Map of Bones (17 page)

She revved her engine.

Uncle Vigor placed a palm on the window. “I submit. I swear. I should never have tried to go against a Verona woman.”

Rachel twisted and locked eyes on Gray. He had remained silent, his face hard. He looked ready to hotwire a car and take off on his own. Had she overplayed her hand? But she sensed she needed to make a strong stand now.

Slowly Gray’s blue eyes shifted with a glacial coolness to her uncle, then back to Rachel. As they faced each other, at that moment, Rachel felt how deeply she wanted to remain, down to the marrow of her bones. Maybe he understood. Gray ever so slowly nodded, a barely perceptible movement.

It was enough of a concession.

She unlocked the doors. The others climbed in.

Monk was last. “I was fine with walking.”

11:05
A
.
M
.

F
ROM THE
backseat, Gray watched Rachel.

She had donned her blue-tinted sunglasses, which made her expression all but unreadable. Her lips, though, were pressed tightly. The muscles of her long neck remained taut as bowstrings as she glanced around for traffic. Despite the fact they had relented, she was still angry.

How had Rachel even known what had been decided between her uncle and himself? Her intuitive capacity was impressive, along with her no-nonsense approach to conflict. But he also remembered her vulnerability in the tower, her eyes meeting his across the gap between the two spires. Yet, even then, among the bullets and flames, she had not crumbled.

For a moment, he caught a glance from Rachel in the rearview mirror, her eyes shaded by her glasses. Still, he knew she was studying him. Too conscious of the scrutiny, he glanced away.

He balled a fist on a knee at his reaction.

Gray had never met a woman who so confounded him. He’d had girlfriends before but nothing that lasted more than six months, and even that relationship had been in high school. He’d been too hotheaded in his youth, then too devoted to his career in the military, first in the Army, then in the Rangers. He never called one place home for longer than six months, so romance was usually no more than a long weekend leave. But in all his dalliances, he had never met a woman who was as frustrating as she was intriguing: a woman who laughed easily over lunch, but who could turn hard as a polished diamond.

He leaned back as the countryside flashed past. They left behind the lake country of Northern Italy and descended the foothills of the Alps. The journey was a short one. Milan lay only a forty-minute drive away.

Gray knew enough about himself to understand part of his attraction to Rachel. He was never fascinated by the middle of the road, the mundane, the undecided. But neither was he a fan of extremes: the brash, the strident, the discordant. He had preferred harmony, a merging of extremes where balance was achieved but uniqueness was not lost.

Basically the Taoist yin-and-yang view of the cosmos.

Even his own career reflected this—the scientist and the soldier. His field of disciplines sought to incorporate biology and physics. He had once described this choice to Painter Crowe. “All chemistry, biology, mathematics boil down to the positive and the negative, the zero and the one, the light and the dark.”

Gray found his attention drifting back to Rachel. Here was this same philosophy in shapely flesh.

He watched Rachel lift a hand and knead a kink from her neck. Her lips were slightly parted as she found the sweet spot and rubbed. He wondered what those lips would taste like.

Before he let this thought drift further, she whipped the Mercedes around a tight curve, throwing Gray against the door frame. She dropped her hand, downshifted, gassed the engine, and took the turn even faster.

Gray hung on. Monk groaned.

Rachel merely wore a ghost of a smile.

Who wouldn’t be fascinated by this woman?

6:07
A
.
M
.
WASHINGTON, D.C.

E
IGHT HOURS
and no word.

Painter paced the length of his office. He had been here since ten o’clock the prior night—as soon as the news reached him about the explosion at the Cologne Cathedral. Since then, information had been filtering in slowly.

Too slowly.

The source of the incineration: bombs filled with black powder, white phosphorus, and the incendiary oil LA-60. It had taken three hours until the fire was contained enough to attempt entry. But the interior was a smoky, toxic shell, burned down to the stone walls and floors. Charred skeletal remains were discovered.

Was it his team?

Another two hours passed until a report came in that the slag remains of weapons had been found with two of the bodies. Unidentified assault rifles. No such weapons had been deployed with his team. So at least some of the bodies had been unknown assailants.

But what about the others?

Satellite surveillance out of NRO proved useless. No eyes in the skies had been sampling the area at that hour. On the ground, business and municipal cameras in the vicinity were still being canvassed. Eyewitnesses were few. One homeless man, sleeping near Cathedral Hill, reported seeing a handful of people fleeing the burning cathedral. But his blood alcohol level was over .15. Stumbling drunk.

All else was quiet. The safe house in Cologne hadn’t been breeched. And so far, not a word from the field.

Nothing.

Painter could not help but fear the worst.

A knock at his half-open door interrupted him.

He turned and waved Logan Gregory into the office. His second-in-command had reams of paper tucked under his arm and dark circles under his eyes. Logan had refused to go home, sticking at his side all night long.

Painter looked on expectantly, hoping for a good word.

Logan shook his head. “Still no hits on their aliases.” They had been checking hourly at airports, train stations, and bus lines.

“Border crossings?”

“Nothing. But the EU is pretty much an open sieve. They could have crossed out of Germany any number of ways.”

“And the Vatican still hasn’t heard anything?”

Another shake of his head. “I spoke to Cardinal Spera just ten minutes ago.”

A chime sounded from his computer. He strode around his desk and tabbed the key to initiate the video-conferencing feature. He faced the plasma screen hanging on the left wall. A pixilating image appeared of his boss, the head of DARPA.

Dr. Sean McKnight was at his office in Arlington. He had abandoned his usual suit jacket and had the cuffs on his shirt rolled up. No tie. He ran a hand through his graying red hair, a familiar tired gesture.

“I got your request,” his boss started.

Painter straightened from where he had been leaning on his desk. Logan had retreated to the door, staying out of camera view. He made a move to step out, to offer privacy, but Painter motioned him to stay. His request wasn’t a matter of security.

Sean shook his head. “I can’t grant it.”

Painter frowned. He had asked for an emergency pass to go to the site himself. To be on hand in Germany during the investigation. There might be clues others missed. His fingers curled into a fist in frustration.

“Logan can oversee things here,” Painter argued. “I can be in constant communication with command.”

Sean’s demeanor hardened. “Painter, you are command now.”

“But—”

“You’re no longer a field operative.”

The pain must have been evident in his expression.

Sean sighed. “Do you know how many times I’ve sat in my office waiting to hear from you? How about your last operation in Oman? I thought you were dead.”

Painter glanced down to his desk. Binders and papers were piled everywhere. There was no relief to be found among them. He had never suspected how agonizing this job had been for his boss. Painter shook his head.

“There is only one way of handling matters like this,” his boss said. “And believe me, they’ll happen on a regular basis.”

Painter faced the screen. An ache had settled behind his breastbone, throbbing and hot.

“You have to trust your agents. You put them into the field, but once they’re let loose, you have to have confidence. You picked the team leader for this op and his support. Do you trust they are capable of handling a hostile situation?”

Painter pictured Grayson Pierce, Monk Kokkalis, and Kat Bryant. They were some of the best and brightest in the force. If anyone could survive…

Painter slowly nodded. He did trust them.

“Then let them run their game. Like I did you. A horse runs best with only the lightest touch of the reins.” Sean leaned forward. “All you can do now is wait for them to contact you. That is your responsibility to them. To be ready to respond. Not to run off to Germany.”

“I understand,” he said, but it didn’t offer much solace. The ache continued inside his rib cage.

“Did you get that package I sent you last week?”

Painter glanced up, a half-smile forming. He had gotten a care package from his director. A crate of Tums antacids. He had thought it was a gag gift, but now he wasn’t so sure.

Sean settled back into his chair. “That’s all the relief you’ll ever get in this business.”

Painter recognized the truth in his mentor’s words. Here was the true burden of leadership.

“It was easier in the field,” he finally mumbled.

“Not always,” Sean reminded him. “Not always by a long shot.”

12:10
P
.
M
.
MILAN, ITALY

L
OCKED UP
tight,” Monk said. “Just like the monsignor said.”

Gray could not argue. It all looked good. He itched to get inside, grab the bones, and head out of here.

They stood on a shaded sidewalk bordering the unassuming façade of the Basilica of Saint Eustorgio, near one of the side doors. The front was humble adorned red brick; behind it rose a single clock-tower steeple, surmounted by a cross. The tiny sun-baked square was empty for the moment.

A few minutes ago, a municipal patrol car had looped past, going slow, keeping watch. All seemed quiet.

Following Kat’s recommendation, they had searched the entire church’s periphery from a circumspect distance. Gray had also used a set of telescoping lenses to peer discreetly through several windows. The five side chapels and central nave appeared deserted.

Sunlight blazed off the pavement. The day had grown hot.

But Gray still felt cold, unsure.

Would he be less cautious if it were only himself?

“Let’s do this,” he said.

Vigor stepped to the side door and reached for the large iron knocker, a ring containing a simple cross.

Gray stayed his hand. “No. We’ve kept our approach quiet. Let’s keep it that way.” He turned to Kat and pointed to the lock. “Can you get it open?”

Kat dropped to a knee. Monk and Gray shielded her work with their bodies. While Kat studied the lock, her fingers fished through a lock-picking kit. With the meticulous skill of a surgeon, she set to work on the door’s lock.

“Commander,” Vigor said. “To violate a church…”

“If you were already invited entry by the Vatican, it’s no violation.”

A snick of a latch ended the matter. The door opened an inch.

Kat gained her feet and shouldered her pack.

Gray waved the others back. “Monk and I will go in alone. Scout the terrain.” He reached to his collar and secured an earpiece in place. “Radio up while we have a chance. Kat, stay here with Rachel and Vigor.”

Gray taped on a throat mike for subvocalization.

Vigor stepped forward. “Like I said before, priests are more likely to speak to someone wearing a collar. I’ll go with you.”

Gray hesitated—but the monsignor made sense. “Stay behind us at all times.”

Kat did not protest being left holding the door, but Rachel’s eyes sparked fire.

“We need someone to cover our backs if things go south,” he explained, speaking directly to Rachel.

Her lips tightened, but she nodded.

Satisfied, he turned and opened the door enough to slip through. The dark foyer was cool. The doors to the nave were closed. He saw nothing amiss. The quiet of the sanctuary felt heavy, like being underwater.

Monk closed the outer door and flipped his long coat aside to rest a hand on his shotgun. Vigor obeyed his instructions and shadowed Monk.

Gray moved to the central door of the inner nave. He pushed it open with the palm of his hand. He had his Glock in the other.

The nave was brighter than the foyer, full of natural light from the basilica’s windows. Its polished marble floor reflected the illumination, appearing almost wet. The basilica was much smaller than the cathedral in Cologne. Rather than cross-shaped, it was just a single long hall, a straight nave that ended at the altar.

Gray froze and watched for movement. Despite the ample light, there were plenty of places for people to hide. A line of pillars supported the arched roof. Five tiny chapels jetted out from the right wall, sheltering the tombs of martyrs and saints.

Nothing moved. The only noise was the distant rumble of traffic, sounding as if coming from another world.

Gray entered and moved down the center of the nave, pistol ready.

Monk stepped wide, positioning himself to keep the entire nave covered. They crossed the hall in silence. There was no sign of the church’s staff.

“Perhaps they all went out for a late lunch,” Monk subvocalized into his radio.

“Kat, can you hear me?” Gray asked.

“Loud and clear, Commander.”

They reached the end of the nave.

Vigor pointed to the right, to the chapel closest to the altar.

Tucked into the chapel’s corner, a gigantic sarcophagus lay half in shadow. Like the reliquary in Cologne, the Shrine of the Magi here was shaped like a church, but rather than gold and jewels, the sarcophagus had been carved out of a single block of Proconnesio marble.

Gray led the way toward it.

The shrine stood over twelve feet tall from its base to pitched roof and stretched seven feet wide by twelve long. The only access to the interior was through a small barred window low in the front face.