“Particulate matter. For aerosol,” Marc said, having no idea if that sounded scientific enough when it came to bioweapons. He hefted the boxes, trying to get a better grip. “It was ordered from Aron Blackman Industries.”
Dr. Balraj narrowed his gaze, staring hard at Marc, then at Rafiq, who now stood guard in the doorway. Aron Blackman was Balraj’s assistant, the one who’d been killed in the hit-and-run. The doctor cleared his throat, saying, “I hope you brought the right size particulates.”
“I’ll put this out of your way,” Marc said, walking past him to place one of the boxes at the far end of the lab, where a dark-haired woman in her late thirties worked intently over a microscope. As Marc passed her, he noticed her watching him in the reflection of the glass of her cubicle. As soon as he set down the box and turned, she was back to her microscope. The other scientists barely spared a glance, intent on whatever it was they were working on. Marc figured they didn’t speak English, or they would have noticed the boxes were labeled “Motor Oil.” Either that or they were used to supplies coming in mismarked due to the nature of their work. He returned upstairs, brought down several more boxes and placed them as well, while Rafiq did his best to look the threatening guard.
“Any other labs?” Marc quietly asked Dr. Balraj when he’d finished.
“Not at this facility. Everything is contained in here and the warehouse above us.”
“I’d suggest you follow our lead. Rafiq?”
Rafiq stepped behind Balraj, pointing his pistol at the man’s back. “You will come with us to help unload the boxes.”
Balraj raised his hands, and this time the scientist closest to them looked up, saw the gun, and immediately returned his attention back to his microscope. Taking someone at gunpoint around here was no doubt commonplace, Marc thought as Rafiq indicated that Dr. Balraj should walk toward the stairs.
“Are there very many boxes?” Balraj asked.
“Why?” Rafiq replied.
“Perhaps you would care for some extra help?”
Rafiq looked at Marc, who said, “How many helpers did you have in mind?”
“Just one. Dr. Zemke. The woman at that last station.”
Marc glanced over, saw her openly watching them. He gave a slight tilt of the head and Rafiq waved his pistol at her, saying, “You. Come.” She rose, walked toward them, her gaze fixed on Rafiq, who ordered, “Up the stairs. We have work for you.”
“Who are you?” she asked at the top of the stairs.
“Friends,” Marc said. “Quickly. We don’t have much time.” Marc and Rafiq led the two scientists out of sight of the cameras to the back of the truck. “You haven’t seen a beat-up American in a tux and cowboy boots, have you?”
They both shook their heads no. After he shut them safely inside the cargo area with the bound guard, he took one last look around, then glanced at his watch. “We have five minutes,” he told Rafiq, who was busy stuffing his guard’s uniform beneath the truck seat.
Tex or no Tex, this place was going up.
24
Sydney had lost count as to how many loculi she’d inspected, and she stopped, shone her light around the chamber, trying to figure out if Francesca was stringing them along, or if there was a real purpose to what they were doing.
Griffin, however, appeared to be trying to redeem himself in the professor’s eyes, faking his interest in the place, no doubt in hopes of getting the professor to slip up and reveal her true purpose. “Why is this chamber so different than the outer one?” he asked.
“This is where the founders of the columbarium had their loculi-niches. Prime real estate. You notice that in here the niches are lined in marble. There were also beautifully carved freestanding urns in those square niches in the far wall.”
Then, surprising Sydney that he was even paying attention, he asked, “I thought you said they were slaves and freed slaves.”
“Who saved all their money for their final resting places,” Francesca said, sweeping her light over the marble- lined niches. “These are the loculi of the officers of the columbarium club.”
“The officers?”
“Yes, it’s ironic that the slaves and freed slaves’ burial clubs were the one democratic institution in ancient Rome. They elected their own officers, and voted on how they wanted the place decorated. This group obviously was into Egyptomania.”
Francesca’s flashlight skimmed across the painting on the wall, revealing a glimpse of the great pyramids, palm trees, and cone-hatted Pygmies dancing beneath them, beside a great river. Sydney stopped in her tracks. “I’ve seen this before,” she said, slowly walking toward the fresco, unable to look away from the wall. “This was frescoed on Adami’s ceiling. I’m sure of it. He knows about this place already.”
“Adami?” Francesca said. “As in the philanthropist Adami?”
“Hardly a philanthropist,” Griffin replied, frowning at Sydney, no doubt to remind her not to reveal too much of their investigation.
Sydney turned to a fresh page in her sketchbook. “I thought that the painting had something to do with Adami’s Freemason lodge, because of a conversation I overheard about a pyramid.”
“Possibly,” Francesca said. “Egyptian symbolism figures strongly in Freemasonry. But during the first century A.D., the Romans were infatuated with all things Egyptian. You have only to look at that huge Pyramid of Gaius Cestius, just outside the Aurelian Wall at the Porta San Sebastiano.” She led them farther past the fresco. “In the early 1700s at the birth of Freemasonry, Egyptian symbols such as the Nile and the pyramid held sway, which may be why Adami chose to include them.”
She shone her light across the fresco. “Many Freemasons would have you believe that they trace their origins to early Egypt. Here is a perfect example.” She walked a few feet, sweeping her flashlight across a mosaic in one of the niches, a mosaic set in the pattern of a skull. “You are no doubt aware of the most famous of Masonic symbols, the angle and compass? Observe. This skull could be hanging from what could be interpreted as a Masonic angle, and it is resting on what well might be a Masonic compass in a mosaic in a columbarium from the first century.”
“I thought the Masons were a modern invention,” Griffin said, while Sydney’s pencil raced across her page, trying to capture the detail of the skull mosaic.
“Historians insist that the Masons didn’t come into being until the 1700s, the late 1600s at the earliest, yet here on a wall dating back to the first century A.D. are several symbols that are commonly found in Masonic iconography. Masons wanted to believe this proves their origins to early Egypt. All it proves, however, is that like the rest of the world before and after, Egyptian iconography was just as popular in the first century as it was in the eighteenth century.”
Sydney examined the skull she’d drawn, then turned back to the page with the Egyptian fresco. “So what I saw on Adami’s wall?”
“Probably nothing more than a typical Renaissance depiction of ancient Egypt.” She looked around the chamber and sighed. “Unfortunately, I have a feeling that this fresco and mosaic may also signify the customary first-century depiction of ancient Egypt and nothing more. Of course, that depends on how you interpret the phrase, ‘past the great pyramids.’ It could mean any point beyond these frescoes.”
“You mean you had a
“Look.” She rounded on him. “I’m not the one who insisted that you follow me. So yes, I had a specific place to search, and by assigning you a different wall, I hoped I might search this one in peace.”
Sydney saw Griffin take a calming breath, probably telling himself that he’d be better off taking the professor to an interrogation room and questioning her as he would any other source he needed to squeeze information from.
Francesca retraced her steps, walking past the frescoed pyramids, past the river that was supposed to
