Map of Bones (24 page)

No matter the history, Gray was sure the Dragon Court’s device had somehow tapped into the power in the m-state amalgam. Perhaps the tainting of the Communion wafers was only a way to test the breadth and range of that power. But what was the primary use for such a power? A tool, a weapon?

Gray mulled over the indecipherable codex of chemicals, one hidden for centuries, left behind as a series of clues to a possible storehouse of ancient power.

An indecipherable codex…

About to give up, the answer came to him, sudden and sharp, a pain behind the eyes.

Not a codex.

“It’s a
key,
” he mumbled aloud, knowing it to be true. He faced the others. “The amalgam is an indecipherable chemical key, impossible to duplicate. Within its unique chemistry must be the power to unlock the location of the tomb of the fourth Magi.”

Vigor started to speak, but Gray held him off with a hand.

“The Dragon Court knows how to ignite that power, to turn that key on. But where’s the lock? Not in Cologne. The Dragon Court failed there. But they must have a second-best guess. The answer is here. In this fresco.”

He stared around the group.

“We’ve got to solve this,” he said. He turned and pointed to the fresco. “Moses is striking a rock. Altars are usually made of stone. Does that mean anything? Are we supposed to go out to the Sinai desert and search for Moses’s stone?”

“No,” Vigor said, stirring out of the fog of defeat. He reached and touched the painted rock. “Remember the layers of symbolism in the riddle. This is not
Moses
’s stone. At least not his alone. The fresco is actually titled ‘Moses-Peter Striking the Rock.’”

Gray frowned. “Why two names? Moses and Peter?”

“Throughout the catacombs, Saint Peter’s image was often superimposed upon Moses’s acts. It was a way of glorifying the apostle.”

Rachel looked closer at the painted face. “If this is Saint Peter’s rock…?”

“‘Rock’ in Greek is
petros
,” Vigor said. “This is why the apostle Simon Bar-Jona took the name Peter, eventually Saint Peter. From Christ’s words, ‘You are Peter, and on this rock I will build my Church.’”

Gray attempted to put this together. “Are you suggesting that the altar named in the riddle is the altar inside St. Peter’s Basilica?”

Rachel suddenly twisted around. “No. We’ve got the symbolism backward. In the stanza, the word
altar
is used, but the painting replaces it with the word
rock
. It’s not an altar we’re looking for, it’s a rock.”

“Great,” Monk said. “That really narrows our search parameters.”

“It does,” Rachel said. “My uncle quoted the most significant biblical passage that connects Saint Peter to a rock. Peter would be the
rock
upon which the Church would be built. Remember where we are now. In a crypt.” She tapped the stone on the fresco. “A rock underground.”

Rachel faced them all, her eyes so excited they almost glowed in the dark. “What site was St. Peter’s Basilica built atop? What
rock
is buried under the foundations of the church?”

Gray answered, eyes widening. “Saint Peter’s tomb.”

“The Rock of the Church,” Vigor echoed.

Gray sensed the truth. The bones were the key. The tomb was the lock.

Rachel nodded. “That’s where the Dragon Court will be heading next. We should contact Cardinal Spera immediately.”

“Oh no…” Vigor stiffened.

“What’s wrong?” Gray asked.

“Tonight…at dusk…” Vigor checked his watch, his face ashen. He turned and headed away. “We must hurry.”

Gray followed with the others. “What?”

“A memorial service for the tragedy in Cologne. The mass is scheduled for sunset. Thousands will be in attendance, including the pope.”

Gray suddenly realized what Vigor feared. He pictured the massacre in the cathedral in Cologne. All eyes would be turned away from the Scavi, the necropolis below St. Peter’s Basilica, where the tomb of the apostle had been excavated.

The Rock of the Church.

If the Dragon Court ignited the Magi bones down there…

He imagined the crowds packed inside the church, massed outside on the square.

Oh God.

JULY 25, 8:55
P
.
M
.
ROME, ITALY

T
HE SUMMER
day ran long.

Dusk was just settling over the Appian Way as Gray climbed out of the catacombs. He shaded his eyes with a hand. After the gloom of the catacombs, the slanting rays of the setting sun glared.

The caretaker, Giuseppe, held the door for the exiting group, then closed it behind him, locking it. “Is everything all right, Monsignor?” The old man must have noted the strain in them as they all piled out through the doorway.

Vigor nodded. “I just need to make a phone call.”

Gray handed Vigor his sat-phone. The Vatican needed to be alerted and the alarm raised. Gray knew the monsignor was the best person to reach someone in authority over there.

A step away, Rachel already had her cell phone out, dialing her station house.

A crack of a bullet stopped them all. It struck the flint paving of the courtyard, sparking brightly in the descending gloom.

Gray responded immediately, half surprised, half not.

“Go!” he yelled, and pointed to the caretaker’s cottage that flanked one side of the courtyard. Giuseppe had left the door to his home open.

They bolted toward the shelter. Gray helped the old caretaker, supporting him, with Rachel on his other side.

Before they could reach the cottage, the doorway exploded with a gout of flame, throwing them all back. Gray tumbled in a pile with Giuseppe and Rachel. The rigged door, blown off its hinges, skittered across the paving stones. Glass shattered across the courtyard.

Gray dropped to a knee, sheltering Rachel and the caretaker. Kat covered Vigor in the same manner. Gray had his pistol out, pointing, but he had no target. No cloaked figures came running.

The surrounding landscape of vineyards and umbrella pines lay steeped in shadows and gloom. Silent.

“Monk,” Gray said.

His partner already had his shotgun out. He peered through the night-vision scope fixed to the top of the barrel.

“I can’t pick anything out,” Monk said.

A phone rang. All eyes flicked to Vigor. He crouched with Gray’s satellite phone. It rang again in his hands.

Gray motioned for him to answer it.

Vigor obeyed, raising the sat-phone to his ear.

“Pronto,”
he said. He listened for a moment, then lowered and held out the phone toward Gray. “It’s for you.”

Gray knew they had been purposefully pinned down. No further shots were fired at them. Why? He took the phone.

Before he could speak, a voice greeted him. “Hello, Commander Pierce.”

“Seichan.”

“I see you received my message from Sigma command.”

Seichan had somehow tracked them here, followed them and set up the ambush. And he knew the reason. “The riddle…”

“From the frantic way you and your friends vacated the catacomb, I can only assume you solved the mystery.”

Gray remained silent.

“Raoul didn’t wish to share his knowledge either,” Seichan said calmly. “It seems the Dragon Court wants to keep the Guild at the sidelines, only playing defensive. That won’t do. So if you’d be so kind as to share what you’ve learned, I’ll let you all live.”

Gray covered the phone’s receiver. “Monk?”

“Still nothing, Commander,” he whispered back.

Seichan had taken up a sniping position with a clear view of the courtyard. The vineyards, trees, and shadowed slopes hid her well. She must have snuck down here while they were in the catacombs, and booby-trapped the cottage, forcing them to stay in the open.

They were at her mercy.

“From your urgency,” Seichan said, “time must be a factor. And I can wait all night, picking you off one at a time until you talk.” To emphasize this, a bullet cracked a stone at his toe, stinging him with shards. “So be a good boy.”

Monk whispered at his side. “She must be using an exhaust-suppression device on her rifle. I didn’t even pick up a flicker out there.”

Trapped, he had no choice but to bargain. “What do you want to know?” he asked, stalling.

“The Dragon Court is moving on a target tonight. And I believe you have discovered where that will be. Tell me and you all go free.”

“How do I know you’ll keep your word?”

“Oh, you don’t. You don’t have much choice either. I thought that was obvious, Gray. May I call you Gray?” She continued, not missing a beat. “As long as I find you useful, I’ll keep you around, but I certainly don’t need
all
of you around. I’ll make an example of your companions if I must.”

Gray had no choice. “Fine. Yes. We solved the goddamn riddle.”

“Where will the Dragon Court strike?”

“At a church,” he bluffed. “Near the Coliseum, there is—”

A whistle sped by his left ear and at the same time a startled cry rose from the caretaker. Gray turned to see the old man clutching his shoulder. Blood oozed between his fingers as he fell to his backside on the stones. Rachel went immediately to his aid.

“Monk, help them,” Gray said, cursing silently.

His teammate had a med pack and the training. Still, Monk hesitated, his shotgun ready, reluctant to give up his search.

Gray waved him over more forcibly. Seichan would not make the mistake of exposing herself. Monk lowered his gun and went to the care-taker’s aid.

“You get one free pass,” Seichan said in his ear. “Another lie and it will cost more than a little blood.”

Gray’s fingers tightened on the phone.

“I have my own intel,” the woman continued. “So I’ll know if your answer makes sense or not.”

Gray sought some way to throw her off track, but the caretaker’s groans made it hard to focus on strategy. And he had no time—and no choice. He had to tell her the truth. She had kept him in the game up until now, and now he had to return the favor. Like it or not, he and the Guild were in bed together. This would have to be settled another time. And for that to happen, they had to live.

“If you’re right about the timetable,” Gray said, “the Dragon Court will assault the Vatican tonight.”

“Where?”

“Below the basilica. At the tomb of Saint Peter.” Gray gave a brief overview of the riddle’s solution as proof of the truth.

“Clever work,” she said. “I knew there was a reason I kept you around. Now if you’d all be so kind as to dispose of all your cellular phones. Toss them into the burning cottage. And no tomfoolery, Commander Gray. Don’t assume I’m ignorant of exactly the number of phones you and your team are carrying.”

Gray obeyed. Kat collected all the phones, then showed each one as she tossed them through the doorway into the growing conflagration.

Except for the phone at Gray’s ear.

“
Arrivederci
for now, Commander Gray.”

The phone suddenly exploded at his ear, ripped from his fingers, shot from afar. His ear rang. Blood ran down his neck.

Gray tensed, waiting for another parting shot. Instead, he heard an engine ignite with a throaty roar, then settle to a rumble. A motorbike. It headed away, staying below the ridgeline. The Dragon Lady was heading out with the information she needed.

Gray turned.

Monk had the caretaker’s shoulder bandaged. “Only a graze. Lucky.”

But Gray knew luck had nothing to do with it. The woman could’ve put a round through any of their eyes.

“How’s your ear?” Monk asked.

Gray shook his head, angry.

Monk came forward anyway. He reached, not particularly gently, and inspected the damage on his ear. “Just a skin lac. Hold still.” He dabbed the wound, then sprayed it from a tiny bottle.

It stung like a son of a bitch.

“Liquid bandage,” Monk explained. “It dries in seconds. Even faster if I blow on it. But I don’t want to get you too excited.”

Behind them, Rachel and Vigor helped the caretaker to his feet. Kat recovered the old man’s shepherd crook. His eyes remained on his cottage. Flames now licked from the shattered windows.

Vigor placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. “
Mi dispiace…
” he apologized.

The man shrugged, his voice surprisingly firm. “I still have my sheep. Houses can be rebuilt.”

“We must reach a phone,” Rachel said softly to Gray. “General Rende and the Vatican have to be alerted.”

Gray knew that cutting their lines of communication had only been a delaying tactic, to buy the Dragon Court and thus the Guild a bit more time. He glanced to the western skies.

The sun was gone. Only a crimson glow marked its passage.

The Dragon Court was surely already on the move.

Gray spoke to the caretaker. “Giuseppe, do you have an automobile?”

The old man slowly nodded. “Around back.” He led the way. Behind the burning cottage stood a stone-shingle detached garage, more a shack. It had no door.

Through the opening, a shape filled the space, covered by a tarp.

Giuseppe waved his crook. “The keys are inside. I filled it with gas last week.”

Monk and Kat went ahead to clear the car. Together they pulled the tarpaulin aside, revealing a classic ’66 Maserati Sebring, black as obsidian. It reminded Gray of the early Ford Mustang fastbacks. Long hood, muscular, meaty tires, bred for speed.

Vigor glanced to Giuseppe.

He shrugged. “My aunt’s car…barely driven.”

Rachel walked toward it in a happy daze.

They quickly climbed inside. Giuseppe agreed to wait for the fire department, continuing his post as caretaker of the catacombs.

Rachel slid into the driver’s seat. She knew the streets of Rome the best. But not all were happy with this choice of driver.

“Monk,” Rachel said as she turned the key and the engine roared.

“What?”

“Maybe you’d better close your eyes.”

9:22
P
.
M
.

A
FTER A
brief stop at a bank of public telephones, Rachel pulled away from the curb. She sped into traffic, earning an irritated beep from an angry driver. What was his problem? A full handspan stretched between her car and the Fiat behind her. Plenty of room…

The Maserati’s headlights speared ahead. Full night had descended. A line of brake lights wound toward the center of the city. She raced around and between the other cars, mere obstacles. She dove into the oncoming-traffic lane at times. The empty stretches on the far side were a shame to waste.

A groan echoed from the backseat.

She sped faster.

No one voiced a real complaint.

Back at the phones, Rachel had attempted to contact General Rende, while her uncle had called Cardinal Spera. Neither had been successful. Both men were at the memorial service, already under way. General Rende was personally overseeing the Carabinieri force that guarded St. Peter’s Square. Cardinal Spera was in attendance at the service. Messages had been left, the alarm raised. But would it be in time?

Everyone was at the memorial mass, only steps from where the Dragon Court would strike. The crowds of people acted as the perfect cover.

“How much longer?” Gray asked from the passenger seat. He had his pack open on his lap and worked rapidly. Too busy with the road, she had no time to see what he was doing.

Rachel sped past Trajan’s Market, the ancient Roman equivalent of a shopping mall. The crumbling semicircular building was set into the Quirinal Hill. It was a good landmark. “Two miles,” she answered Gray.

“With the memorial crowds, we’ll never reach the front entrances,” Vigor warned, leaning forward from the backseat. “We should try for the railway entry into the Vatican. Aim for Via Aurelia along the south wall. We can cross the grounds behind the basilica. Go in the back way.”

Rachel nodded. Already the traffic congested as the flow bottlenecked toward the bridge over the Tiber River.

“Tell me about the excavations under the basilica,” Gray said. “Are there any other entrances to it?”

“No,” Vigor said. “The Scavi region is self-contained. Just under St. Peter’s lies the Sacred Grottoes, accessed through the basilica. Many of the most famous crypts and papal tombs reside there. But in 1939,
sampietrini
workers were digging a tomb site for Pope Pius XI and discovered another layer beneath the Grottoes, a huge necropolis of ancient mausoleums dating back to the first century. It was named simply the
Scavi
, or Excavation.”

“How extensive is the area? What’s the lay of the land?”

“Have you ever been down to the underground city in Seattle?” Vigor asked.

Gray glanced over his shoulder to the monsignor.

“I once went to an archaeological conference there,” Vigor explained. “Beneath modern Seattle lies its past, a Wild West ghost town, where you can see intact shops, streetlamps, wooden walkways. The necropolis is like that, an ancient Roman cemetery buried beneath the Grottoes. Excavated by archaeologists, it’s a maze of gravesites, shrines, and stone streets.”

Rachel finally reached the bridge and fought her way across the Tiber River. Once on the far side, she left the main flow of traffic, circled out, and headed away from St. Peter’s Square. She swung to the south.

After a few serpentine turns, she found herself running alongside the towering Leonine Walls of the Vatican. It was dark here, with few streetlamps.

“Just ahead,” Vigor said, pointing an arm.

The railway spanned the road atop a stone bridge. It was here that the Vatican’s railroad line exited the Holy See and joined Rome’s system of tracks. Popes throughout the century had toured by train, leaving from the Vatican’s own railroad depot within the walls of the papal state.

“Take that turn before the bridge,” Vigor said.

She almost missed it in the dark. Rachel yanked the wheel, fishtailing off the main avenue and onto a gravel service road that climbed steeply. Tires spat rooster tails of gravel as she fought her way to the top. The road hit a dead end at the tracks.

“That way!” Vigor pointed to the left.

There was no street, only a narrow sward of grass, weeds, and chunky rocks that paralleled the railroad tracks. Rachel twisted the wheel, bumped off the service road and onto the side of the tracks.