The Bone Labyrinth (20 page)

The level of detail for such a time—the impact craters, the mountains, the dry seas—was remarkable. Lena found herself vacillating between respect for this old priest’s work and contempt for some of his more fanciful leaps.

Gray’s gaze remained fixed on the other book. “Kircher clearly was trying to communicate something by leaving his journal behind in that cave full of sculptures.”

Lena agreed, remembering those alcoves crusted with runnels and mounds of calcite. She pictured the broken bits found where the book was hidden. “Father Kircher didn’t just take those bones,” she realized aloud. “He took some object from that other cave, too, and left the book in its place. Possibly like a bread crumb for some future explorer to find.”

“But what does it mean?” Gray asked.

Lena shook her head at the condition of the journal. “Whatever message he intended to leave behind was destroyed long ago.” She nudged the key on the table. “But I wager it was meant to lead to whatever this key unlocks.”

Gray continued to stare at the journal. Lena could almost see the gears turning behind those storm-blue eyes. He finally reached out and placed his fingertip on the date written beneath the labyrinth.

“Sixteen seventy-nine,” he read aloud, then turned to Roland. “Didn’t you say Father Kircher was summoned to Zagreb in
1669
?”

The priest moved closer, standing shoulder to shoulder with Gray. “That’s true. I should have caught that discrepancy myself. It means Father Kircher must have returned to the cavern system a decade later—and left that book and key.”

“Why?” Lena asked.

Roland eyed the group. “I don’t know, but Father Kircher died the very next year. Perhaps, like you said, he wanted to leave behind some message for the future before he passed away.”

Lena lifted the key, feeling its heft, the tarnished steel imbued with the weight of centuries.
What did this key unlock? What did this Leonardo da Vinci of his time hide away?

Gray took up the journal and carefully cracked it open. He stared at the moldy wad of paper that had once held the last words of this mysterious priest. He studied the moldering imprint of the key, then examined the inside flaps of the covers. His lips suddenly drew thin. He moved closer to the fire, bringing the book near the flames—not to burn it, but for the additional light.

“There’s something inscribed on the inside cover. I can barely make it out.”

Roland joined him, drawing Lena, too.

She stared over Gray’s shoulder. “He’s right,” she murmured, squinting at the faded image of a cross and what appeared to be a pair of upswept wings framing it.

Seichan came to a different conclusion. “Are those flames below the cross?”

Roland fell back a step, his eyes huge. “No, not flames. They’re antlers.”

Antlers?

He gaped at them all. “I know where Father Kircher wants us to go.”

6:33
A
.
M
.

Gray watched Roland abandon the books and ancient messages and cross over to the kitchen’s fridge. He retrieved a chilled bottle of liqueur, returned to the table, and placed it next to the ancient tomes, the key, and the mysterious messages written in Latin.

Seichan reached and rocked the green-tinted bottle to read the German label. “Jägermeister? If we’re going to celebrate, why not break out the sacramental wine?”

“The monsignor likes a sip or two before bed,” Roland explained. “The drink is very popular in Croatia. But it’s not why I’m showing you this.”

He turned the label toward Gray, as if the reason should be obvious.

Gray leaned down and immediately understood. “The symbol . . .”

The logo on the bottle was a stag with wide antlers embracing a glowing cross.

“The company states that the symbol represents Saint Hubertus, the patron saint of hunters,” Roland explained. “Jägermeisters were German foresters and gamekeepers. Hence, the connection to the liqueur.”

“But what does this have to do with Father Kircher?” Lena asked.

Roland lifted a hand, pleading for patience. “The story of Saint Hubertus pertains to a vision he had while hunting, of a magnificent stag that appeared before him with a golden crucifix standing between its antlers, but many Catholic scholars attribute the story to a saint from half a millennium earlier, Saint Eustace. According to legend, a Roman general named Placidus was hunting a stag near Rome when he had a similar vision and immediately converted to Christianity, changing his name to Eustace.”

“Still,” Gray pressed, “what’s the connection to all of this?”

“In Father Kircher’s later years, as age and decrepitude set in, he retired to the Italian countryside, where during his travels he discovered the ruins of a small church perched above Giovenzano Valley, the Sanctuary of Mentorella. It was built by Emperor Constantine to honor Saint Eustace.”

Gray glanced over to the liqueur bottle and its label.

The patron saint of hunters.

Roland continued, “After discovering this forgotten church in the middle of nowhere, Kircher took it upon himself to restore it, raising funds for the task and eventually overseeing its reconstruction. It is said he was very hands-on, assisting with the engineering and managing the construction site itself, which he kept very guarded.”

“You’re thinking he might have hidden something there,” Gray said.

“According to the historical record, he became obsessed with the place, living his final years there. He even insisted upon being buried at the sanctuary.”

“Was he buried there?” Lena asked.

“Strangely enough, only his
heart
.” Roland glanced around, letting the significance sink in. “Even a pope back then, Pope Innocent XIII, requested that his heart be buried there, too.”

Something was clearly important about that place.

Gray picked up the old key on the table, running his thumb over the arch of skulls along its bow end, remembering the bones stolen by Father Kircher.

I’d definitely call this a skeleton key.

“It’s worth looking into,” Seichan admitted. He saw the glimmer of desire in her face, to be moving again rather than sitting here waiting for instructions. “We could be in Rome in less than two hours.”

He was tempted—and he wasn’t the only one.

“I’m willing to go,” Roland said, which was no surprise. “You could use my expertise.”

“And I’m going, too,” Lena said, which was a surprise.

Gray was about to object, but Lena stood before the fire, looking resolute.

“Someone stole those bones from that cavern here,” she said. “And we all know it wasn’t because of the black market value of such relics. Especially considering the coordination of the attack here and outside of Atlanta.” Her voice caught a bit as she plainly thought about her sister, but she pressed on. “There has to be some significant genetic value to those bones. I had only a brief look, but I could tell there was something
off
about the conformation of the skull. If I could get a better look—”

“She’s right.” Roland shifted closer to her, backing her up physically and with his words. “If we could find out where Father Kircher took the other set of bones, we might know better the reason behind the attack. I believe Father Kircher discovered something significant in those caves, and it may take someone with a greater understanding of Neanderthals and early man to discover it again.”

“They’re both right,” Seichan conceded with a shrug. “We’re missing something about all of this. And in the meantime, there’s little we can do to help with Painter’s operation in China.”

Gray refused to relent, even outnumbered as he was now. He had his assignment to keep Lena safe.

The geneticist must have read this thought. “No one would suspect I’d be traveling to Rome,” she pressed. Her eyes now held a similar glint as Seichan’s, a shine of impatience and determination. “Plus I’m not about to sit idly by and do nothing while Maria’s still in danger.”

Before Gray could respond, his satellite phone chirped, ringing with the familiar tone for Sigma command. He answered it and heard Painter Crowe’s voice.

“Commander Pierce, I’ve got your extraction arranged. A contact with the Croatian air force will get you all aboard a military transport headed—”

He cut the director off, eyeing the group standing before the fire. “Sir, there’s been a change in plans.”

7:22
A
.
M
.

The man sat inside a small coffeehouse. He held a folded copy of a newspaper in front of him, but his eyes remained fixed through the window. Across Saint Catherine’s Square stood a Baroque church of the same name, its white facade aglow in the morning sunlight. It was one of dozens of Catholic buildings across the religious city. Even from here, he could spy the twin spires of Zagreb’s Gothic cathedral cutting into the bright sky.

Another two men had been posted at that larger structure, along with others at the international airport and the city’s train station.

The places of Catholic worship were watched because of word that a priest had been among the party who had entered the caves yesterday. It was unknown whether the man or the American woman had ever escaped those mountains, but
Zhōngxiào
Sun had been adamant that the capital city be locked down, watched for any sign of survivors.

He did not resent the orders. A fire burned in his belly as he remembered his teammates who had died up in those mountains. Their blood called for vengeance.

Movement drew his attention away from the church to a neighboring art gallery. It was too early for the place to be opening already. From a tourist brochure he had read while waiting here, the Klovićevi Dvori Gallery was once the former monastery for Saint Catherine’s. Moments earlier, a black sedan had parked near the entrance. Its engine still idled, with exhaust steaming from the tailpipe.

A clutch of four figures hurried through the gallery door to the waiting sedan. He spotted a woman among them, her blond hair a flag amid the dark clothes. When the passenger door opened, he spotted the driver inside, wearing a Croatian air force uniform.

His heart quickened at the sight, certainty settling coldly over him.

He kept his newspaper raised and picked up his cell phone from the table and tapped one button as he brought it to his ear. Once the connection was made, he spoke.

“
Zhōngxiào
Sun, I have found them.”

11

April 30, 2:05
P
.
M
. CST

Airborne over the East China Sea

The cabin steward leaned down with a tray holding a row of steaming cloths, meticulously folded into cranes. “We’ll be landing in Beijing in less than an hour, if you’d like to freshen up.”

Monk reached over and pinched up one of the napkins, the fingertips of his prosthetic hand registering the damp heat. “Thank you.”

“And for your wife?” the steward extended the tray.

Monk turned to his traveling companion. “Dear?”

“
Búyào xièxie
,” the woman politely declined, waving a palm in dismissal.

As the steward left, Monk patted his face with the steaming heat, letting it warm away some of his exhaustion.

“Is this how you usually travel?” the woman asked, smiling, lifting her dark eyes and using the back of her fingers to tuck away a fall of ebony hair from her handsome heart-shaped face. “If so, I may have to reconsider Kat’s offer to join your organization.”

He shrugged. “Unfortunately, our more common method of travel is usually tied up in the trunk of a car.”

Kimberly Moy was the same age as Monk, but her beauty had a timelessness that made her appear much younger—which, considering their cover as husband and wife, was not exactly helping.

Still, it made the long trip all that much more tolerable.

Sorry, Kat
.

His actual wife was back in D.C., coordinating efforts with Director Crowe at Sigma. Kat had recommended Kimberly Moy for this operation. They’d been friends back in their days at the U.S. Naval Academy. Kimberly eventually joined the Defense Intelligence Agency, but the two remained close allies within that clandestine world of U.S. security. Kat had vouched for her friend’s skills. Beyond the woman’s fluency with every dialect of mainland China, she was also a crack shot with a sniper rifle and experienced at hand-to-hand combat, besting most men in her agency.