The Bone Chamber

17

Francesca Santarella stood at the massive windows of her studio, located over the main entrance to the American Academy, watching as the electric iron gate swung slowly inward. Roberto, the gatekeeper, had just phoned to tell her an FBI agent was there to see her, something she assumed was related to the strange package that her friend Alessandra had mailed to her from the States. And though she was tempted to tell Roberto not to admit the woman, she wasn’t sure if she could. After all, FBI was FBI, even if they were slightly out of their jurisdiction.

If only she’d been able to reach Alessandra this morning. But she hadn’t, and then, before she could change her mind about this unexpected visitor, Roberto emerged from his cubbyhole, walked up to the gate to admit the woman, mid-thirties-about her own age-dressed in slacks and a dark blue blazer, with a soft-sided travel bag slung over her shoulder. Pointing up to Francesca’s studio, Roberto escorted the visitor around the massive travertine fountain and led her up the front stairs.

When Francesca heard the footsteps in the hall, she walked over to her desk, closed her laptop computer, then crossed the polished terra cotta tiles to open the door, even before her visitor knocked.

Roberto hovered behind the woman, who flipped open a credential case containing an ID card and a gold shield. Her left hand was bandaged, and there were a few scrapes on her face. “I’m Sydney Fitzpatrick, Special Agent, FBI. And you’re Francesca Santarella?”

“Yes. Come in.” She glanced at Roberto, smiled, and said, “We’ll be fine. Thank you.”

Roberto, ever protective, nodded, then headed back down the stairs as she smiled at the agent. Even though Francesca had never come into contact with a federal agent before, she had no reason to doubt her visitor’s identity. Francesca might be American born and bred, but this was Rome, and during her prolonged stay, Francesca had rubbed elbows with famous scholars, notorious novelists, the embassy crowd-many of whom she suspected were spies-minor royals, even foreign ministers of hostile countries, whom she had guided on special tours of Rome’s ancient monuments. It was all part of what Francesca counted as “Roman experiences.”

Of course that didn’t mean she didn’t examine the ID; she did. And then she asked, “And what brings the FBI all the way to Rome?”

“Alessandra Harden.”

Francesca glanced over toward the package, still sitting on her desk, then back at the agent, stating the obvious. “You’re the person to whom I spoke on the phone this morning…”

“Yes.”

“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 portière 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.”

“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’è?”

“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.