Map of Bones (45 page)

Gray asked to see the rings himself. She was right. Reverse images of the papal seal. “And Thomas means ‘twin,’” Gray mumbled, staring up at the cardinal. He remembered Spera’s comment about how only a small group within the Vatican had hired the Guild. Gray now knew which group.

“You’re a part of the Thomas Church,” he said. “That’s why you’ve been trying to stop the Court in secret.”

Spera stared for a long breath, then slowly nodded. “Our group has been an accepted, if not promoted, part of the Apostolic Church. Despite beliefs to the contrary, the Church is not beyond science or research. Catholic universities, hospitals, and research facilities advocate forward thinking, new concepts and ideas. And yes, a certain part is steadfast and slow to respond, but it also contains members who do challenge and keep the Church malleable. That is a role we still serve.”

“And what about in the past?” Gray asked. “This ancient society of alchemists we’re hunting? The clues we’ve been following?”

Cardinal Spera shook his head. “The Thomas Church of today is not the same as before. That church vanished during the French papacy, disappearing along with the Knights Templar. Mortality, conflict, and secrecy separated it even further, leaving only shadows and rumors. The true fate of that Gnostic church and its ancient lineage remains unknown to us.”

“So you’re as in the dark about all this as we are,” Monk said.

“I’m afraid so. Except we knew that the old church existed. It was not mythology.”

“So did the Dragon Court,” Gray said.

“Yes. But we’ve sought to preserve the mystery, trusting in the wisdom of our forefathers, believing it was hidden for a reason and that such knowledge would reveal itself when the time was right. The Dragon Court, on the other hand, has sought to uncover its secrets through bloodshed, corruption, and torture, seeking nothing more than a power to dominate and rule all. We’ve opposed them for generations.”

“And now they are so close,” Gray said.

“And they have the gold key,” Rachel reminded them, shaking her head.

Gray rubbed his face in exhaustion. He had handed it over himself. He’d needed the key to convince Raoul of Seichan’s renewed loyalty. It had been a gamble certainly, but so had the whole rescue plan. Raoul was supposed to have been captured or killed at the castle—but the bastard had escaped.

Gray stared at Rachel. Feeling guilty, he wanted to say something, to explain everything, but he was saved as the pilot came over the radio.

“You all might want to secure your seatbelts. We’re coming up onto some bumpy weather ahead.”

Lightning flashed across the clouds below.

Thunderclouds stacked higher ahead, lit up momentarily by the crackling bolts, then vanishing into darkness. They were flying into the teeth of a real storm.

5:12
A
.
M
.
AVIGNON, FRANCE

V
IGOR WALKED
along the stone lip that circled the glass floor—and its etched labyrinth. He had been studying it for a full minute in silence, fascinated by the mystery here.

“Notice how it’s not truly a maze,” he finally said. “No blind corners or dead ends. It’s just one long, continuous, sinuous path. You can find this exact same maze done in blue and white stones at the Chartres Cathedral outside Paris.”

“But what’s it doing down here?” Kat asked. “And why did you call it the Labyrinth of Daedalus?”

“The Chartres labyrinth went by many names. One was
le Dedale
. Or ‘The Daedalus.’ Named after the mythological architect who constructed the maze for King Minos of Crete. The labyrinth was the home of the Minotaur, a bull-like beast that the warrior Theseus eventually defeated.”

“But why put such a maze inside the Chartres cathedral?”

“It wasn’t just Chartres. During the height of church-building in the thirteenth century, when Gothic construction was at its most ardent, different mazes were placed in many cathedrals. Amiens, Rheims, Arras, Auxerre…all had mazes as you entered their naves. But centuries later the Church destroyed them all, deeming them pagan artifacts, except for the one at Chartres.”

“Why spare Chartres?”

Vigor shook his head. “That cathedral has always been the exception to the rule. Its roots in fact are pagan, built atop the Grotte des Druides, a famous pagan pilgrimage site. And to this day, unlike any other cathedral, not a single king, pope, or famous personage is buried beneath its stones.”

“But that doesn’t answer why the maze was repeated down here,” Kat said.

“I can imagine a few explanations. First, the Chartres maze was based on a drawing from a second-century Greek text of alchemy. Fitting symbol for our lost alchemists. But the labyrinth at Chartres was also representative of journeying from this world to paradise. Worshippers in Chartres would crawl on hands and knees along this tortuous path from the outside until they reached the center rosette, representing symbolically a pilgrimage from here to Jerusalem, or from this world to the next. Hence the maze’s other names.
Le Chemin de Jerusalem
. ‘The Road to Jerusalem.’ Or
le Chemin du Paradis
. ‘The Road to Paradise.’ It was a spiritual journey.”

“Do you think it’s hinting that we must make this journey ourselves, follow the alchemists to solve their last great mystery?”

“Exactly.”

“But how do we do that?”

Vigor shook his head. He had an idea, but he needed more time to think about it. Kat seemed to recognize that he was not speaking freely, but she respected him enough and didn’t press.

Instead, she checked her watch.

“We should head back up. See if Gray has attempted to make any contact.”

Vigor nodded. He stared back one more time, pointed his flashlight across the space. It reflected off the glass surfaces: the floor and the embedded plates in the wall. He pointed it up. More reflections glittered, jeweled ornaments in a giant tree of knowledge.

There was an answer here.

He needed to find it before it was too late.

5:28
A
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M
.
OVER FRANCE

W
HY AREN'T
they answering?

Gray sat with the jet’s air-phone fixed to his ear. He was trying to raise Kat. But so far with no luck. Maybe it was the storm, interfering with the signal. The plane bucked and rolled through spats of lightning and sonorous rumbles of thunder.

He sat near the back of the cabin for privacy. The others, strapped to their seats, were still deep in discussion.

Only Rachel glanced back periodically, concerned to hear about her uncle. But maybe it was more. Since their rescue in Lausanne, she’d never been more than a step away from him. She still refused to discuss in detail what had happened at the castle. A haunted quality hung about her. And since then, it was as if she sought some solidity from him. Not to cling to—that wasn’t her. It was more simple reassurance, grounding herself in the moment. No words were needed.

And while Monk had also been severely traumatized, Gray knew they’d eventually talk. They were soldiers-in-arms, best friends. They would work through it.

But Gray didn’t have that patience with Rachel. A part of him wanted an immediate solution and answer to what troubled her. Any attempt to discuss what had happened at Lausanne had so far been rebuffed, gently but firmly. Still, he read the pain in her eyes. And as much as his heart ached, all he could do was stand beside her, wait until she was ready to speak.

At his ear, the phone’s incessant ring finally stopped as the other line was picked up. “Bryant here.”

Thank God. Gray sat straighter. “Kat, it’s Gray.”

The others in the cabin turned toward him.

“We have Rachel and Monk,” he said. “How is everything over there?”

Kat’s voice, usually so stoic, rang with relief. “We’re fine. We’ve found the secret entry.” She went on to briefly explain all they’d discovered. Occasionally the transmission broke up and he missed a word here and there, due to the storm.

Gray noted Rachel’s intense stare at him and nodded his head to her. Her uncle was fine.

She closed her eyes in gratitude and sank back to her seat.

Once Kat was finished, Gray gave a short account of events in Lausanne. “Barring any delay from the storm, we’ll be landing at Avignon Caumont Airport in about thirty minutes. But we don’t have much lead time on the Court. Maybe half an hour if we’re lucky.”

Seichan had given them intel on the Court’s means of transportation. Raoul had a pair of planes stored in a small airfield half an hour outside of Lausanne. Calculating the airspeed of the Court’s planes, Gray knew they had a small lead on the Court. One he meant to keep.

“With all teammates secure again,” Gray told Kat, “I’m going to break the silence with central command. Contact Director Crowe. I’ll have him coordinate ground support with the local authorities. I’ll call again as soon as we land. In the meantime, watch your back.”

“Roger that, Commander. We’ll be waiting for you.”

Gray hung up. He dialed the access number to Sigma command. It rang through a series of scrambled switchboards and finally connected.

“Logan Gregory.”

“Dr. Gregory, it’s Commander Pierce.”

“Commander—” The irritation rang in the one word.

Gray cut off an official scolding for his lack of communication. “I must speak to Painter Crowe immediately.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible, Commander. It’s nearly midnight here. The director left command about five hours ago. But no one knows where he went.” Aggravation clipped his words again, even harder-edged than his irritation at Gray.

At least Gray understood the man’s frustration. What was the director doing leaving central command at a time like this?

“He may have gone over to DARPA, to coordinate with Dr. McKnight,” Logan continued. “But I’m still ops leader for this mission. I want a full debriefing on your whereabouts.”

Gray suddenly felt uncomfortable speaking. Where had Painter Crowe gone? Or was he even gone? Ice chilled through him. Was Gregory blocking him from reaching the director? Somewhere there was a leak at Sigma. Who could he believe?

He weighed the odds—and did the only thing he could. Perhaps it was rash, but he had to go with his gut.

He hung up the phone, disconnecting the line.

He couldn’t risk it.

He had a jump on Dragon Court. He wouldn’t give it away.

5:35
A
.
M
.

E
IGHTY AIR
miles away, Raoul listened to his contact’s report over his plane’s radio. A grin slowly spread. “And they’re still in the Pope’s Palace?”

“Yes, sir,” his spy said.

“And you know where they are inside.”

“Yes, sir.”

Raoul had called from his castle upon learning of Avignon. He had coordinated with some local talent on the ground in Marseilles. They had been sent to Avignon to hunt down the two operatives: the monsignor and that Sigma bitch who had speared his hand. They had been successful.

Raoul checked the plane’s clock. They would be landing in forty-four minutes.

“We can take them out anytime,” his spy said.

Raoul saw no need to delay. “Do it.”

5:39
A
.
M
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AVIGNON, FRANCE

K
AT’S LIFE
was saved by a penny.

Standing beside the firepit, she had been using the coin to pry open the battery compartment on her penlight. It flipped out of her fingers and to her toes. She bent to pick it up.

The crack of the pistol coincided with a shatter of stone from the wall beside her head.

Sniper.

Still bent over, Kat shoulder-rolled to the floor, pulling out her holstered Glock. She landed on her back and fired between her knees toward the dark doorway where the shots had come from.

She shot four times, a splay of fire to cover all angles.

She heard a satisfying grunt and the clatter of a gun to stone. Something heavy followed with a thud.

Rolling across the floor, she reached Vigor. The monsignor crouched near the top of the firepit tunnel. She handed him her gun. “Down,” she ordered. “Shoot anybody that comes into view.”

“What about you?”

“No, don’t shoot me.”

“I mean where are you going?”

“Hunting.” Kat had already extinguished their flashlights. She unhooked her night-vision goggles and pulled them over her eyes. “There might be more.” She freed a long steel blade from her belt.

With Vigor tucked down his hole, Kat moved to the door and checked the passage. The world was all shades of green. Even the blood. It was the only movement in the hallway, spreading in a pool from the prone body.

She sidled up to the man dressed in camouflage gear.

Mercenary.

Her shot had been lucky, clipping the man through the throat. She didn’t bother checking for a pulse. She grabbed his gun and crammed it into her own holster.

Staying low, she worked from passage to hall to room, circling the kitchen area. If there were any others, they’d be near. The aborted gunplay would’ve sent them into hiding. Foolish. They placed too much faith in firepower, counting on the sniper to do the work for them.

Kat worked the circuit efficiently. She came across no one.

Right.

She reached behind to the side pocket of her pack and removed the heavy plastic-wrapped package. She broke the seal with her thumb and lowered her hand to her hip.

Twisting around a corner, she stepped into the single hallway that funneled back to the kitchen. She stood taller and strode confidently, marching ahead.

Bait.

She balanced the blade in her right hand. Her left emptied the contents of the package across the floor behind her.

Rubberized ball bearings, coated with NPL Super Black.

Invisible to night-vision.

They littered the floor behind her, bouncing and rolling silently.

She headed to the kitchen, her back to the bulk of the palace. She didn’t hear the second man’s approach, but she heard his tumbled step behind her.

Dropping and twisting, she pivoted on a knee and threw her dagger with all the strength of her shoulder and skill of her wrist. It flew with deadly accuracy, piercing straight through the man’s mouth, open in surprise as his right heel slipped on one of the rubber bearings. His gun went off, the shot high, digging into the timbered rafters.