The Bone Chamber

“Mr. Griffin’s associate.”

“Yes.”

She wasn’t sure what to make of the FBI’s interest in Alessandra, but she wasn’t about to make a decision about it until she’d had her morning tea. “Would you like a cup of tea? I was just on my way to the kitchen, when you arrived. The Academy won’t let us have hot plates in our studios. Might burn the place down, and where would we all be?”

“I’d love a cup.”

Francesca led the agent out the door, locking it behind them.

As they rounded the corner of the long hall, the agent gazed up at the forty-foot-high ceilings. “Amazing building. It reminds me of the Metropolitan Museum in New York.”

“Probably because it was designed by some of the same architects. A bit of a mystery surrounds them, in fact, because one was murdered. Stanford White,” she explained, as they walked past open bedroom doors where various Fellows of the Academy were lolling about. “Jealous rival. Trial of the century, circa 1906. Actually White was dead when this place was built a few years later, but his name was still used by the firm. Kitchen’s at the end of the hall. We can talk there, since most of the Fellows won’t be using it at this hour.”

The kitchen-another huge room with tall windows-was happily empty, and Francesca immediately filled a battered teakettle with water, then set it on the stove. Dishes, some washed, were piled haphazardly in the dish rack, others with congealing egg were piled in the sink. Francesca moved the offending plates with a clatter. “Sorry about the mess,” she said, filling a clean teapot with hot water from the tap, then setting it aside.

As the teakettle came to a boil, Francesca started rinsing some of the dishes in the sink. That done, she dumped out the water used to warm the teapot, then spooned in two heaps of Darjeeling. “So, what is it you need to know?”

“How did you and Alessandra meet?”

An odd question. But since she was curious as to where this was leading, she decided to answer. “We first met when she was visiting her father during spring break last year. The ambassador held a party-just across the street there; you can see the garden from the window-and invited some of the senior Fellows from the academy. My interest in ancient history and archaeology mirrored Alessandra’s own academic interests. Of course, that wasn’t the only interest we had in common. We both held a distinct distrust for big government,” she said, pouring boiling water over the tea leaves to let them steep for a few minutes.

“As in government conspiracy?”

Francesca returned the kettle to the stove, glancing over at the agent, somewhat surprised. “Yes. How did you guess?”

“I spoke with her professor at UVA. Did she ever mention anything about any conspiracy that came from personal knowledge?”

“No. I think her suspicions had more to do with rigged elections and dicey world diplomacy.”

“And your suspicions. Where do they come from?”

“Thucydides-history,” she said, pouring the tea into two clean china cups. “A lesson for mankind, which since human nature tends to be rotten, mankind never learns. The present mirrors the past.”

Agent Fitzpatrick accepted one of the teacups, sipped from it as she looked around the plainly furnished high- ceilinged room with its old-fashioned stove, white Formica and wood table and chairs.

“Sorry, not much to look at,” Francesca said.

“But at least you have a view,” the agent replied, walking to the tall windows that looked across the street directly into a large square garden with manicured lawns and trimmed hedges. A shaft of morning sun peered through the parasol pines, powdering gold dust onto a large terra cotta urn in the center of the ambassador’s garden. “How long have you lived here?”

“I’ve been in residence for about two years.”

“Almost as long as Ambassador Harden?”

“I arrived a few months after he did.”

Agent Fitzpatrick sipped her tea, as though contemplating her next line of questioning. “So that’s the ambassador’s residence there, across the street. The one with the square tower?”

Francesca joined her at the window, wondering what was really behind her visit. What had the FBI so interested? “Yes, you’re looking at his garden. The house is to the right. He’s not in residence now.”

“How can you tell?”

“The carabinieri vans are gone. They’re usually in that little alley, next to the garage. And the American flag is down.”

“Is the place secure now?”

“Always. There are guard dogs and caretakers, and when Ambassador Harden is in residence, the carabinieri guard both sides of the house. Some of the younger Fellows think it’s fun to try and engage them in conversation. Personally, I think those Uzis the carbs carry mean business, so I tend to ignore them when I go on my morning walks.” Francesca noticed a dark-haired man, clad in black, strolling up the hill under the tall umbrella pines, approaching the ambassador’s gate. When he stopped, she caught sight of the clerical collar as he pulled out a small book, the white paper reflecting the bright sunlight. “And there you have the typical visitors,” she said. “Pope’s business, I presume. Or morning tea,” she said, watching as he turned a few pages as though referencing something, perhaps an appointment. Glancing up and down the street, he returned it to his pocket, walked to the gate, and rang the bell.

“If the ambassador’s not there, why would he stop for tea?” Agent Fitzpatrick asked.

“Maybe he’s friends with someone on staff.” The portiere came to the gate, and after a few words, let the priest in.

“That small gray car farther up the street,” Agent Fitzpatrick asked. “With the two men sitting in it. Is that part of the police detail?”

Francesca peered out the window in the direction indicated. “Hard to say. I saw it there yesterday, but since I was away for a couple of weeks, working down in the columbaria, I don’t know whether it was there previously.”

Agent Fitzpatrick nodded, sipped her Darjeeling, then glanced over at Francesca. “Why is it that Alessandra mailed this package to you instead of her father?”

She hesitated, not sure how much she should divulge, since she had yet to decipher what the agent was searching for. “I think that there was someone in her father’s service whom she didn’t trust. A servant, assistant, maybe even a friend,” she said, as a woman wearing bottle-lensed glasses walked into the kitchen. Francesca tried to remember her name, couldn’t, then nodded in greeting as the woman made a beeline for the refrigerator. “For whatever reason,” Francesca continued, as the agent focused on the street below, “Alessandra thinks it’s important that this information reach Mr. Griffin, and until I hear otherwise from her, I intend to honor her request.”

Agent Fitzpatrick frowned, and Francesca imagined she was about to protest, about to attempt to persuade her to hand the package over. Instead, the agent stepped back from the window, set her teacup on the table, and asked, “This special detail to the ambassador’s residence. Have you ever known them to use sentries on the neighboring rooftops?”

Griffin opened the door of the safe house, taking in the aroma of freshly brewed espresso. Giustino drank the stuff like water, all day long, and sure enough, was sipping a cup when Griffin walked into the salon. He threw his keys on the table, poured himself a large glass of water, then sat, glad the morning was almost over.

“Did Marc arrive in Tunisia?” Giustino asked.

“Should be landing there any moment. How about our wayward FBI agent? She make it to the airport?”

“The signorina left in the cab about two, two and a half hours ago.” He glanced up at the clock. “The plane should be taking off any moment.”

“No trouble?”

“She gives many apologies,” he said, reaching over to adjust the controls on the monitoring equipment. “I think if she could, she would stay.”

“Pick up anything this morning?” Griffin asked, not wanting to think about what Sydney was involved in the past few days. Truth be told, he was relieved that she’d left. Less to worry about.

“Niente. Unless one counts the fax.”