Map of Bones (38 page)

Only a handful of people had the phone’s number: Director Crowe and his teammates.

Gray grabbed his phone and swung up its antenna. He moved closer to the window. “Commander Pierce,” he said.

“I will keep this brief, so there’s no confusion.”

Gray stiffened. It was Raoul. That could only mean one thing…

“We have the woman and your teammate. You’ll do exactly as we say or we’ll be mailing their heads to Washington and Rome…after we’re done playing with their bodies, of course.”

“How do I know they’re still—?”

A shuffle sounded at the other end. A new voice gasped. He heard the tears behind the words. “They…I…they cut off Monk’s hand. He—”

The phone was taken away.

Gray tried not to react. Now was not the time. Still, his fingers clenched hard to the phone. His heart climbed into his throat, constricting his words.

“What do you want?”

“The gold key from the tomb,” Raoul said.

So they knew about it. Gray understood why Rachel had revealed the secret. How could she not? She must have traded the information for Monk’s life. They were safe as long as the Court knew Gray retained the key. But that didn’t mean worse mutilations would not be performed if he didn’t cooperate. He remembered the condition of the tortured priests in Milan.

“You want a trade,” he said coldly.

“There is an EgyptAir flight leaving Alexandria at 2100 hours for Geneva, Switzerland. You will be on that flight. You alone. We will have false papers and tickets in a locker, so no computer searches will trace your flight.” Directions to the locker followed. “You will not contact your superiors…either in Washington or Rome. If you do, we’ll know. Is that understood?”

“Yes,” he bit off. “But how do I know you’ll stick to your end of the bargain?”

“You don’t. But as a gesture of goodwill, when you land in Geneva, I’ll contact you again. If you follow our directions precisely, I’ll free your man. He’ll be sent to a local Swiss hospital. We will pass on satisfactory confirmation of this for you. But the woman will remain in custody until you give over the gold key.”

Gray knew the offer to free Monk was probably sincere, but not out of goodwill. Monk’s life was an advance on the deal, a token to lure Gray into cooperating. He tried to shut out Rachel’s earlier words. They had cut off Monk’s hand.

He had no choice.

“I’ll be on the flight,” he said.

Raoul was not done. “The others on the team…the bitch and the monsignor…are free to go as long as they stay quiet and out of the way. If either sets foot in Italy or Switzerland, the deal is off.”

Gray frowned. He understood keeping the others out of Switzerland…but why Italy? Then it struck him. He pictured Rachel’s map. The line he had drawn. Pointing to Rome. Rachel had revealed much—but not all.

Good girl.

“Agreed,” Gray said, his mind already wheeling out in various scenarios.

“Any sign of subterfuge and you’ll never see the woman or your teammate again…except for body parts mailed out daily.” The connection ended.

Gray lowered the phone and turned to the others. He repeated the conversation verbatim, so all would understand. “I will be on that flight.”

Vigor’s face had drained of blood, his worst fears realized.

“They could ambush you at any point,” Kat said.

He nodded. “But I believe as long as I keep moving toward them, they’ll let me. They’ll not risk losing the key in a failed attempt.”

“And what about us?” Vigor asked.

“I need you both in Avignon. Working on the mystery there.”

“I…I can’t,” Vigor said. “Rachel…” He sank to the bed.

Gray firmed his voice. “Rachel has bought us a slim chance in Avignon, some leeway. Paid with Monk’s blood and body. I won’t let their efforts be squandered.”

Vigor looked up at him.

“You have to trust me.” Gray’s demeanor hardened. “I’ll get Rachel. You have my word.”

Vigor stared at him, attempting to read something there. Whatever he found, he seemed to gain some resolve from it.

Gray hoped it was enough.

“How do you—?” Kat began.

Gray shook his head, stepping away. “The less we know of each other’s movements from here, the better.” He crossed and gathered up his pack. “I’ll contact you when I have Rachel.”

He headed out.

With one hope.

5:55
P
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S
EICHAN SAT
in the dark, holding a broken bit of knife.

The spear through her shoulder still held her pinned to the wall. The inch-thick lance had sheared up under her collarbone and out the top of her shoulder, missing major blood vessels and her scapula. But she remained hooked in place. Blood seeped continually down the inside of her wetsuit.

Every movement was agony.

But she was alive.

The last of Raoul’s men had gone quiet about the time the last flashlight had died. The firebomb Raoul had set to destroy the far chamber had barely reached this room. The heat had come close to parboiling her, though, but now she wished for that heat again.

A chill had set in, even through her suit. The stone surfaces leached the warmth from her. The blood loss didn’t help.

Seichan refused to give up. She fingered the broken blade in her hand. She had been picking at the stone block, where the sharpened end of the spear had embedded. If she could dig it free, loosen the shaft…

Rock chips littered the floor. Down there was also the broken hilt to her dagger. It had shattered shortly after she’d started.

All she had left was a three-inch remnant of blade. Her fingers were bloody from the blade and the coarse rock. It was a futile effort.

Cold sweat oiled her face.

Off to the side, a glow grew. She thought it was her imagination. She turned her head. The entry pool was shining. The illumination grew.

The water stirred. Someone was coming.

Seichan clutched the bit of knife—both fearful and hopeful.

Who?

A dark shape splashed up. A diver. The flashlight blinded her as the figure climbed out.

She shadowed her eyes against the sudden brightness and glare.

The diver lowered the flashlight.

Seichan recognized a familiar face as he yanked back his mask and approached. Commander Gray Pierce.

He stepped toward her and lifted a hacksaw. “Let’s talk.”

JULY 27, 6:02
P
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M
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WASHINGTON, D.C.

D
IRECTOR PAINTER
Crowe knew he was in for another sleepless night. He had heard the reports out of Egypt of an attack at the East Harbor of Alexandria. Had Gray’s team been involved? With no eyes in the sky, they had been unable to investigate through satellite surveillance.

And still no word had been passed from the field. The last messages had been exchanged twelve hours ago.

Painter regretted not relating his suspicions to Gray Pierce. But at that point, they had only been suspicions. Painter had needed time to finesse some further intelligence. And still he wasn’t certain. If he proceeded more boldly, the conspirator would know he’d been discovered. It would put Gray and his teammates in further jeopardy.

So Painter worked his end alone.

A knock on his office door drew his eyes from the computer screen.

He turned off his computer monitor to hide his work. He buzzed the lock. His secretary was gone for the day.

Logan Gregory entered. “Their jet is in final approach.”

“Still headed into Marseilles?” Painter asked.

Logan nodded. “Due to land in eighteen minutes. Just after midnight local time.”

“Why France?” Painter rubbed his tired eyes. “And they’re still maintaining a communication blackout?”

“The pilot will confirm their destination, but nothing else. I was able to worm out a manifest through French customs. There are two passengers aboard.”

“Only two?” Painter sat straighter, frowning.

“Flying under diplomatic vouchers. Anonymous. I can attempt to dig through that.”

Painter had to work carefully from here. “No,” he said. “That might raise some alarm bells. The team wants to keep their activity cloaked. We’ll give them some room. For now.”

“Yes, sir. I also have requests from Rome. The Vatican and the Carabinieri have not heard anything and are getting anxious.”

Painter had to offer them something or the EU authorities might react harshly. He considered his options. It would not take long for the authorities in Europe to ascertain the jet’s destination. It would have to do.

“Be cooperative,” he finally said. “Let them know of the flight to Marseilles, and that we’ll pass on further intel as we learn more.”

“Yes, sir.”

Painter stared at his blank computer screen. He had a narrow window of opportunity. “Once you contact them, I’ll need you to run an errand for me. Out to DARPA.”

Logan frowned.

“I have something that I need personally couriered over to Dr. Sean McKnight.” Painter slid over a sealed letter in a red pouch. “But no one must know you’re headed over there.”

Logan’s eyes narrowed quizzically, but he nodded. “I’ll take care of it.” He took the pouch, tucked it under his arm, and turned away.

Painter spoke to him. “Absolute discretion.”

“You can trust me,” Logan said firmly, and closed the door with a click of the lock.

Painter switched back on his computer. It showed a map of the Mediterranean basin with swaths of yellow and blue crisscrossing it. Satellite paths. He laid his pointer over one. NRO’s newest satellite, nicknamed Hawkeye. He double-clicked and brought up trajectory details and search parameters.

He typed in Marseilles. Times came up. He cross-referenced with NOAA’s weather map. A storm front swept toward southern France. Heavy cloud cover would block surveillance. The window of opportunity was narrow.

Painter checked his watch. He picked up the phone and spoke to security. “Let me know when Logan Gregory has left the command center.”

“Yes, sir.”

Painter hung up the phone. Timing would be critical. He waited out another fifteen minutes, watching the storm front track over Western Europe.

“C’mon,” he mumbled.

The phone finally rang. Painter confirmed that Logan was gone, then stood up and left his office. The sat-recon was down one floor, neighboring Logan’s office. Painter rushed down there to find a lone technician jotting in a logbook, nestled in the arced bank of monitors and computers.

The man was surprised by the sudden appearance of his boss and jerked to his feet. “Director Crowe, sir…how can I help you?”

“I need a tap feed into NRO’s H-E Four satellite.”

“Hawkeye?”

Painter nodded.

“That clearance is beyond my—”

Painter placed a long alphanumeric sequence in front of him. It was valid for only the next half hour, obtained by Sean McKnight.

The technician’s eyes widened, and he set to work. “There was no need to come down here yourself. Dr. Gregory could’ve patched the feed to your office.”

“Logan is gone.” Painter placed a palm on the technician’s shoulder. “Also I need all record of this tap erased. No recording. No word that this tap ever occurred. Even here in Sigma.”

“Yes, sir.”

The technician pointed to a screen. “It’ll come up on this monitor. I’ll need GPS coordinates to zero in on.”

Painter gave them.

After a long minute, the dark airfield bloomed onto the screen.

Marseilles Airport.

Painter directed the feed to zoom down onto a certain gate. The image jittered, then smoothly swelled. A small plane appeared, a Citation X. It sat near the gate, door open. Painter leaned forward, obscuring the view from the technician.

Was he too late?

Movement pixilated. One figure, then another stepped into view. They hurried down the stairs. Painter didn’t need to magnify their faces.

Monsignor Verona and Kat Bryant.

Painter waited. Maybe the manifest had been false. Maybe they all were aboard.

The screen shuddered with a wave of blocky pixels.

“Bad weather coming in,” the technician said.

Painter stared. No other passengers left the jet. Kat and the monsignor vanished through the gate. With a worried frown, Painter waved for the feed to be cut. He thanked the technician and stepped away.

Where the hell was Gray?

1:04
A
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M
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GENEVA, SWITZERLAND

G
RAY SAT
in the first-class cabin of the EgyptAir jet. He had to give the Dragon Court credit. They didn’t spare expense. He glanced around the small cabin. Eight seats. Six passengers. One or more were probably spies for the Court, keeping an eye on him.

It didn’t matter. He was cooperating fully…for now.

He had picked up his plane tickets and false ID from a bus locker, then proceeded to the airport. The four-hour flight was interminable. He ate the gourmet meal, drank two glasses of red wine, watched some movie with Julia Roberts, even power-napped for forty-two minutes.

He turned to the window. The gold key shifted against his chest. It rested on a chain around his neck. His body heat had warmed the metal, but it still hung heavy and cold. Two people’s lives weighted it down. He pictured Monk, easy mannered, sharp-eyed, bighearted. And Rachel. A mix of steel and silk, intriguing and complicated. But the woman’s last call haunted him, so full of pain and panic. He ached to the marrow, knowing she had been captured under his watch.

Gray stared out the window as the jet made a steep approach, necessary for landing in the city nestled among the towering Alps.

The lights of Geneva glittered. Moonlight silvered the peaks and lake.

The plane swept over a section of the Rhône River that split the city. Landing gear engaged with a whine. Moments later they were touching down at the Geneva International Airport.

They taxied to their gate, and Gray waited for the cabin to empty before gathering up his one carefully packed bag. He hoped he had everything he would need. Slinging his bag over his shoulder, he headed out.

As he exited the first-class cabin, he searched for any sign of danger.

And one other. His traveling companion.

She had been in the coach seats. She wore a blonde wig, a conservative navy blue business suit, and heavy black eyeglasses. She carried herself with a subdued demeanor, her left arm in a sling, half hidden under her jacket. The disguise would not pass close inspection. But no one was expecting her.

Seichan was dead to the world.

She exited ahead of him without a glance.

Gray followed a few passengers behind her. Once in the terminal, he queued up for customs, showed his false papers, had them stamped, and was on his way. He hadn’t checked any baggage.

He strode out to the well-lit street, which was still crowded. Late travelers scurried for cars and taxies. He had no idea what was expected of him from here. He had to wait for some contact from Raoul. He shifted closer to the taxi line.

Seichan had vanished, but Gray sensed she was near.

He had needed an ally. Cut off from Washington, from his own teammates, he had made a pact with the devil. He had freed her with his hacksaw after exacting a promise from her. They would work together. In return for her freedom, she would help Gray free Rachel. Afterward, they would part ways. All debts forgiven, past and present.

She had agreed.

As he treated and bandaged her wound, she had looked on him most oddly, stripped to the waist, breasts bared, unabashed. She studied him like a curiosity, a strange bug, with an intensity of focus. She said little, exhausted, perhaps in slight shock. But she recovered smoothly, a lioness slowly waking, cunning and amusement lighting her eyes.

Gray knew that her cooperation was less out of obligation than fury at Raoul. Cooperation suited her immediate need. She had been left for dead, a slow agonizing end. She wanted to make Raoul pay. Whatever contract had been agreed upon between the Court and the Guild was over for her. All that was left was vengeance.

But was that all?

Gray remembered her eyes upon him and her dark curiosity. But he also remembered Painter’s earlier warning about her. It must have been plain on his face.

“Yes, I am going to betray you,” Seichan had said plainly as she pulled on her shirt. “But only after this is over. You will attempt the same. We both know this. Mutual distrust. Is there a better form of honesty?”

Gray’s sat-phone finally rang. He freed it from his bag. “Commander Pierce,” he said tersely.

“Welcome to Switzerland,” Raoul said. “There are train tickets waiting for you at the city-center terminal, under your false name, headed to Lausanne. It leaves in thirty-five minutes. You’ll be on it.”

“What about my teammate?” Gray said.

“As arranged, he’s on his way to the hospital in Geneva. You’ll have confirmation by the time you board the train.”

Gray headed to the taxis. “Lieutenant Verona?” he asked.

“The woman is being well accommodated. For now. Don’t miss your train.”

The line went dead.

Gray climbed into a taxi. He didn’t bother searching for Seichan. He had piggybacked a chip on his phone, tied to her cell phone. She had overheard the conversation. He trusted her skill to keep up with him.

“Central train station,” he told the driver.

With a curt nod, the cabby sailed out into traffic and headed toward downtown Geneva. Gray sank back into his seat. Seichan had been right. Upon learning of his summons to Switzerland, she had told him where she suspected Rachel was being kept. Some castle up in the Savoy Alps.

After ten minutes, the taxi swept alongside the lake. Out in the water, a giant fountain sprayed more than a hundred yards into the air. The famous Jet d’Eau. It was lit up by lamps, a fairy-tale sight. Some festival was under way near the piers.

Gray heard an echo of singing and laughter.

It sounded like it was coming from another world.

In another couple of minutes, the taxi offloaded him in front of the train terminal. He crossed to the ticket counter, gave his false name, and showed his papers. He was given tickets to the lakeside city of Lausanne.

He strode toward his gate, keeping a wary watch for anyone nearby. He saw no sign of Seichan. A worry nagged. What if she simply took off? What if she double-crossed him to Raoul? Gray drove down such worries. He had made a choice. It was a calculated risk.

His phone rang again.

He pulled it free and adjusted the antenna.

“Commander Pierce,” he said.

“Two minutes to satisfy yourself.” Raoul again. A click and hiss of a transfer sounded. The next voice was more distant, echoing a bit, but familiar.

“Commander?”

“I’m here, Monk. Where are you?” Gray was sure the conversation was being eavesdropped on by more than just Seichan. He had to be careful.

“They dumped me at some hospital with this cell phone. Told me to expect your call. I’m in the emergency room. Doctors are all speaking goddamn French.”

“You’re in Geneva,” Gray said. “How are you doing?”

A long pause.

“I know about your hand,” Gray said.

“Goddamn bastards,” Monk said with an edge of fury. “They had a doctor on board their ship. Drugged me, IVs, sutured my…my stump. The docs here want X-rays and such, but they seem satisfied with the other doctor’s umm…handiwork, so to speak.”

Gray appreciated Monk’s attempt at levity. But his voice was hard-edged.

“Rachel?”

Pain intensified his words. “I haven’t seen her since they drugged me. I have no idea where she’s at. But…but, Gray…”

“What?”

“You have to get her away from them.”

“I’m working on that. But what about you? Are you safe?”

“Seem to be,” he said. “I was told to keep my mouth shut. That I’ve done, playing dumb. The doctors, though, have called the local police. Security is posted.”

“For now, do as they ordered you,” Gray said. “I’ll get you out of there as soon as I can.”

“Gray,” Monk said, voice strained. Gray recognized his tone. He wanted to communicate something, but he also knew the others were eavesdropping. “They…they let me go.”

The connection fritzed again. Raoul came back on the line.

“Time’s up. As you can see, we honor our word. If you want the woman freed, you’ll bring the key.”

“Understood. What then?”

“I’ll have a car waiting for you at the Lausanne station.”

“No,” Gray said. “I won’t put myself into your custody until I know Rachel is safe. When I arrive in Lausanne, I want confirmation that she is alive. Then we’ll make arrangements.”