a dark blue blazer, with a soft-sided travel bag slung over her shoulder. Pointing up to Francesca’s studio, Roberto escorted the visitor around the massive travertine fountain and led her up the front stairs.

When Francesca heard the footsteps in the hall, she walked over to her desk, closed her laptop computer, then crossed the polished terra cotta tiles to open the door, even before her visitor knocked.

Roberto hovered behind the woman, who flipped open a credential case containing an ID card and a gold shield. Her left hand was bandaged, and there were a few scrapes on her face. “I’m Sydney Fitzpatrick, Special Agent, FBI. And you’re Francesca Santarella?”

“Yes. Come in.” She glanced at Roberto, smiled, and said, “We’ll be fine. Thank you.”

Roberto, ever protective, nodded, then headed back down the stairs as she smiled at the agent. Even though Francesca had never come into contact with a federal agent before, she had no reason to doubt her visitor’s identity. Francesca might be American born and bred, but this was Rome, and during her prolonged stay, Francesca had rubbed elbows with famous scholars, notorious novelists, the embassy crowd-many of whom she suspected were spies-minor royals, even foreign ministers of hostile countries, whom she had guided on special tours of Rome’s ancient monuments. It was all part of what Francesca counted as “Roman experiences.”

Of course that didn’t mean she didn’t examine the ID; she did. And then she asked, “And what brings the FBI all the way to Rome?”

“Alessandra Harden.”

Francesca glanced over toward the package, still sitting on her desk, then back at the agent, stating the obvious. “You’re the person to whom I spoke on the phone this morning…”

“Yes.”