Map Of Bones Part 5

WAs.h.i.+NGTON, D.C.

PAINTER STEPPED back from the satellite console. The technician had caught Grayson's escape by motorcycle as he appeared out of the cloud of smoke and dust. Logan was still on the phone, pa.s.sing information down a series of covert channels, sounding the all-clear. Whitewashed from on high, the trouble at the base would be blamed on miscommunication, faulty wiring, decomposing munitions. back from the satellite console. The technician had caught Grayson's escape by motorcycle as he appeared out of the cloud of smoke and dust. Logan was still on the phone, pa.s.sing information down a series of covert channels, sounding the all-clear. Whitewashed from on high, the trouble at the base would be blamed on miscommunication, faulty wiring, decomposing munitions.

Sigma Force would never be mentioned.

The satellite tech held his earpiece in place. "Sir, I have a telephone call from the director of DARPA." "Switch it over here." Painter plucked up another receiver. He listened as the scrambled communication was routed.

The tech nodded to him as the dead air over the line seemed to breathe to life. Though no one spoke, Painter could almost sense his mentor and commander. "Director McKnight?" he said, suspecting the man was calling to get a mission debrief.

His suspicion proved wrong.

He heard the stress in the other's voice. "Painter, I just received some intel out of Germany. Strange deaths at a cathedral. We need a team on the ground there by nightfall."

"So soon?"

"Details will follow within the quarter hour. But we're going to need your best agent to head this team."

Painter stared over at the satellite monitor. He watched the motorcycle skim through the hills, flickering through the spa.r.s.e canopy of trees.

"I may have just the man. But may I ask what the urgency is?"

"A call came in early this morning, requesting Sigma to investigate the matter in Germany. Your group has been specifically summoned."

"Summoned? By whom?"

To have Dr. McKnight this rattled, it had to be someone as high up as the President. But once again, Painter's supposition proved wrong.

The director explained, "By the Vatican."

2.

THE ETERNAL CITY.

JULY 24, NOON.

ROME, ITALY.

SO MUCH for making her lunch date. for making her lunch date.

Lieutenant Rachel Verona climbed down the narrow stairs that led deep under the Basilica of San Clemente. The excavation below the church had been under way for two months, overseen by a small team of archaeologists from the University of Naples.

"Lasciate ogni speranza..."Rachel muttered.

Her guide, Professor Lena Giovanna, the project leader, glanced back at her. She was a tall woman, mid-fifties, but the permanent crook in her back made her seem older and shorter. She offered Rachel a tired smile. "So you know your Dante Alighieri. And in the original Latin no less. Lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch'entrate! Lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch'entrate! Abandon all hope, ye who enter here." Abandon all hope, ye who enter here."

Rachel felt a twinge of embarra.s.sment. According to Dante, those words were written on the gates of h.e.l.l. She had not meant her words to be heard, but the acoustics here left little privacy. "No offense intended, Professore. Professore."

A chuckle answered her. "None taken, Lieutenant. I was just surprised to find someone in the military police with such fluency in Latin. Even someone working for the Carabinieri Tutela Patrimonio Culturale."

Rachel understood the misconception. It was fairly typical to paint all the Carabinieri Corps with the same brush. Most civilians only saw the uniformed men and women guarding streets and buildings, armed with rifles. But she had entered the Corps not as a military soldier, but with a graduate degree in psychology and art history. She had been recruited into the Carabinieri Corps right out of the university, spending an additional two years at the officers' training college studying international law. She had been handpicked by General Rende, who ran the special unit involved with the investigation of art and antiquity thefts, the Tutela Patrimonio Culturale.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Rachel stepped into a pool of dank water. The storm of the past few days had flooded the subterranean level. She glanced down sourly. At least it was only ankle-deep.

She wore a borrowed set of rubber boots that were too large, meant for a man. She carried her new Ferragamo pumps in her left hand, a birthday gift from her mother. She dared not leave them on the stairs. Thieves were always about. If she lost her shoes or got them soiled, she'd never hear the end of it from her mother.

Professor Giovanna, on the other hand, wore a utilitarian coverall, an attire more fitting for exploring waterlogged ruins than Rachel's navy slacks and silk flowered blouse. But when Rachel's pager had gone off a quarter hour ago, she had been heading over to a lunch date with her mother and sister. She'd had no time to return to her apartment and change into her carabiniere uniform. Not if she was going to have any chance of still making that lunch.

So she had come directly here, meeting up with a pair of local carabinieri. Rachel had left the military policemen up in the basilica while she performed the initial investigation into the theft.

In some regards, Rachel was glad for the temporary reprieve. She had put off for too long letting her mother know that she and Gino had broken up. In fact, her ex-boyfriend had moved out more than a month ago. Rachel could already picture the knowing disappointment in her mother's eyes, accompanied by the usual noises that implied I told you so I told you so without coming out and actually saying it aloud. And her older sister, three years married, would be pointedly twisting that diamond wedding band on her finger and nodding her head sagely. without coming out and actually saying it aloud. And her older sister, three years married, would be pointedly twisting that diamond wedding band on her finger and nodding her head sagely.

Neither had been pleased with Rachel's choice of profession.

"How are you to keep a husband, you crazy girl?" her mother had intoned, throwing her arms toward heaven. "You cut your beautiful hair so short. You sleep with a gun. No man can compete with that."

As a consequence, Rachel rarely left Rome to visit her family in rural Castel Gandolfo, where their family had settled after World War II, in the shadow of the pope's summer residence. Only her grandmother understood her. The two had shared a love of antiquities and firearms. While growing up, Rachel had listened avidly to her stories of the war: gruesome tales laced with graveyard humor. Her nonna nonna even kept a n.a.z.i P-08 Luger in her bedside table, oiled and polished, a relic stolen from a border guard during her family's flight. There was no knitting booties for that old woman. even kept a n.a.z.i P-08 Luger in her bedside table, oiled and polished, a relic stolen from a border guard during her family's flight. There was no knitting booties for that old woman.

"It's just up ahead," the professor said. She splashed forward toward a glowing doorway. "My students are keeping watch on the site."

Rachel proceeded after her guide, reached the low doorway, and ducked through. She straightened into a cavelike room. Illuminated by carbide lanterns and flashlights, the vault of the roof arched overhead, constructed of hewn blocks of volcanic tufa tufa sealed crudely with plaster. A man-made grotto. Plainly a Roman temple. sealed crudely with plaster. A man-made grotto. Plainly a Roman temple.

As Rachel waded into the room, she was all too conscious of the weight of the basilica overhead. Dedicated to Saint Clement in the twelfth century, the church had been built over an earlier basilica, one constructed back in the fourth century. But even this ancient church hid a deeper mystery: the ruins of a first-century courtyard of Roman buildings, including this pagan temple. Such overbuilding was not uncommon, one religion burying another, a stratification of Roman history.

Rachel felt a familiar thrill course through her, sensing the press of time as solidly as the weight of stone. Though one century buried another, it was still here. Mankind's earliest history preserved in stone and silence. Here was a cathedral as rich as the one above.

"These are my two students from the university," the professor said. "Tia and Roberto."

In the semidarkness, Rachel followed the professor's gaze and looked down, discovering the crouching forms of the young man and woman, both dark haired and similarly attired in soiled coveralls. They had been tagging bits of broken pottery and now rose to greet them. Still grasping her shoes in one hand, Rachel shook their hands. While of university age, the two appeared no older than fifteen. Then again, maybe it was because she'd just celebrated her thirtieth birthday, and everyone seemed to be growing younger except her.

"Over here," the professor said, and led Rachel to an alcove in the far wall. "The thieves must have struck during last night's storm."

Professor Giovanna pointed her flashlight at a marble figure standing in a far niche. It stood a meter tall-or would have if the head weren't missing. All that remained was a torso, legs, and a protruding stone phallus. A Roman fertility G.o.d.

The professor shook her head. "A tragedy. It was the only piece of intact statuary discovered here."

Rachel understood the woman's frustration. Reaching out, she ran her free hand over the stump of the statue's neck. Her fingers felt a familiar roughness. "Hacksaw," she mumbled.

It was the tool of the modern-day graverobber, easy to conceal and wield. With just such a simple instrument, thieves had stolen, damaged, and vandalized artwork across Rome. It took only moments for the theft to occur, done many times in plain sight, often while a curator's back was turned. And the reward was well worth the risk. Trafficking in stolen antiquities had proved a lucrative business, surpa.s.sed only by narcotics, money laundering, and arms dealing. As such, the military had formed the Comando Carabinieri Tutela Patrimonio Culturale, the Cultural Heritage Police, back in 1992. Working alongside Interpol, they sought to stem this tide.

Rachel crouched before the statue and felt a familiar burn in the pit of her stomach. By bits and pieces, Roman history was being erased. It was a crime against time itself.

"Ars longa, vita brevis," she whispered, a quote from Hippocrates. One of her favorites. she whispered, a quote from Hippocrates. One of her favorites. Life is short, art eternal. Life is short, art eternal.

"Indeed," the professor said in a pained voice. "It was a magnificent find. The chisel work, the fine detail, the work of a master artisan. To mar it so savagely..."

"Why didn't the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds just steal the whole statue?" asked Tia. "At least it would've been preserved intact."

Rachel tapped the statue's phallic protuberance with one of her shoes. "Despite the convenient handle here, the artifact is too large. The thief must already have an international buyer. The bust alone would be easier to smuggle across the border."

"Is there any hope of recovery?" Professor Giovanna asked.

Rachel did not offer any false promises. Of the six thousand pieces of antiquity stolen last year, only a handful had been recovered. "I'll need photographs of the intact statue to post with Interpol, preferably concentrating on the bust."

"We have a digital database," Professor Giovanna said. "I can forward pictures by e-mail."

Rachel nodded and kept her focus on the beheaded statue. "Or Roberto over there could just tell us what he did with the head."

The professor's eyes darted to the young man.

Roberto took a step back. "Wh-what?" His gaze traveled around the room, settling again on his teacher. "Professore...truly, I know nothing. This is crazy."

Rachel kept staring at the beheaded statue-and at the one clue available to her. She had weighed the odds of playing her hand now or back at the station. But that would've meant interviewing everyone, taking statements, a mountain of paperwork. She closed her eyes, thinking of the lunch to which she was already late. Besides, if she had any hope of recovering the piece, speed could prove essential.

Opening her eyes, she spoke to the statue. "Did you know that sixty-four percent of archaeological thefts are abetted by workers at the site?" She turned to the trio.

Professor Giovanna frowned. "Truly you don't think Roberto-"

"When did you discover the statue?" Rachel asked.

"T-two days ago. But I posted our discovery on the University of Naples website. Many people knew."

"But how many people knew the site would be unguarded during last night's storm?" Rachel kept her focus on one person. "Roberto, do you have anything to say?"

His face was a frozen mask of disbelief. "I...no...I had nothing to do with this."

Rachel unsnapped her radio from her belt. "Then you won't mind if we search your garret. Perhaps to turn up a hacksaw, something with enough trace marble in its teeth to match the statue here."

A familiar wild look entered his eyes. "I...I..."

"The minimum penalty is five years in prison," she pressed. "Obbligatorio." "Obbligatorio."

In the lamplight, he visibly paled.

"That is, unless you cooperate. Leniency can be arranged."

He shook his head, but it was unclear what he was denying.

"You had your chance." She raised her radio to her lips. The squawk of static echoed loudly in the arched s.p.a.ce as she pressed the b.u.t.ton.

"No!" Roberto raised his hand, stopping her as she suspected he would. His gaze dropped to the floor.

A long silence stretched. Rachel did not break it. She let the weight build.

Roberto finally let out a soft sob. "I...had debts...gambling debts. I had no choice."

"Dio mio," the professor swore, raising a hand to her forehead. "Oh Roberto, how could you?" the professor swore, raising a hand to her forehead. "Oh Roberto, how could you?"

The student had no answer.

Rachel knew the pressure placed on the boy. It was not unusual. He was only a tiny tendril in a much larger organization, so widely spread and embedded that it could never be fully rooted out. The best Rachel could hope was to keep picking at the weeds.

She lifted the radio to her lips. "Carabiniere Gerard, I'm heading up with someone who has additional information."

"-capit, Tenente-"

She clicked the radio off. Roberto stood with his hands over his face, his career ruined.

"How did you know?" the professor asked.

Rachel did not bother explaining that it was not uncommon for members of organized crime to ply, pet.i.tion, or coerce cooperation among site workers. Such corruption was rampant, catching up the unsuspecting, the naive.

She turned away from Roberto. It was often only a matter of discerning who in the research team was the weak spot. With the young man, she had made an educated guess, then applied pressure to see if she was correct. It had been a risk playing her hand too soon. What if it had been Tia instead? By the time Rachel was done chasing the wrong lead, Tia could have pa.s.sed a warning on to her buyers. Or what if it had been Professor Giovanna, padding her university salary by selling her own discovery? There were so many ways it could've all gone sour. But Rachel had learned it took risk to win reward.

Professor Giovanna continued staring at her, the same question in her eyes. How had she known to accuse Roberto? How had she known to accuse Roberto?

Rachel glanced to the statue's stone phallus. It had taken only one clue-but a prominent one at that. "It's not only the top top head that sells well on the black market. There's a huge demand for ancient art of the head that sells well on the black market. There's a huge demand for ancient art of the erotic erotic nature. It outsells more conservative pieces almost fourfold. I suspect neither of you two women would've had any problem sawing off that prominent appendage, but for some reason, men are reluctant. They take it so personally." nature. It outsells more conservative pieces almost fourfold. I suspect neither of you two women would've had any problem sawing off that prominent appendage, but for some reason, men are reluctant. They take it so personally."

Rachel shook her head and crossed to the stairs leading up to the basilica. "They won't even neuter their own dogs."

1:34 P P.M.

STILL SO very, very late... very, very late...

Checking her watch, Rachel hurried across the stone piazza in front of the San Clemente Basilica. She stumbled on a loose cobble, bobbled a few steps, but managed to keep her feet. She glanced back at the stone, as if it were at fault-then down to her toes.

Merda!

A wide scuff marred the outer edge of her shoe.

Rolling her eyes heavenward, she wondered which saint she had offended. By now, they must be lining up to take a number.

She continued across the plaza, avoiding a covey of bicyclists that scattered around her like frightened pigeons. She moved more cautiously, reminding herself of the wise words of Emperor Augustus.

Festina lente. Make haste slowly. Make haste slowly.

Then again, Emperor Augustus didn't have a mother who could nag the hide off a horse.

She finally reached her Mini Cooper parked at the edge of the plaza. The midday sun cast it in blinding silver. A smile formed, the first of the day. The car was another birthday present. One to herself. You only turned thirty once in your life. It was a bit extravagant, especially upgrading to leather and opting for the S-convertible model.

But it was the joy of her life.

That might be one of the reasons Gino left her a month ago. The car inspired her far more than the man sharing her bed. It had been a good trade. The car was more emotionally available.