The Bone Chamber

“Intercept it?”

Giustino nodded toward a paper on the table. “A catering menu. Commendatore Adami must be having another party.” Griffin reached for the menu, curious to see what a multimillionaire ordered for his guests, when Giustino added, “But we did receive a call on the Journal line. From a Professoressa Francesca Santarella. She speaks of a package and some code. Signorina Alessandra mailed it to her at the American Academy two weeks ago.”

“We?”

“The Signorina Fitzpatrick took the call.”

“The same Fitzpatrick who is allegedly on her way to America?”

“There is, perhaps, another one?”

“Damn it!” Griffin slammed his hand on the table.

“Cosa c’e?”

“Do we even know if she ever got on board that flight?”

“You would like me to inquire?”

“Don’t bother,” he said, grabbing his keys. “I already know the answer. Get a landline to Professor Santarella’s office. If she picks up, patch it through to my cell.” He stormed toward the door, cursed himself three times over for not personally putting Fitzpatrick on that plane himself.

Standing at one side of the window, Sydney studied the man on the rooftop a few buildings down from the ambassador’s residence, someone she wouldn’t have noticed had it not been for the sunlight reflecting off what appeared to be the lenses of binoculars. She pulled Francesca back, out of sight, even though she was fairly certain that the object of the surveillance was the ambassador’s grounds and not anyone at the American Academy. “I’ve changed my mind about the tea,” Sydney said. “I think we should return to your studio.”

Francesca looked at Sydney as though she’d lost her mind. “Is something wrong?”

“I’d rather explain it back at your room.”

The professor shrugged, set their still full teacups in the sink, then led Sydney back to her office, which was obviously intended to be an artist’s studio at one time. Francesca had her work sorted out neatly on a long white table in the center of the room, with photographs and charts tacked to one wall. These seemed to focus on maps of underground chambers of some sort. A large drawing of a map of Rome was taped to another wall. A laptop sat on a desk next to the huge windows, which must have been a good fourteen feet in height. And beside the computer was a clear vase of yellow autumn crocus. What held Sydney’s interest on the desk, however, was the U.S. Global Priority Mail shipping label on the small box. What the hell was in it, and why had Alessandra sent it here? And just when Sydney had decided what line of questioning she wanted to follow in hopes of gaining her answers, the professor’s phone rang.

Francesca answered it, with “Pronto?” Listened a moment, then said, “Grazie, Roberto.” Then, turning to Sydney, she asked, “Now what was it you wanted to explain to me here, instead of in the kitchen?”

“First, I’m wondering if anyone knew of your friendship with Alessandra.”

“An odd question. I’m assuming that this has something to do with the package she sent?”

“I’ll explain it in good time,” she said, since Alessandra’s murder wasn’t yet public knowledge. “Just believe me when I say it’s important.”

“It wasn’t a secret,” she said. “Her father knew, and I presume most of his household staff did. I’ve been to several parties across the street over the last two years, even on occasions when she was back at school in the States.”

Footsteps echoed on the tiles outside the door. “Are you expecting someone?”

“Father Emile Dumas,” the professor said. And a moment later there was a knock. Before Sydney could stop her, Francesca opened the door to a tall man, his dark hair flecked with gray. His white clerical collar contrasted sharply against his black suit, something that might have put the average person at ease had it not been for one thing.

Sydney had seen him before.

At the Smithsonian museum standing next to the building housing the Holy Crusades display.

18

Sydney looked around the room, grabbed an unopened wine bottle from a table, positioned herself between the priest and Francesca. Priest or no priest, she wasn’t about to take a chance with the professor’s safety. “What do you want?”

“It’s important I speak with the professor. Urgent,” he said in impeccable English, but with a slight French accent.

“Why?”

“The professor has something I’ve been waiting for. Something of great importance to me. You do not realize the danger she is in.”

“I think I do.”

“Well I don’t,” Francesca said.

“Mademoiselle Alessandra meant for me to receive the package. She would have explained this in her letter.” He took a step closer, and Sydney raised the bottle in warning. “She did not mention a code?”

Francesca stared in disbelief. “How did you know?”

“It’s our code.”

The shrill ring of the telephone interrupted the discussion, and the priest raised his hand in warning. “Don’t answer it,” he said. “They may be checking to see if you’re home. I think they’re watching the ambassador’s residence, maybe even this place as well.”

“And who are ‘they’?” Sydney asked.

“Those who’d think nothing of killing any one of us.”

That she did believe. And still she hesitated. Until the sound of screeching tires on the street below brought her to her senses. She strode toward the window, looked out, saw the small gray sedan pulling up out front, then the driver leaning out, asking the guard something. “Now would be a good time to take a back exit,” she said, while the telephone continued to ring. “Don’t suppose either one of you have a car nearby?”

Griffin turned into Via Angelo Masina, drove up, parked just down the street from the academy gate, then phoned Giustino. “Any word?”

“No answer. Phone just rings.”

He disconnected, pulled on an SIP jacket, deciding that the phone company was the best disguise for the institution, as that would allow him to walk around unnoticed. He grabbed his toolbox, then walked up the street just as a small gray sedan pulled slowly away from the academy gate. Griffin stopped at the gate to speak with the guard, identifying himself as the telephone repairman, a plausible pretense, since Italian telephones were perpetually guasti-on the blink.

Toolbox in hand, Griffin said, “Il telefono di professoressa Santarella e guasto. Cos’e il numero del suo studio?”

The guard glanced at the SIP logo on his jacket, then telephoned up to the professor’s studio, but after several seconds, told Griffin there was no answer, and that he couldn’t let him in, to which Griffin responded that there couldn’t be an answer if her phone wasn’t working.

The guard muttered something about too many people looking for the professor, and that set Griffin’s senses on alert. “Duecentocinquantasette!” said the guard, pointing to the great windows over the academy doors. “La scala alla sinistra!” Number 257. Up the stairs and to the left.

Griffin nodded, then strode toward the building, just as the guard called out that if she wasn’t in her room, she might be in the kitchen. Once inside, Griffin headed straight for Professor Santarella’s, climbing the stairs two at a