The Bone Chamber

time. When he turned into the hall, and saw the partially open door, he lowered the tool chest to the ground, drew his gun. Pressing himself against the wall, he stopped just before the threshold, listened. He heard nothing.

Not necessarily a good sign, and gun at the ready, he stepped in, scanned the room.

Empty.

He saw papers dumped on the floor, and a wine bottle lying beside them. The bottle, he figured, could have been used as a makeshift weapon, one that was dropped, perhaps at the sight of a gun. Or maybe it had simply been knocked over. Even the papers on the ground weren’t enough to make him think there was a struggle. But there by the door was Sydney Fitzpatrick’s travel bag.

So they either left willingly, or something alerted them, sent them running.

The best bet, he figured, was to rule out one or the other scenario. With the exception of Sydney’s bag, maybe the papers on the ground, there was nothing inside the studio that shouldn’t be there, at least nothing he could see. He glanced outside, saw the academy entrance, the fountain, the street beyond the gate. The gatekeeper had the iron gate closed, and Griffin doubted anyone was getting in or out without the gatekeeper’s knowledge-unless they’d taken a back way. Perhaps they were still on the premises, in the kitchen as the guard had surmised.

Griffin retrieved his toolbox, set his weapon just inside it, then left the studio, walked down the long hall. None of the residents milling about in the upstairs halls paid him the least attention in his SIP jacket. Apparently telephone repairs were commonplace at the academy. At the end of the hall, he turned into an open door that led to the kitchen, where a heavyset woman in thick-lensed glasses was cooking something that looked indigestible. No one else present there, or in the adjoining television room.

“Telefono!” he said to the woman at the stove, and she hardly glanced at him as he walked over to the red telephone by the window. “Professor Santarella was having problems with her phone, but I can’t find her.”

“She was here a minute ago, but left in a hurry.”

Not exactly a telephone repairman’s business, but he sized up the woman, decided she wasn’t paying too much attention to give his questioning much notice. “Was she with someone?”

“Yes. Another woman.”

“Problems with the phone here?” he asked, picking up the red phone, and placing it to his ear.

She shrugged, then went back to her cooking.

He hit the flash a few times to make it look good as he glanced out the window and saw there was a clear view of the ambassador’s residence across the street. He also noticed the guards were gone, and the flag was down, which meant the ambassador wasn’t there-he’d returned to the States to claim his daughter’s body.

Either way, he saw little that seemed to present a threat. Perhaps Fitzpatrick and the professor had gone for a stroll on the premises, though judging from the papers scattered on the floor, it seemed they left in a hurry, and why would they leave in a hurry for a casual stroll? The events of the past few days and his instincts told him otherwise. He had to assume that Fitzpatrick’s training gave her an advantage, perhaps let her notice something that wouldn’t stand out to the ordinary person. His gaze swept the street, the garden beyond, and then the ambassador’s residence, first the windows on each floor, and then the rooftop. Nothing there, and he kept searching. And that was when he saw the man in the palazzo two doors down, standing in an open tower room, watching the ambassador’s residence and the street around it through binoculars. No doubt it was how Griffin’s arrival was observed at the ambassador’s residence his first day back in Rome. And how he’d been so easily followed back to the hotel by the assassin that Adami had sent after him.

He hung up the phone, stepped back, not sure if he’d been seen in the apartment, if they were even watching the academy. Either way, if the two women had come into the kitchen, and Fitzpatrick had looked out the window, seen the rooftop surveillance, it could very well have spooked her enough that she’d left in a hurry with the professor, and perhaps left her bag behind as a sign.

And now all he had to do was find her.

Griffin walked past the goggle-eyed woman who was now carrying her meal toward the table. His “Arrivederci!” went unnoticed, and he walked the long hall back to Professor Santarella’s studio, grabbed Sydney’s bag and walked out, pulled the door shut behind him. He descended the stairs, asked the guard if the professor had any visitors who might have used the phone, and was told that the professor had not one, but two visitors. An FBI agent and a priest who came by to use the academy library. When the guard was called away by the arrival of a young woman, Griffin glanced at the guard’s clipboard, saw the name Dumas written upon it.

Griffin walked casually to the SIP van, then drove off down the street, trying to see if there were any more sentries watching the area. The academy didn’t appear to be the main object of the surveillance, which meant it was more than likely the ambassador’s residence-but they might notice the comings and goings here at the academy as well.

He had to think about this. What reason would Adami have to still be watching the ambassador’s residence?

To await Griffin’s arrival, and take him out? He doubted that. He was fairly certain that on that first day in Rome, his appearance at the ambassador’s and the ensuing assassination attempt on his life had been an opportunity of circumstance. No one had known he was en route to Rome. Even he hadn’t known until the last minute, once Fitzpatrick had finished the drawing, confirmed that Alessandra was, in fact, the victim.

So what was the purpose of still manning the operation? What were they waiting for? And why had Dumas suddenly showed?

It struck him then. They had figured the same thing he had figured. The day he’d made the death notification, he’d asked Alessandra’s father if she’d sent anything home. Why would Adami think anything different? And how had Dumas known to retrieve Alessandra’s package from Professor Santarella?

Quite simply, no one had suspected that Alessandra would send the package to her friend, Professor Santarella, across the street, or that her friend wouldn’t discover it until later, because she had been out of town.

Until now.

And just when he was convincing himself that Adami’s men were focusing on the ambassador’s residence and not the academy, and that he was worrying for nothing, a faded red Peugeot, driven by a priest, pulled out of the lot down the street from the academy. There were two passengers in the car, and though he had no doubt as to their identities, that wasn’t what concerned him. They were being followed. By the same gray car he’d seen at the academy gate.

Tunisia

Marc di Luca headed toward the Medina-the old quarter, which dated back to the Middle Ages. He thought about Griffin, wondering if he shouldn’t call HQ, mention that maybe they should pull Griffin from the case. It was no small feat that Marc had managed to convince Griffin that he needed to stay in Italy, that they had enough operatives to manage the mission to destroy the bioweapons that Adami was trying to smuggle into Italy via the Tunisia warehouse. The last time he’d seen Griffin that upset was after that operation two years ago…The ambush. He hadn’t been the same since. As it stood, the only reason Marc hadn’t called HQ was that, miracle of miracles, Griffin backed off at the last minute and told Marc to head the bioweapons mission.

Marc glanced over his shoulder, checked for the umpteenth time that he wasn’t being followed, then turned into the wide Avenue Bourguiba, where a small regiment of shoeshine boys, sheltered from the sun by shaded arcades, called out to him in French, apparently oblivious to the fact that he was wearing suede-topped hiking boots. He made his way into the narrow-laned maze of the Medina. With its rough-hewn paving stones, the quarter had lost none of its charm, despite the number of tourist shops peddling red carpets, brass hookahs, and fezzes of all colors. A spice shop displaying huge bowls of powdered saffron, cumin, and harissa filled the air with pungency.

Just before the covered suq displaying leatherwork, he turned into an alley away from the tourist path. Here men in fezzes and women with shawl-covered heads and more traditional dress occupied the street. With a quick glance over his shoulder, he ducked into another alley, where his Tunisian contact, a microbiologist and French agent named Lisette Perrault, lived above an herbalist’s shop. He stopped at a faded and peeling blue-green keyhole-shaped door, which with its artfully studded hobnails looked as if it belonged in the Arabian Nights.

A few moments later, the door opened. The shabby exterior masked the bright tiled courtyard, where a fountain splashed in the center, but he didn’t have time to admire it. Lisette motioned for him to follow her up the inner staircase to her apartment.