The Bone Chamber Part 20

"Unfortunately, yes. His past attempts to genetically modify the plagues to better control them have failed. We're certain that's why Dr. Zemke was targeted. Her expertise was on genetic engineering."

"You do not believe she's dead? Killed like the others?"

"We have yet to find Dr. Zemke's body, and right now we believe she is worth more to him alive than dead. Her expertise fits with his plan to genetically mutate these plagues and combine his current bioweapons with this new, or rather much older plague, to increase its virulence."

The news worried Marc. They knew Adami intended to create bioweapons, but this was much worse than any of them had dared imagine. "And if he is successful?"

She stared into the cup of tea before looking up at him, her dark eyes reflecting her worry. "Past attempts to weaponize plagues and viruses have been largely unproductive, due to heat and shock from explosives, never mind simple exposure to sun. And any biomatter that survived and found its target in the population was quickly contained, because the disease did not spread fast enough. But if Adami is able to develop this super-plague-genetically engineer it so that it will survive the heat, retain its virulence, in fact make it hypervirulent-he could wipe out whole cities before the world is able to do a thing. Adami is trying to create a hypervirulent, antibiotic-resistant, airborne plague. Airborne pneumonic plague would spread from person to person, and by the time the first fever appeared, it would be too late. Within days, thousands would be dead and the remaining population would be dying. The only answer would be to isolate the city, restrict travel so that no one could leave-hope no one has left-then let the population die out."

"And since he is eliminating all the microbiologists one by one, if we uncover what he has done, we can't control it?"

"That is one of the most frightening aspects about this. By the time the world caught up with what was happening, by the time they even realized the need for ma.s.sive antibiotics-if such measures even worked with this new super-plague he intends to develop-it would be too late. Even more frightening is this: What if Adami's scientists can't control it? If he is effectively eliminating anyone in the free world who has a hope at containing such a threat, and he controls the scientists who have developed this new strain, who will put it back in the bottle once it is released?"

"Then let's hope this information we've gotten about his lab being here in Tunisia is accurate. We can at least eliminate that part of the threat. What is your next step?"

"The warehouse is located near a small private strip at a compound south of here, used by Adami's Tunisia corporation. Should they suspect that we are on to them, they could possibly move their lab and we are back to square one, so whatever we do, we'll have to move quickly. We've had our eye on this place since you called. They're very meticulous about who they let in, turning anyone away who is not on their schedule of deliveries. If we can't figure out a way to get to that schedule and get the proper IDs, we won't be able to pa.s.s the guards into the compound."

"And what is it you need me to do?"

She sipped her tea, then smiled that smile he knew so well. "Break into their security building and get a copy of the schedule, of course."

19.

That old saying of not getting in the car with strangers circled the back of Sydney's mind as Dumas started his car and drove away from the academy. He hadn't exactly convinced the professor to hand over the package, but he had given a good argument for the two of them to accompany him to a very public location away from the amba.s.sador's residence, and they could discuss the matter there. The professor had agreed reluctantly, which meant Sydney had no choice but to remain with them or risk losing sight of the professor's briefcase that now contained the package Alessandra had mailed to her. strangers circled the back of Sydney's mind as Dumas started his car and drove away from the academy. He hadn't exactly convinced the professor to hand over the package, but he had given a good argument for the two of them to accompany him to a very public location away from the amba.s.sador's residence, and they could discuss the matter there. The professor had agreed reluctantly, which meant Sydney had no choice but to remain with them or risk losing sight of the professor's briefcase that now contained the package Alessandra had mailed to her.

Which is why Sydney sat in the back of the car, the better to watch Dumas.

Then again, if something happened, she needed to know where they were, so it was one eye on Dumas, and the other trying to pay attention to her surroundings. As he sped down the street, then slowed for a turn, she saw the street name set into the side of a corner building reading "Via Giacomo Medici." As he turned, another sign read "Via Garibaldi," and then he slowed around a curve, past a ma.s.sive marble edifice with a magnificent series of baroque arches, where water gushed from fountains into a pool. A bride and groom stood in front of the fountain, embracing, while a photographer snapped photos. "Where are we going?" Sydney asked.

Dumas replied, "Pa.s.segiata del Gianicolo. There are enough people there for safety." By the time that Dumas drove through the gates of the Pa.s.segiata del Gianicolo, she'd relaxed slightly. Had they been driving toward some dark, deserted alleyway, she might have reason to be more concerned, but it seemed Dumas was keeping his promise, to take them to somewhere open and public. This was definitely public. Up the hill she caught sight of a carousel with children riding horses, giraffes, and even a Cinderella's pumpkin-coach. Just beyond that, a handful of boys and girls were riding in a cart drawn by a quartet of red Shetland ponies. All the trappings of an amus.e.m.e.nt park, she thought, except for the tall and somber marble busts, who stood like silent sentinels on either side of the street. No one seemed to pay the statues the slightest bit of attention as entire families strolled under the giant plane trees with their dappled trunks, and everywhere one turned there were children, some holding cones of gelato, others clutching the strings of helium balloons.

"What makes this location better than, say, the police station?" Sydney asked, as Dumas circled around a huge statue of a man on horseback. She thought about asking who it memorialized, then caught sight of the cityscape beyond it, one of the most magnificent views of Rome, to rival any postcard she'd ever seen. Too bad she didn't have time to enjoy it.

"Pa.s.segiata del Gianicolo," Dumas said, glancing at her in the rearview mirror, "is a good place to get lost in the crowd, while we attempt to sort this matter out."

Professor Santarella looked out the window, focusing on a group of children cl.u.s.tering around the puppet hut. "We could have stayed at the academy and waited for Mr. Griffin there. After all, we do have a guard and electric gates."

"I told you, Professor. I shall explain all, if you are patient," Dumas said, pulling neatly into a parking s.p.a.ce just vacated by a Ferrari. "We can have a little chat at the wall. It will be my pleasure to buy you a gelato-anything you wish."

Both women decided on coffee, and Sydney got out of the car, feeling rea.s.sured by the presence of so many people milling about, as well as the carabinieri carabinieri mounted on white horses. When she glanced over at the skyline of Rome, visible just over the low stone wall, Father Dumas suggested that Francesca take Sydney to claim a seat there, while he ordered coffee for them from the kiosks. mounted on white horses. When she glanced over at the skyline of Rome, visible just over the low stone wall, Father Dumas suggested that Francesca take Sydney to claim a seat there, while he ordered coffee for them from the kiosks.

The two women walked over to the wall, and Sydney was again taken aback by the magnificent view of the city and the Alban Hills beyond. Francesca rested her briefcase on the wall, then directed Sydney's attention to some of the major points of interest, the cupola of Sant'Andrea della Valle, the rotunda of the Pantheon, and to the right, the white elephantine Vittorio Emanuele monument and the Forum and Palatine beyond.

"And what's that ugly brick building with the tower just down the hill?"

"That's the Regina Coeli-the Queen of Heaven Prison," she said, taking a seat on the wall as Father Dumas walked toward them with their drinks.

On his return, Sydney told Dumas, "I think it's time to get down to business. Why, exactly, are you involved, and what are the Vatican's interests in this matter?"

"The Vatican's interests are to protect that which belongs to the church. My interests are to do what is right."

"You were at the Smithsonian," Sydney said, taking a seat on the wall next to the professor. "I saw you."

"True," he finally replied. "I was at the Smithsonian. Alessandra was supposed to contact me after she'd been there. The last time I spoke with her, she told me that if we missed each other, it meant she'd had to leave in a hurry and that she'd send the information home."

"And do you know what happened to her?" Sydney asked.

"I understand she was murdered."

"Murdered?" the professor said, her face blanching. "Alessandra?"

He looked over at her, his expression filled with compa.s.sion. "I am sorry you had to hear it this way, Professor. But it is as I explained, a dangerous situation, and we had no time."

"Alessandra's murder is what brought me to Rome," Sydney added. "That's why I need to know what it was she sent to you."

Francesca sat on the low wall and hugged the briefcase to her chest. A few tears coursed down her cheeks. "Alessandra wanted this to go to Mr. Griffin."

"And I work with him," Dumas said, handing her his handkerchief.

Sydney looked at him in disbelief. "You? And Griffin?"

"You seem surprised."

"You don't exactly fit the image of a government spook."

"It's complicated," he said with a quick glance at Francesca, as though to say that this was not the place to go into the particulars. "I think it's time we found out what it was that Alessandra died for."

"I'm sorry," Francesca said, dabbing at her eyes. "If Alessandra was murdered as you say, and her last wishes were for this to be given to Mr. Griffin, then that is exactly what I intend to do."

Dumas lowered his voice, said, "I told you she would have mentioned a code in her letter?"

Sydney recalled there being something about a code, and Francesca said, "And once again, I ask how did you know what was in the letter?"

Dumas replied, "Alessandra called me when she couldn't get in touch with Monsieur Griffin. She said she was at the Smithsonian to meet someone and had discovered something. More importantly, she saw someone at the museum, someone she'd seen at one of her father's dinner parties, and for this reason she couldn't send anything to her house. She decided to send whatever it was to her friend. Before she could give me this person's ident.i.ty, she said that she had to go, she was being followed. And that's the last I heard from her."

"And do you know who it was she thought she saw at the Smithsonian?" Sydney asked.

"No. But I flew out there earlier in the week in hopes of retracing her steps." The priest's words answered Sydney's question as to why she'd seen him there. "When my search proved fruitless, I returned to Rome and decided to have a talk with one of the emba.s.sy maids to see if there had been any word on Alessandra's whereabouts. The maid is the one who informed me that Alessandra had been murdered, and that the amba.s.sador was flying back to the United States to claim her body. It was the perfect opportunity to learn if Alessandra had any friends here in Rome. Professor Santarella was one the maid named, and I knew that the American Academy being just across the street from the amba.s.sador's residence, would be the logical place to send whatever it was that Alessandra had found. I also knew that if I could determine the destination of the package so easily, whoever murdered Alessandra could also discover this."

Francesca lowered the handkerchief and looked at the priest. "Surely you aren't trying to say that whoever killed Alessandra would come after me?"

To which Sydney said, "I have to agree with Father Dumas. If he figured out your presence so easily, those watching the amba.s.sador's residence could easily do the same. They already tried to kill Griffin after he made a visit to the amba.s.sador's home. Which means they could very well have noted Father Dumas's arrival there, and may have even followed him to the academy."

"Like it or not," Dumas said, "your life is in danger, certainly as long as you possess whatever it is that Alessandra sent."

Francesca looked at each of them, then lowered her briefcase to her lap.

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, s.h.i.+pping 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 pa.s.senger 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. 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, s.h.i.+pping 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 pa.s.senger 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 d.a.m.ned schedule wasn't anywhere easy, or out in the open, and it was d.a.m.ned hard to keep so low in such a small confined s.p.a.ce that was surrounded by windows on all sides, even if the gla.s.s 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 gla.s.s 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 pa.s.s slowly, then disappear around the bend. It was the same car he'd seen parked up the road from the amba.s.sador'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 carabinieri database. 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 mezzogiorno."

"Thank you. Something more besides it being noon."

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

"d.a.m.n 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 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 pa.s.senger 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 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. 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 d.a.m.ned 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...