Map of Bones

by James Rollins

  With no other recourse, she shot blindly, sporadically, keeping the attackers at bay. Spouts of flame continued to harass her, licking forth like the tongue of a dragon.

  The stalemate could not last much longer.

  “Gray!” she yelled, skipping the formalities of rank.

  “Another second,” he answered from around the far side of the bell.

  As the flames faltered from the stairwell, Rachel aimed and squeezed the trigger. She had to hold them off. The bullet struck the stone wall and ricocheted down the staircase.

  Then her pistol’s slide locked open.

  Out of bullets.

  She backed away and circled the bell to the far side.

  Gray had his pack off and had tied a rope around one of the window bars. He had the other end wrapped around his waist and the slack over one arm. He had used a hand jack in a tool kit to pry apart two of the window’s bars, just wide enough to climb through.

  “Hold the slack,” he said.

  She took the nylon rope, about five meters in length. Behind her, a fresh billow of flame jettisoned from the stairwell. The others were testing again, moving forward.

  Gray grabbed his pack and squeezed between the bars. Once out on the stone parapet, he donned the backpack and turned back to her. “The rope.”

  She passed it to him. “Be careful.”

  “A little late for that.”

  He stared down between his toes. Not a wise thing to do, Rachel thought. The hundred-meter drop would weaken anyone’s knees…and strength of leg was most important now.

  Gray faced forward from the ledge of the cathedral’s south spire.

  Four meters away, over a fatal drop, stood the north spire, a twin to this one. Off limits to the public, there were no bars across the far window. But there was also no hope of jumping from window to window, not from a standing position. Instead, Gray planned to dive straight out and grab whatever handhold he could on the decorated façade of the opposite tower.

  The risk was great, but they had no other recourse.

  They had to jump ship.

  Gray bent his knees. Rachel held her breath, one hand fisted at the hollow of her neck.

  Without a second’s hesitation, Gray simply leaned out and leapt, arching the length of his body, flinging away the coil of slack rope. He flew across the gap and struck just below the window ledge. He lunged out with both arms and grabbed ahold of the sill, miraculously catching it. But the impact bounced him back. His arms could not hold him. He began to fall.

  “Your left foot!” she yelled to him.

  He heard her. His left toe scrambled against the stone surface and found the demon-faced gargoyle on the lower tier. He planted his foot atop its head.

  With his plummet stopped, he regained a handful of ledge above and found another toehold for his right leg, clinging like a fly to a wall. He took a deep breath, steadying himself, then climbed and manhandled himself through the window.

  Rachel risked a glance behind her, ducking to peer under the bell. The flames had stopped. She knew the others understood the significance of her sudden cease-fire.

  Rachel could wait no longer. She shimmied through the bars. The ledge was slick with pigeon guano, the winds gusting and treacherous.

  Across the gap, Gray had secured his end of the rope, forming a bridge. “Hurry! I have you.”

  She met his eyes across the gap and found firm assurance.

  “I have you,” he repeated.

  Swallowing, she reached out. Don’t look down, she thought, and grabbed the rope. Hand over hand. That’s all she needed to do.

  She leaned out, both fists white-knuckled to the rope, toes still on the ledge. She heard the bell ring behind her. Startled, she glanced over a shoulder and watched a dumbbell-shaped silver cylinder bounce across the stone deck.

  She didn’t know what it was—but it certainly wasn’t good.

  Needing no other encouragement, Rachel swung out on the rope and quickly scrambled across the bridge, legs kicking, hand over hand. Gray caught her around the midriff.

  “Bomb,” she gasped out, tossing her head back to indicate the far tower.

  “What—?”

  The blast cut off any further words. Buffeted from behind, Rachel was shoved through the casement and into Gray’s chest. They both fell in a tangle to the floor of the bell tower. A wall of blue flame rolled over them through the window, blast-furnace hot.

  Gray held her tight, shielding her with his own body.

  But the flames quickly dissipated in the gusty winds.

  Gray rolled aside as Rachel elbowed up. She stared back toward the south tower. The spire was aflame. Spats of fire licked and roiled from the four windows. The bell clanged within the conflagration.

  Gray joined her. He hauled in the rope. The knot on the far side had burned away, severing the bridge. Across the gap, the window bars glowed a fiery red.

  “Incendiary device,” he said.

  The flames rippled in the strong winds, like a candle in the night. A final memorial to those killed, both last night and tonight. Rachel pictured the rakish smile of her uncle. Dead. Grief welled through her…along with something hotter and sharper. She stumbled back, but Gray caught her.

  Police sirens wailed across the city, echoing up to them.

  “We must go,” he said.

  She nodded.

  “They’ll think us dead. Let’s keep it that way.”

  She allowed herself to be led to the stairwell. They hurried down, winding around and around. Sirens grew even louder—but closer, an engine coughed to life, revving gutturally, followed by a second.

  Gray checked the window. “They’re fleeing.”

  Rachel stared out. Three stories below, a pair of black vans pulled away, racing across the pedestrian square.

  “C’mon,” Gray said. “I have a bad feeling about this.”

  He hurried down, skipping steps. Rachel rushed after him, trusting his instinct.

  They hit the foyer at a dead run. One of the doors to the nave had been left ajar. Rachel glanced into the church—toward where her uncle had been killed. But something drew her eye, closer, on the floor, draped down the center aisle.

  Silver barbells.

  A dozen or more. Daisy-chained with red wires.

  “Run!” she yelled, turning on a heel.

  Together they hit the main doors and flew into the square.

  Without a word, they fled toward the only shelter. The panel truck of the German Polizei sat on the square. They dove behind it just as the devices exploded.

  It sounded like fireworks going off, one after the other, in succession.

  A shatter of glass accompanied, loud enough to be heard above the popping explosions. Rachel glanced up. The giant Bavarian stained-glass window above the main door, dating from the Middle Ages, blew out in a brilliant cascade of fire and jeweled glass.

  She tucked tight to the truck as the shower of glass pelted the square all around them in a rain of death.

  Something hit the far side of the truck with a resounding crash. Rachel bent and stared past the wheels. On the far side, one of the massive wooden doors of the cathedral lay on the street, aflame.

  Then a new noise intruded. Surprised voices. Muffled. Coming from inside the truck. Rachel glanced to Gray. He suddenly had a knife in hand, making it appear as if by magic.

  They circled around the back of the van.

  Before they could touch the handle, the door popped open.

  Rachel stared in disbelief as Gray’s stocky team member stumbled out. He was followed by his female partner, bearing a longsword in hand. And lastly by a familiar, welcome figure.

  “Uncle Vigor!” Rachel clasped him in a bear hug.

  He returned her embrace. “Why is it,” he asked, “that everyone seems determined to blow me up?”

  4:45 A.M.

  AN HOUR later, Gray paced the hotel room, still edgy, nerves stretched thin. They had taken up the room here using false identi
fication, determining it was best to get off the streets as soon as possible. Hotel Cristall on Ursulaplatz was located less than half a mile from the cathedral, a small boutique establishment with an oddly Scandinavian décor of primary colors.

  They had gone to ground here to regroup, establish a plan of action.

  But first they needed more intel.

  A key scuffled in the door lock. Gray placed a palm on his pistol. He wasn’t taking any chances. But it was only Monsignor Verona returning from a scouting expedition.

  Vigor pushed into the room. His expression had gone very grim.

  “What?”

  “The boy’s dead,” the monsignor said.

  The others gathered closer.

  Vigor explained, “Jason Pendleton. The boy who survived from the massacre. It’s just been reported on the BBC. He was killed in his hospital room. Cause of death is still unknown, but foul play is highly suspected. Especially coinciding with the firebombing of the cathedral.”

  Rachel shook her head sadly.

  Earlier, Gray had been relieved to find everyone alive, only bruised and shaken. He had failed to consider the survivor of the first massacre. But it made a certain horrible sense. The cathedral attack had obviously been a whitewash operation, to erase any residual trail. And of course, that would include silencing the only witness.

  “Did you learn anything else?” Gray asked.

  He had sent the monsignor down to the lounge after they had checked into the hotel, to investigate the state of affairs at the cathedral. The monsignor was best suited. He spoke the language fluently, and his clerical collar would place him above suspicion.

  Even now, Klaxons and sirens wailed across the city. Out the window, they had a view of Cathedral Hill. A bevy of fire engines and other emergency vehicles gathered there, flashing their blues and reds. Smoke clouded the night sky. The streets were crowded with spectators and news vans.

  “I learned nothing more than we already know,” Vigor said. “The fire is still raging inside the church. It hasn’t spread. I saw an interview with one of the priests from the rectory. No one was harmed. But they’re reporting concern about the whereabouts of myself and my niece.”

  “Good,” Gray said, earning a glance from Rachel. “As I said before, they think we were eliminated for the moment. We should maintain that ruse for as long as possible. As long as they don’t know we’re alive, they’ll be less likely to be looking over their shoulders.”

  “And less likely to be gunning for us,” Monk said. “I especially like that part.”

  Kat was working on a laptop wired to a digital camera. “The photos are uploading now,” she said.

  Gray stood and stepped to the desk. Monk and the others had sought not only a hiding place in the van after their escape, but also a vantage to get some photographs of the assailants. Gray was impressed with their resourcefulness.

  Black-and-white thumbnail images filled the screen.

  “There,” Rachel said, pointing to one. “That’s the guy who grabbed me.”

  “The leader of the group,” Gray said.

  Kat double-clicked the image and brought up a full-scale photo. He was frozen in mid-stride as he exited the cathedral. He had dark hair, cut long, almost to the shoulder. No facial hair. Aquiline features. Rocky and expressionless. Even in the photo, he gave off an air of superiority.

  “Look at that smug bastard,” Monk said. “The cat who ate the canary.”

  “Does anyone recognize him?” Gray asked.

  Heads shook.

  “I can uplink it to Sigma’s facial-recognition software,” Kat said.

  “Not yet,” Gray said. He answered her frown. “We need to stay incommunicado.”

  He glanced around the room. While normally he preferred to operate on his own, free from Big Brother watching over his shoulder, he could no longer play lone wolf. He had a team now, a responsibility beyond his own skin. His eyes found Vigor and Rachel. And it wasn’t even just his own team any longer. They were all looking to him. He suddenly felt overwhelmed. He desired nothing more than to check in with Sigma, consult with Director Crowe, pawn off his responsibility.

  But he couldn’t…at least not yet.

  Gray gathered his thoughts and his resolve. He cleared his throat. “Someone knew we were alone in the cathedral. Either they were already spying on the church or they had prior intel.”

  “A leak,” Vigor said, rubbing the beard under his lower lip.

  “Possibly. But I can’t say for sure where it might have originated.” Gray glanced to Vigor. “From our end or yours.”

  Vigor sighed and nodded. “I fear we may be to blame. The Dragon Court has always claimed members inside the Vatican. And with the ambush here following on the heels of the attacks against Rachel and myself, I can’t help but think the problem may lie at the Holy See itself.”

  “Not necessarily,” Gray answered. He turned back to the laptop and pointed to another thumbnail picture. “Bring that one up.”

  Kat double-clicked. An image of a slender woman climbing into the back of one of the two vans swelled across the monitor. Her face was only in silhouette.

  Gray glanced to the others. “Anyone know her?”

  More shakes.

  Monk leaned closer. “But I wouldn’t mind knowing her.”

  “This is the woman who attacked me at Fort Detrick.”

  Monk backed away, suddenly finding the woman less appealing. “The Guild operative?”

  Vigor and Rachel wore confused expressions. Gray didn’t have time to go into the full history of the Guild, but he gave a brief overview of the organization: its terrorist-cell structure, its ties to Russian mafiya, and its interest in new technologies.

  Once he was finished, Kat asked, “So you think the problem might be at our end?”

  “After Fort Detrick…?” Gray frowned. “Who can tell where the security leak lies? But the fact that the Guild is here, operating alongside the Dragon Court, I can’t help but think that they’ve been drawn in because of our involvement. But I think they’re as late to the game as we are.”

  “Why do you say that?” Rachel asked.

  Gray pointed at the screen. “The Dragon Lady let me escape.”

  Stunned silence followed.

  “Are you sure?” Monk asked.

  “Damn sure.” Gray rubbed his bruised upper arm where she had shot him as he fled.

  “Why would she do that?” Rachel asked.

  “Because she’s playing the Dragon Court. Like I said, I think the only reason the Guild has been called into this venture is because Sigma became involved. The Court wanted the Guild’s assistance to capture or eliminate us.”

  Kat nodded. “And if we were dead, then the Guild would no longer be needed. The partnership would end, and the Guild would never find out what the Dragon Court knows.”

  “But now the Court thinks we were killed,” Rachel said.

  “Exactly. And that’s another reason to keep that ruse going for as long as possible. If we’re dead, the Court will sever its ties with the Guild.”

  “One less opponent,” Monk said.

  Gray nodded.

  “What do we do next?” Kat asked.

  That was a mystery. They had no leads…except one. Gray glanced over to his pack. “The powder we recovered from the reliquary. It must hold a key to all this. But I don’t know what lock it fits. And if we can’t send it to Sigma to test…”

  Vigor spoke up. “I think you’re right. The answer lies in the powder. But a better question than ‘What is it—’”

  The monsignor suddenly halted, his eyes narrowed. He placed a hand on his forehead. “What is it…” he mumbled under his breath.

  “Uncle?” Rachel asked with concern.

  “Something…it’s right at the corner of my brain.”

  Gray remembered a similar expression of intense internal concentration when the monsignor had quoted a verse from the Book of Revelations.

  The priest balled a fis
t. “I can’t put it together. Like trying to catch a soap bubble in your palm.” He shook his head. “Maybe I’m too tired.”

  Gray sensed the man was being truthful…for the most part. But he was holding something back, something triggered by the words what is it. For a flicker, Gray saw fear shine behind the confusion.

  “So, what’s the better question?” Monk asked, returning to the original train of thought. “You started to say something about a better question than what the powder might be.”

  Vigor nodded, focusing back. “Right. Maybe we should be asking how the powder got there. Once every few years, the bones are carefully taken from the reliquary and the sarcophagus is cleaned. I’m sure they dusted and wiped out the interior.”

  Kat sat straighter. “Before the attack, we were wondering if the device somehow altered the gold of the sarcophagus, transmuted the lining into the white powder.”

  “That’s how it got there?” Rachel asked.

  “Could be,” Monk said. “Remember the magnetized cross back at the church. Something weird happened in there, and it affected metals. So why not gold, too?”

  Gray wished he had had more time to collect samples, to perform more tests. But with the cathedral firebombed—

  “No,” Kat said, sighing in exasperation. “Remember. The powder was not just gold. We also spotted other elements. Maybe platinum or something else in that transitional group of metals that can also disaggregate into m-state powdery form.”

  Gray slowly nodded, remembering the silvery inclusions in the molten gold.

  “I don’t think the powder came from the sarcophagus case,” Kat said.

  Monk frowned. “But if it’s not coming from the gold in the case and if the box is Windexed every couple of years…then where else could it be coming from?”

  Gray’s eyes widened with understanding. He understood Kat’s consternation. “It came from the bones.”

  “There is no other explanation,” Kat agreed.

  Monk balked, shaking his head. “That’s easy to say. We have no bones to test your hypothesis. They have them all.”

  Rachel and Vigor exchanged a sudden glance.