The Bone Chamber

20

Tunisia

Marc and Lisette hiked through a tangle of narrow streets and back alleys to where Rafiq, their other operative, waited by a jeep parked outside the Medina. They drove toward the Sahara compound. Considering the place was supposed to be used strictly for charity, shipping food and first aid to needy countries, why all the cement barricades? They dropped Marc off around the corner from where the compound and security offices were located at the edge of the desert. Marc watched as Lisette draped a colorful scarf over her dark hair, just before Rafiq drove the jeep up to the guardhouse. The guard stepped out of his hut, approached the vehicle, looked into the window. When Lisette exited from the passenger side, bringing a map with her and spreading it out on the hood of the car, Marc made his approach, crouching low behind the stone wall barrier.

He didn’t like making broad-daylight entries, but time was of the essence. As he arrived at the guard’s station, keeping low behind the cement barricade that ran the length of the road, he could hear Lisette’s voice, her halting use of her native French, designed not only to perfect her role as a lost Italian tourist, but as a delaying tactic to give Marc the opportunity to get into the guardhouse and search for the security schedule they’d need. The moment he heard her ask how they could find the Sahara Douz Festival-his cue that it was safe-he moved to the doorway.

Unfortunately, the guard had locked the door, which meant time wasted while Marc took out the necessary equipment from his bag, and hacked the electric door code. Finally the lock disengaged and the door opened. The room was the size of a walk-in closet, with a desk, chair, and closed-circuit TV monitor, showing not only the entrance and exit, but also the remote airstrip and the warehouse that was the focus of their op. He took a moment to view it, determining the best position to set up. Each screen flashed to a new view after several seconds. Intel always appreciated, he thought, resuming his search for the schedule of deliveries.

Of course the damned schedule wasn’t anywhere easy, or out in the open, and it was damned hard to keep so low in such a small confined space that was surrounded by windows on all sides, even if the glass was mirrored one-way, not allowing anyone from the exterior to see readily within. Outside, Lisette and Rafiq continued their pretended bickering over the direction they were allegedly trying to travel for the festival. While they kept the guard distracted, Marc eyed the room, knowing that the security schedule was probably in the locked cabinet. Just in case, though, he tried the desk drawer, hoping the guard was the lazy sort.

He wasn’t.

The drawer was empty.

The cabinet was secured with a standard key lock, and Marc took a pick from his tool bag and slid it into the keyhole, teasing it until the tumblers clicked. He pulled open the door, reached in, just as the phone rang.

He froze. Listened. Heard the guard excuse himself as the phone continued its ringing.

Marc grabbed the clipboard, shut the cabinet door, then scrambled beneath the metal desk, just as the guard stepped up to the door, punched his code in the lock. Marc slid a knife from his boot as the door opened.

From his position, he could see the reflection of the security monitor in the glass from the window. One camera was apparently positioned directly outside, and in it he saw Lisette glance at Rafiq, who was slowly reaching for the gun hidden in his waistband. Lisette gave the slightest shake of her head. Gunshots would draw immediate attention and jeopardize the entire operation, especially if there was a dead guard on the ground.

Think of something, he willed. And then, in the monitor, he saw Lisette walk up to the guard shack, calling out, “Allo?”

The guard turned toward her and said, “Un moment, s’il vous plait.”

“I’m not sure,” she said loudly, “but I think my husband is having a heart attack.”

The guard looked out the window, saw Rafiq clutching his chest. He hesitated, but the phone continued ringing. “I must get this,” he said, signing his own death sentence, because there was no way the guard could answer the phone unless he came to this side of the desk.

Rome

From just up the street where Sydney sat with Dumas and the professor, Griffin had parked where he could watch them. Twice he’d seen the small gray car pass slowly, then disappear around the bend. It was the same car he’d seen parked up the road from the ambassador’s residence, and it began following Dumas’s vehicle the moment it took off from the academy. He called Giustino to run the vehicle’s license plate through the carabinieri database.

“The plate is, how do you say? Cold?”

“Not a good sign,” Griffin said.

“What is happening?” he heard Giustino say into his earpiece.

“Nothing. The car’s left the area.” He glanced at Dumas, saw him shaking his head, handing something back to the professor.

“Perhaps the occupants of your vehicle were only sent to follow the professor and report her whereabouts?”

“I’d believe that, except for what happened when someone from Adami’s crew followed me the other day, and the fact the professor has what they no doubt want.”

“And Monsignore Dumas is with them.”

Another fact that bothered Griffin. Why was Dumas there?

“Where did you say you followed them to?” Giustino asked.

Griffin had parked his SIP van on the other side of the equestrian Garibaldi statue, as though taking a noon break. Consequently he had an excellent view of the wall across the street, where Dumas sat with Fitzpatrick and the professor. Only in Rome would it be possible to enjoy a day outdoors under the November sun. “To the Piazza Garibaldi.”

There was silence on the other end.

“What do you make of the location?” Griffin asked.

“I am hoping to understand why Dumas would choose that locale. Perhaps he thinks Adami would not dare to send a car in to do a hit in full view of the public.”

“I think he underestimates Adami. His men are good, they’ll utilize any weakness to their advantage. You know the place, what would that weakness be?” he asked, eyeing the piazza, trying to determine it for himself. The area began filling with tourists and locals alike, enjoying the view, or strolling through the park.

“Since I do not have the advantage of your view, it would be difficult to say.”

“For Christ’s sake, tell me what you know about the place, besides there being too many tourists and a thousand busts lining the street, therefore a thousand places to hide.”

“Of course! It is almost mezzogiorno.”

“Thank you. Something more besides it being noon.”

“No. Every day at noon, there is a cannon blast.”

“Damn it,” he said, glancing at his watch. So much for worrying about Dumas and any cover he might be using. He got back in the van, hit the gas, and drove around the statue, as close to the wall as he could, his wheels screeching as he skidded to a stop. Two girls close to the street screamed. Dumas and the two women looked up in alarm, and Griffin leaned over, threw open the door. “Get in!” he shouted.

Fitzpatrick rose, had the sense to drag the professor with her. “It’s Griffin. Hurry.”

Francesca looked shaken, glanced back toward the priest, who finally roused himself and started toward the van. Griffin looked up, saw the gray car speeding toward them. “Move!”

Fitzpatrick opened the side door, shoved the woman in. She followed after her, and Dumas hustled into the front seat, just as a tremendous blast shattered the November air. The cannon.

“Get down!” Griffin shouted.

The gray car raced toward them, and Griffin saw a gun come out the open passenger window. He slammed the throttle, the van lurched forward. He heard the first shot, then the peal of bells from every nearby tower. The perfect cover for a shooting.

He glanced in his mirror, saw the car skid as it rounded the Garibaldi statue after them. As the mounted carabinieri spurred their horses, the crowd was just becoming aware that something was amiss, that there was more than just the bells tolling the hour.

Griffin stabbed the gas, careened around the hairpin turns down the hill. The gray car was still on them. He made a diversionary cross of the Tiber River on the Principe Amedeo Bridge. Their only hope was to lose the car in the maze of Renaissance streets.

Tunisia

Marc heard the guard’s footsteps as he closed in on the hiding place beneath the desk. Kill or be killed. He braced his knife on his thigh, heard the phone ringing, the damned phone that was likely to ruin an entire operation. Unless Rafiq or Lisette could figure something out-the heart attack scenario wasn’t flying. He heard Lisette calling out that her husband needed help. The faltering footstep of the guard, weighing duty over honor.

And then Marc’s gaze caught on the phone cord draped down the side of the desk…

Hell. How’d he not think of that?

He reached behind him, unplugged the damned phone. Silence. The guard stopped midstep, mumbled something, then turned back the way he’d come. Through the one-way glass, Marc could see Lisette hovering over Rafiq, playing the panicked helpless woman to the hilt. The guard came out, and together they assisted Rafiq to the passenger side of the car, Marc’s cue to leave once he photographed the schedule and returned it to the cabinet.

And he was just about to make his exit when he saw something in the monitor, the top left quarter that flashed on the interior of a warehouse on the premises. It was there and gone, its image replaced by another location, and he had to wait until it cycled back to the warehouse to see if he’d really seen what he’d thought was there.

Or was it his imagination?

Definitely not his imagination. The very sight drenched him with sweat. That was the warehouse they were blowing to smithereens. It took him a moment to rouse himself, realize that nothing was happening if he didn’t get his ass out of there so they could figure out what to do next.

But as he slipped out of the guard shack, then on past the cement barricade, he couldn’t shake the image from his mind.

That of a man heaped on a pallet, his face bloodied, his tux torn and dirty, his cowboy boots covered in mud.

Tex?

But he was supposed to be dead. Griffin had identified him at the morgue.

No, he realized. Griffin had made an identification of a man whose face had been removed…