The Bone Chamber (12 page)

“Are we talking cartography or Greek mythology? A map versus the guy who was forced to hold up the sky?”

“I thought he was holding the globe.”

“Common misconception, which may be why a map of the world was called an atlas.”

“Figures you’d know this. But no, I’m referring to an OGA with that name. Just got done talking to Congressman Burnett, who mentioned it in relationship to that other matter I’m not allowed to discuss. The guy froze up on me. Was worried about breaching national security.”

“That’s a whole different ball game,” Doc said. “But it fits with what I found out about the congressman on that background you asked me to do. He was sitting on a national security task force, so…” Carillo could hear him clicking away on his keyboard. “Not Atlas, but ATLAS the acronym.”

“As in…?”

“As in Alliance for Threat Level Assessment and Security. It’s a global task force that assesses terrorist threats, and when necessary deploys a highly trained strike force to eliminate those threats.”

“And why is it no one’s ever heard of it?”

“It wouldn’t be very effective if everyone knew about it, would it?”

“So they’re a covert agency?”

“Extremely covert. Most of their operations are NOC, nonofficial cover. Plausible deniability is standard procedure, if you could even get the government to admit there was such an organization.”

“How come you know about it?”

“Hello? Didn’t you just get done asking me to research the congressman less than a day ago? That and I was able to finally dig up something on this Griffin. He’s running an international paper that’s more than likely a cover for CIA.”

“I’ll keep that in mind should someone mistakenly nominate them for a Pulitzer. Back to the OGA.”

“It’s a multi-agency, multi-country task force, populated by brainiacs in specialized fields, along with your average spies and your not-so-average special ops types on the strike force, of which Griffin is one. From what I’ve been able to deduce, each country involved has their own team, but they work cooperatively. It came about after 9/11.”

“So how much plausible denial are we talking?”

“Remember those CIA agents who were arrested in Italy a few years back for some shady operations?”

“Vaguely.”

“Put it this way. The government will not admit any involvement whatsoever. If Fitzpatrick involves herself in
anything not above board and gets caught? Not only is her job at the Bureau history, but she’s probably looking at jail time.”

“That’s assuming she survives whatever it is she’s doing. I’m starting to have a real bad feeling about all this.”

“As well you should. They don’t send out guys like Griffin on the strike force, unless there’s a damned good reason.”

Sydney woke from her nap, wondering if Carillo had gotten ahold of the congressman, and if so, had the man actually been contacted by Xavier Caldwell. She picked up Caldwell’s papers, scanned the last sheet, then found it. World governments all searching for some key that would lead them to the missing Templar treasure. That was enough to make any sane FBI agent realize that the writer of this paper was reading way too much fiction and Internet propaganda. And that’s precisely what she’d thought at first, except for that niggling memory of the latest display on loan to the Smithsonian. Something to do with the Holy Crusades…Templar Knights were involved in the Holy Crusades.

For the second time that day, Sydney called Tony Carillo’s cell phone, having the hotel operator place it on her hotel bill. Italy being six hours ahead, she glanced at the clock to determine what time it would be in Washington, D.C., assuming he’d gotten there by now. It was almost five in the evening, not quite dark here, which would put it almost eleven
A.M
. there. “Give me good news,” she said.

“I haven’t made it out to the Smithsonian yet, but I did get in touch with the congressman. You ever hear of an agency called ATLAS?”

“No.”

“That’s where your boy Griffin works.”

“What is ATLAS?”

“Alliance for Threat Level Assessment and Security. Griffin’s on the strike force team. As in the special ops guys who go out and deal with the really,
really
bad boys. Doc Schermer thinks you need to get your butt out of there and home, if you want to keep your job.” He gave her the rundown of the team.

“As it turns out, Griffin is insisting I return home, to keep me from becoming involved, so that shouldn’t be a problem. Tomorrow, in fact. I suppose if necessary, I could leave earlier. He’s all for it, scout’s honor.”

“Where is he now?”

“Making the death notification to the ambassador. Back to the congressman. You asked him about the missing student?”

“I did. He says the kid is a nutcase, talking about how the Freemasons and Propaganda Due are running the U.S. government, and that’s why they manufactured his photo with Alessandra and allowed it to be published. Hard to imagine that lead going anywhere.”

“Except that she is dead and he’s still missing.”

“Maybe he killed her and fled.”

“Or maybe he was killed, too, and we haven’t found his body yet. In a nutshell, I think we need to find out if there’s anything in this conspiracy paper he wrote, and if that’s why this girl was killed.”

“Okay, let’s say it is why she was killed. How the hell’d she and this Xavier stumble across this on some conspiracy Web site, and end up dead? It’s not like other nuts out there haven’t made a similar connection, and yet they’re still walking around searching for the Templar treasure and spouting off that the Illuminati is about ready to take over the world. No one’s killed them.”

“What did she do different, you mean?”

“Exactly.”

“Like I said, her body was found at the Smithsonian, where they recently had a display on loan having something to do with the Holy Crusade.”

“As in the Templars?” Carillo said. “Maybe you shoulda taken this vacation a lot sooner.”

“Bear with me a second. This conspiracy paper I’m holding mentions Templar treasure, and some key that leads to it, which certain world governments are searching for.”

“Does it say why?”

“No. But like you, I’d have dismissed it in a heartbeat, if not for the dead girl with the missing face, whose body was
found just outside the very building where this display was located.”

“Or maybe it has nothing to do with the display. Either way, I’ll head to the Smithsonian next.”

“I’ll keep in touch, let you know what’s going on here.”

“Likewise. Stay out of trouble, Fitz. And do not, under any circumstances, get yourself involved with whatever these guys are involved in. Doc Schermer’s a pretty laid-back guy, and if he’s insisting you get out, I think you should listen.”

“I’m holed up in a Roman hotel room in my bathrobe. What sort of trouble could I possibly get into?”

Sydney walked to the balcony and threw open the
door, realizing there was little she could do about this information until Griffin’s return. The air had warmed somewhat, probably due to the low gray clouds that now filled the sky, threatening rain. Warm enough, she decided, to sit outside with something to drink. She thought about getting dressed, but was comfortable in her robe, and she cinched the belt tight, retrieved another small bottle of
prosecco
, when the phone rang.

It was Griffin. “I hope you’re awake?”

“Yes. And I’m glad you called. There’s something I found out—”

“No time,” he said, his voice sharp, clipped. “I’ll be at the hotel in about one minute. I’m being followed. Have been since I left the ambassador’s residence.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“I don’t want them to know I’m on to them, and I can’t have them follow me to the safe house. Meet me out front.”

It wasn’t until she caught her reflection in the mirror that she realized there was a flaw or two with this plan. “
Now?
”

“Something wrong?”

“I’m not exactly dressed at the moment.”

“Nice visual,” he said. “I need you out there to see what they’re doing. Don’t contact me. Just observe.”

“Out where?”

“The lobby should do nicely.”

He hung up before she could protest, and she glanced at her clothes, then out the window, saw him pulling up. “One minute? Try thirty seconds,” she said. No time to dress, she ran out the door, still carrying the little bottle of
prosecco.
It wasn’t until she stepped onto the elevator that she realized she’d forgotten her key and she was barefoot. Okay, so maybe she’d be dismissed as a crazy American waiting for a friend. If that was the worst of her problems, she could deal with it, she thought, dropping the little bottle of
prosecco
into her pocket as the elevator stopped and the door opened. She stepped around a young woman who was busy trying to catch a towheaded toddler, who tried to run toward the open elevator.

Sydney ignored the polite but direct stares of the hotel staff, as well as the few tourists lounging about in the chairs. Had this been Florida, no one would have given her a second glance, probably assuming she was on her way to the beach or the pool. But this wasn’t, which made the whole experience somewhat awkward. She only hoped it didn’t get her booted out of her hotel, and she did her best to ignore the looks, waving off the concierge, who asked if she needed assistance.

She headed for the doors, exited, and tried to remain unobtrusive—as if that were even possible, dressed as she was—beside a column just as Griffin got out of a Peugeot that he apparently had picked up after he’d dropped her off. He handed his key to the valet, as though he were a guest, waited for his ticket, gave a casual glance toward Sydney, raised a brow at the sight of her robe. He walked past her, dropped his ticket, and as he bent down to retrieve it, his back to the street, said, “Do you see a blue BMW?”

“It’s pulling up now.”

“Keep an eye on them. Maybe they’re only here to see where I’m staying. I can deal with that.”

“And if it’s not that?”

“Plan B. I’m open to suggestions.”

“I
hate
Plan B,” she muttered, glancing past him as the BMW came to a stop. She watched as the passenger exited, following Griffin toward the lobby doors. The man was tall, wearing dark slacks and a sport coat, his pale blue shirt open at the collar. Mirrored sunglasses masked his square face and reminded her of the guard from the Smithsonian. The BMW pulled up the street slightly, just out of sight, with only its back bumper in view. She didn’t like the way this looked, the driver waiting, ready for takeoff. Quiet area, few witnesses…

The man approached the lobby doors, his hand poised inside his jacket, and she decided that if this was a hit, if he did have a gun, he could easily take out Griffin, then her and the doorman, who paid them little attention. Time for a distraction, she decided, loosening the belt on her robe, allowing the terry to fly open, revealing her black underwear and bra as she walked. “Darling?” she called out, loud enough for the man to hear. “Is that you?”

All at once, the doorman, Griffin, and the man tailing him turned her way, and she put a little extra swing into her step to make sure her robe stayed open. “Darling?” she called again, seeing the man reaching into his coat toward the small of his back. “I seem to have left my
key
somewhere.”

The man following Griffin hesitated, and she caught a glimpse of the butt of his gun in his waistband. Griffin turned on his heel, but stopped as the lobby door opened, and out stepped the woman with the little towheaded toddler, who fled from his mother’s arms, laughing as he ran right between the suspect and Griffin. His mother ran after him. “
Gianni! Gianni!
” she called out. “
Vieni a me subito!
”

Sydney’s heart thudded at the sound of the child’s laughter. Directly in the line of fire. Griffin stepped toward the man, stopped when he saw the boy, no doubt worried about the same thing. And what could she do, armed with nothing but a bottle of
prosecco
? Maybe she could throw it at him, distract him enough to give Griffin a shot—assuming Griffin was armed. Instead, she strode up to the man,
shouting, “You’re late!” He looked at her in confusion, his gaze flicking down to her exposed skin. “You promised to meet me.”

His expression hardened. Dismissed her. He turned away. Again started to draw his weapon. She came up behind him. Grabbed the bottle of
prosecco
in her pocket. Shoved the top of it into his back. Grasped his arm with her free hand, and hoped the Bureau’s reputation extended to this country. “FBI.
Capisce?
”

He froze. The mother ran up, grabbed her child, then retreated back into the hotel, blissfully clueless.

“Reach for that gun,” she said, “and you die.”

“You’re making a mistake,” the man said in English, his accent thick.

“Not as big as yours,” Sydney replied. The understatement of the year, she thought, pressing the
prosecco
harder against his back as Griffin appeared at her side, taking the man’s gun, slipping it into his own waistband. He raised a brow at the sight of the small bottle, but otherwise said nothing, and she dropped it into her pocket, cinched her robe closed, as Griffin placed the man in a discreet wristlock. From the corner of her eye, she saw the driver step into view. He looked as though he was ready to approach, investigate. “What about his friend?”

Griffin looked that direction just as the driver ran back to his car, sped off, wheels screeching across the cobbled drive. “Looks like your friend abandoned you.”

“He’ll be back.”

“But you’ll be gone. In the meantime, walk quietly into the lobby,” Griffin said, with a slight twist to the man’s wrist to ensure compliance. The doorman opened the glass door, let them in. Griffin said something to him in Italian, and Sydney overheard the word
carabinieri
and assumed he was asking that the police be called. That and no doubt something about an office, since the doorman ran up to the desk, and the well-dressed man from behind the counter rushed forward, and ushered them into a room just off the lobby.

Griffin said something to the manager, who nodded, then left them alone. The moment the door closed behind him,
Griffin shoved the man in the chair, drew the gun on him, and told Sydney, “You don’t happen to have a spare pair of handcuffs to go with that lethal weapon, do you?”

She smiled. “Unfortunately, no. Budget cuts have really taken their toll.” She withdrew her sash from her robe. “Will this do?”

“As good as anything.” He handed her the gun, then took the belt. “At least tell me you caught a license number on that car?”

“Sorry. I was a bit occupied.”

“Probably stolen anyway.” He walked behind the suspect, pulling his hands behind him, tying them to the back of the chair with the sash. “My suggestion? Be very careful. The lady has no qualms about blowing your brains out. The wine goes to her head pretty quickly.” Griffin pulled the belt tight, asking, “Who are you, and who do you work for?”

The man said nothing.

Griffin didn’t bother questioning him further. He searched his pockets, found no ID and no more weapons. Five minutes later there was a knock at the door, and someone called out Griffin’s name. He opened the door to four men.

They stepped into the room, remained near the door, conversing quietly in Italian, every now and then glancing either at the prisoner or at Sydney, who had taken up residence in an armchair, where she could keep watch on the man. Earlier the man seemed calm, unruffled over his capture. But the longer the group spoke, each time they glanced his way, he seemed more disturbed. A sheen of sweat soon covered his brow and upper lip, his jaw clenched, and a vein in his temple seemed ready to burst. When two of the men walked over, switching out Sydney’s sash for handcuffs, then each taking one of his arms to escort him out, his face paled. So be it, she thought as they left.

And no sooner had they stepped out the door, when a tall, stocky man walked in after them. She recognized Tex from Griffin’s office in D.C. He gave her an appreciative glance, smiled in greeting, then said to Griffin, “Why is it I never get the pretty girls in bathrobes on my assignments?”

“Luck of the draw. But watch yourself. She’s dangerous.”

“And,” Sydney said, “she’d like to go up to her room to change. Or is that too much to ask?”

“We’ll walk you up,” Griffin said. “Your hotel has been compromised.”

“Which means what?”

“You won’t be staying here tonight. It’s not safe.”

Tex held the door, and she cinched her robe even tighter, feeling very conspicuous as the two of them walked her across the lobby to the elevator. “One minor problem. No key.”

Griffin left her and Tex at the elevator, walked up to the manager, whispered something in his ear, nodded toward Sydney, and the man went behind the long registration desk to retrieve a duplicate key.

Once up in her room, she gathered her clothes and stepped into the bathroom to change. When she came out, the men were standing before the window, and she heard Tex say, “She really took him down with a bottle of
prosecco
from the minibar? You know, Griff, we could use her—”

“She’s not available.”

“But—”

Whatever Griffin interjected was in Italian, and judging from the tone of his voice as he argued with Tex, not a subject he wanted to discuss, a fact confirmed when Griffin walked out onto the balcony, apparently frustrated with whatever Tex was telling him.

“Is something wrong?” she asked Tex, sitting down to put on her shoes.

“Guess that depends on your point of view. Mine’s thinking you might be perfect for the party at the Adami villa. Lots of dignitaries, and you’d look a damned sight better on my arm than he will, no matter what his disguise, since my so-called date never made her flight out here.”

“A party? You’re kidding, right?”

“We’re using the party as a cover to get me in the door. Have a—”

Griffin stepped back in the room. “Enough!”

“If she’s going, she has a right to know what she’s getting into.”

“And who said she’s going?”

“You have a better idea? The lodge aside, I’m supposed to be a rich American, looking to buy art. We all know rich Americans like to have beautiful women on their arms. And her presence will take notice off of me.”

“It’s too damned dangerous. I don’t want her involved.”

“Maybe,” Sydney said, “someone should ask me?”

“Much like you asked if it was okay to hop a plane to Italy, involve yourself in an investigation you shouldn’t have involved yourself in?”

“And it’s a damned good thing I did,” she said, grabbing the folder of university papers and shoving them in the small suitcase. She zipped it shut. “Or they’d be scraping your sorry ass off the pavement.”

Tex laughed, until he saw her pick up the bag, then her purse, and walk to the door. “You’re not going to let her take off, Griff.”

“Actually, I am, because I can guarantee that once she finds out this covert operation isn’t sanctioned by the government, and that she could very well jeopardize her position with the Bureau, she’ll refuse.”

Sydney stopped cold, thinking about what Carillo had told her about this team Griffin was working on. She’d been tired, wasn’t making the connection until now. “ATLAS is black ops, not special ops?” she said, eyeing them both.

Griffin crossed the room, stood face-to-face with her. “How do you know about ATLAS?”

Anger surged through her. “Tasha died for some black op gone awry? Find another guinea pig, because whatever game you’re playing at isn’t one I want in on.”

“Since you’re not in on it, no worries.”

Tex put his hand on the door to prevent her leaving. “Sounds like she does want in on it, Griff. Or she wouldn’t be protesting so much.”

“Let her go, Tex.”

But Tex didn’t move. “Can I apologize for whatever he did?”

“Or what he didn’t do?” she said, her hand still on the
door, thinking about how Griffin had kept Tasha’s death from her.

“I’ll admit he isn’t the easiest man to work with.”

“Work with?” She glanced over at Griffin, who stood there with his arms crossed, glaring at them both. “I didn’t even know who the hell he works for until about an hour ago, and even then, I wasn’t sure. What I do know is that from the moment my plane touched down in Quantico, he’s managed to—”

“Be a royal pain in the ass?”

“Something like that.”

“He’s a tortured soul.”

“Tell him to get in line. A few of us have the market cornered.”

Tex gave her an empathetic smile. “That we do, darlin’. But we get on with our lives. So, give us a chance to convince you to change your mind?”

“You heard her, Tex. She doesn’t want any part of this.”

Tex ignored Griffin, saying, “I’d really like to plant this device in that bastard’s office. You’re perfect for my cover. You studied art, you know the classics, and I’m allegedly there to buy a painting.”