Map of Bones

by James Rollins

  They burst back into sunlight and air.

  Monk craned back. They had more than cleared the sailboat. “Fuck, yeah!” The hydrofoil had to swing around the obstacle, losing ground.

  “Monk!” Rachel yelled in his ear.

  He faced forward to see a boxy wall of boat in front of him, the naked houseboat couple’s. Crap! They were flying right toward its port side. There was no shying from it.

  Monk slammed his weight forward and tipped the nose of the sled straight down. They dove in a steep dive…but was it steep enough to duck under the houseboat, like he had the sailboat?

  The answer was no.

  Monk slammed into the keel with the tip of his sled. The sled flipped ass-end up. Monk clutched an iron grip to the handles. The sled skittered against the wood side, barnacles ripping at his shoulder. He gunned the throttle and shot deeper.

  He finally cleared the underside of the boat and sped back into clear water.

  He jetted upward, knowing he had little time.

  Rachel was gone, knocked off with the first collision.

  GRAY HELD his breath.

  A commotion immediately sounded from down the low tunnel. The first of the men must have reached the end of the passage. It must have been short.

  “Eine Goldtür!” he heard shouted. A gold door.

  Raoul hurried forward, dragging Gray with him. Vigor was kept pinned at the pool’s edge by a diver with a speargun.

  The tunnel, lit up by the explorers’ flashlights, extended only some thirty yards and was slightly curved. The end could not be seen, but the last two men in line—and Seichan—were limned against the glow, all focused forward.

  Gray had a sudden fear that perhaps they’d been wrong about the gold key they had found. Maybe it was meant for this door.

  “Es wird entriegelt!” a shout called. Unlocked!

  From where Gray stood, he heard the click as the door was opened.

  It was too loud.

  Seichan must have noted it, too. She spun around and leaped back toward them. She was too late.

  From all walls, sharpened poles of steel shot out of crevices and shadowed nooks. They skewered across the passage, piercing through flesh and bone, and embedded into holes drilled on the opposite side. The deadly tangle started deep and swept outward in a matter of two seconds.

  Lights bobbled. Men screamed, impaled and pinned.

  Seichan made it within two steps of the exit, but the tail end of the booby trap caught her. A single sharpened pole lanced out and impaled through her shoulder. She jerked to a stop, legs going out from under her.

  A pained gasp was the only sound she made, hung up and skewered on the bar.

  Shocked, Raoul weakened his grip on Gray.

  Taking advantage, Gray wrested free and flung himself toward the pool. “Go!” he shouted to Vigor.

  Before he could take a second step, something struck the back of his head. Hard. He went down on one knee. He was clubbed again, on the side of the head, pistol-whipped with the butt of a speargun.

  He had underestimated the speed of the giant.

  A mistake.

  Raoul kicked Gray onto his face and pressed a boot on his neck, bearing down with full weight.

  Gasping, Gray watched Vigor fished back out of the pool. The monsignor had been caught by the ankle and denied escape.

  Raoul leaned down, leering into Gray’s view.

  “A nasty little trick,” he said.

  “I didn’t know—”

  The boot pressed harder, squeezing off his words.

  “But you have eliminated a bit of a problem for me,” he continued. “Taking that bitch out of the picture. But now we have some work to do…the two of us.”

  RACHEL CLAWED back to the surface of the water, hitting her head again on the side of the boat. She choked on a mouthful of water and broke through to open air. She coughed and gagged repeatedly, reflexively, unable to stop. Her limbs floundered.

  A gate suddenly dropped and she saw a naked middle-aged man standing there, bare-assed to the world. “Tudo bem, Menina?”

  Portuguese. Asking if she was okay.

  She shook her head, still coughing.

  He bent down and offered an arm. Taking it, she allowed herself to be hauled up and stood shakily. Where was Monk?

  She watched the hydrofoil banking away, heading out toward deeper waters. The reason soon became apparent. A pair of Egyptian police cruisers sped out from the far pier, revving up, gaining speed, finally responding. The chaos in the harbor must have delayed them, but better late than never.

  Relief flooded through her.

  Rachel turned to find the man’s wife or companion, equally naked.

  Except for the gun.

  MONK SURFED around the stern of the houseboat, searching for Rachel. Further out in the harbor, a police cruiser wailed across the waters. Lights flashed an angry red and white. The hydrofoil raced away, picking up speed, lifting to the full extent of its skids.

  Escaping.

  There was no way for the police to catch it. The hydrofoil headed out…to international waters or to some other hidden berth.

  Monk turned his full attention to his search for Rachel. He feared to find her floating facedown, drowned in the polluted water. He edged around the stern, staying close to the boat.

  He spotted motion on the rear deck of the houseboat.

  Rachel…she had her back to him, but looked unsteady. The naked middle-aged man supported her with one arm.

  He slowed. “Rachel…are you o—”

  She glanced back, eyes panicked. The man raised his other arm. He held a snub-nosed automatic rifle, pointed at Monk’s face.

  “Oh…I guess not,” Monk muttered.

  GRAY’S NECK was about to break.

  Raoul knelt atop him, one knee square on the middle of his back, the other on the back of his neck. One hand twisted into Gray’s hair, yanking his head back. The man’s other hand held the speargun straight-armed toward Vigor’s left eye.

  The monsignor was on his knees, flanked by two divers with additional guns. A third looked on, scowling with a knife balanced in his hand. All eyes were narrowed with raw hatred. Gray’s trick had slain five of their men, comrades-in-arms.

  Moans still echoed from the bloody tunnel, but there would be no rescue for them. Only revenge.

  Raoul leaned closer. “Enough games. What did you learn in—”

  A zinging thwack cut off his words.

  The speargun clattered from Raoul’s grip. A roaring howl erupted from him as he fell off Gray.

  Released, Gray rolled across the floor, snatched up the abandoned speargun, and shot one of the men holding Vigor.

  The shaft pierced through the diver’s neck, knocking him back.

  The other man straightened, turning his weapon on Gray, but before he could fire, a spear flashed through the air from the pool and spitted the man through the belly.

  His weapon fired reflexively, but the shot went wild as he tumbled backward.

  Vigor slapped the one unfired speargun toward Gray, then flung himself low.

  Gray grabbed it and swung it toward Raoul.

  The giant ran for the nearby tunnel, the one that led to Alexander’s tomb. Raoul clutched a hand to his other wrist, his palm pierced through by a length of steel spear.

  Kat’s shot had been precise, disarming and disabling.

  The last of the Court’s men, the one with the dagger, was the first into the tunnel and led the way. Raoul followed.

  Gray gained his feet, took aim at Raoul’s back, and fired.

  The spear flew down the tunnel. Raoul would not reach the first turn in time. The shaft struck the large man in the back and clanged.

  The spear clattered harmlessly to the stone floor.

  Gray cursed his luck. He had hit the incendiary grenade still slung over Raoul’s shoulder. Saved by his own damn bomb.

  The giant vanished around the first turn of the passage.

  “We have t
o go,” Kat said. “I killed the two guards outside, slipping in on one of their own sleds, caught them by surprise. But I don’t know how many more are out there.”

  Gray eyed the tunnel, hesitating.

  Vigor was already in the water. “Rachel…?”

  “I sent her off with Monk on another sled. They should be at shore by now.”

  Vigor hugged Kat quickly, his eyes bright with tears of relief. He pulled down his mask.

  “Commander?”

  Gray considered going after Raoul, but a cornered dog was the most dangerous. He didn’t know if Raoul had a dry-wrapped pistol or some other weapon stashed, but the bastard definitely had a bomb. Raoul could lob it here on a short fuse and take them all out.

  He turned away.

  They had what they needed.

  One hand patted the thigh pouch and the hidden gold key.

  It was time to go.

  Gray pulled on his mask and joined the others. On the stone floor, the man he’d shot through the throat was already dead. The other moaned, pierced fully through the belly. Blood pooled under him. Shot through the kidney. Or maybe his aorta had been nicked. He’d be dead in minutes.

  Gray felt no pity. He remembered the atrocities in Cologne and Milan. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  RAOUL YANKED the spear from his hand. Steel ground on bone. Fire lanced through his arm to his chest, emptying his breath in an angry hiss. Blood poured. He pulled his glove off and tied the neoprene around his palm, stanching and putting pressure on the wound.

  No broken bones.

  Dr. Alberto Menardi had the medical background to patch him up.

  Raoul stared across the room, illuminated by his flashlight on the floor. What the hell was this place?

  The glass pyramid, the water, the starry dome…

  The last surviving man, Kurt, returned from the passageway. He had gone to reconnoiter the entry pool. “They left,” he reported. “Bernard and Pelz are dead.”

  Raoul finished his first aid and considered the next step. They would have to evacuate quickly. The Americans could send the Egyptian police straight here. The original plan had been to lure the local authorities away with the hydrofoil, leaving Raoul and his team to do a full investigation down here in secret, then make their escape in the clunky, nondescript houseboat.

  Now matters had changed.

  Cursing, Raoul bent to his pack on the ground. It held a digital camera. He would get a visual record, get it to Alberto, and hunt down the Americans.

  It wasn’t over yet.

  As Raoul dug out his camera, his foot nudged the sling holding the incendiary grenade. A fold of sealcloth fell away. He ignored it until he noted a slight red glow on the neighboring wall.

  Fuck…

  Dropping to a knee, he snatched the bomb and rolled it digital face forward.

  00:33.

  He spotted the deep ding in the casing near the timer. Where the American bastard had struck it with the speargun.

  00:32.

  The impact must have shorted something, activated the timer.

  Raoul tapped the abort code. Nothing.

  He shoved up, the sudden motion making his hand ache.

  “Go,” he ordered Kurt.

  The man’s eyes were fixed on the bomb. But he glanced up, nodded, and ran for the tunnel.

  Raoul retrieved his digital camera, took several rapid flash pictures, sealed the camera in a pocket, then strode away.

  00:19.

  He retreated back to the entry room. Kurt was already gone.

  “Raoul!” a voice called to him.

  He spun, startled, but it was only Seichan. The bitch was still trapped in the other tunnel.

  Raoul waved to her. “It was nice doing business with you.”

  He pulled down his mask and dove cleanly into the pool. He snaked down the tunnel and found Kurt waiting beyond. The diver was examining two other bodies, two more of their men. Kurt shook his head.

  A savage fury swelled inside Raoul.

  Then a rumbling reverberation trembled through the water, sounding like a passing freight train. The tunnel behind him flashed with a dull orange glow. He glanced back as it rapidly subsided. The trembling faded.

  All gone.

  Raoul closed his eyes. He had nothing to show. The Court would have his balls…and probably more. He considered simply swimming away, disappearing. He had money stashed in three different Swiss bank accounts.

  But he’d still be hunted.

  Raoul’s radio buzzed in his ear. “Seal One, this is Slow Tug.”

  He opened his eyes. It was his pick-up boat. “Seal One here,” he responded leadenly.

  “We report two additional passengers aboard.”

  Raoul frowned. “Please clarify.”

  “A woman you know and an American.”

  Raoul clenched his wounded fist. Saltwater burned with a cleansing agony. The fire spread through him.

  Perfect.

  3:22 P.M.

  GRAY STALKED across the length of the hotel suite, the one Monk had prebooked for the group. They were on the top floor of the Corniche Hotel, having arrived twenty-five minutes ago. The balcony windows overlooked the glass-and-steel sweep of the new Alexandria Library. The harbor beyond shone like dark blue ice. Boats and yachts seemed imbedded in place. Calm had quickly returned to the harbor.

  Vigor had watched the local news station and listened as an Egyptian newsman reported on a confrontation among a group of drug smugglers. The police had failed to subdue them. The Court had escaped.

  Gray also knew the tomb had been destroyed. He and the others had used air tanks and two of the abandoned sleds to flee to the far side of the harbor, where they shed their gear under a pier. But while crossing, Gray had heard a muffled thump through the water behind him.

  The incendiary grenade.

  Raoul must have blown it as he made his escape.

  Once Gray, Kat, and Vigor had climbed out of the harbor, stripped to trunks and swimsuits, they had blended into a crowd of sunbathers and crossed a seaside park to their hotel. Gray had expected to find Monk and Rachel already here.

  But there continued to be no sign of the pair.

  No messages, no calls.

  “Where could they be?” Vigor asked.

  Gray turned to Kat. “And you saw them leave with one of the motorized sleds?”

  She nodded, face taut with guilt. “I should’ve made sure…”

  “And we’d both be dead,” Gray said. “You made a choice.”

  He couldn’t fault her.

  Gray rubbed his eyes. “And she has Monk with her.” He took a measure of comfort in that.

  “What do we do?” Vigor asked.

  Gray lowered his arms and stared out the window. “We have to assume they’ve been captured. We can’t count on our security here lasting much longer. We’ll have to evacuate.”

  “Leave?” Vigor said, standing up.

  Gray felt the full weight of his responsibility. He faced Vigor, refusing to look away. “We have no choice.”

  4:05 P.M.

  RACHEL CLIMBED into the terry-cloth robe. She snugged it around her naked form while glaring at the cabin’s other occupant.

  The tall, muscular blonde woman ignored her and stepped to the cabin doorway. “All finished in here!” she called out to the passageway.

  The door opened to reveal a second woman, a twin to the first but auburn-haired. She entered and held the door for Raoul. The large man ducked through the hatch.

  “She’s clean,” the blonde reported, peeling off a pair of latex gloves. She had performed a full body-cavity search on Rachel. “Nothing hidden.”

  Certainly not any longer, Rachel thought angrily. She turned her back slightly and knotted the robe’s sash, tight, under her breasts. Her fingers trembled. She squeezed her fingers on the knot. Tears threatened, but she resisted, refusing to give Raoul the satisfaction.

  Rachel stared out the tiny porthole, attempting to disc
ern some landmark, something to pinpoint where she was. But all she saw was featureless sea.

  She and Monk had been transferred from the houseboat. The ponderous craft had trundled out of the harbor, met a speedboat, and the pair were tied, hooded, and gagged by a foursome of thick-necked men. They were shoved into the smaller boat, then whisked away, bouncing over the waves. They had traveled for what seemed like half a day but was probably only a little more than an hour. Once the hood was tugged off her face, Rachel had found the sun had hardly moved across the sky.

  In a small cove, hidden by a tumble of rock, the familiar hydrofoil waited like a midnight-blue shark. Men worked the ropes, preparing to ship out. She’d spotted Raoul at the stern, arms crossed over his chest.

  Manhandled aboard, Rachel and Monk were separated.

  Raoul had taken charge of Monk.

  Rachel still didn’t know what had become of her teammate. She had been hustled below deck to a cabin, guarded by the two Amazon women. The hydrofoil had immediately edged out of the cove and sped away, heading straight out into the Mediterranean.

  That had been more than half an hour ago.

  Raoul came forward and grabbed her upper arm. His other hand was bandaged. “Come with me.” His fingers dug hard, to bone.

  She allowed herself to be led out into the wood-paneled hallway, lit by sconces. The passageway crossed from stern to bow, lined by doors to private cabins. There was only one steep stairway, more like a ladder, to the main deck.

  Instead of going up, Raoul marched her toward the bow.

  Raoul knocked on the door to the last cabin.

  “Entri,” a muffled voice said.

  Raoul pulled the door open and dragged Rachel inside. The cabin was larger than her prison cell. It held not only a bed and chair, but also a desk, sidetable, and bookshelves. On every flat surface, texts, magazines, even scrolls were stacked. One corner of the desk supported a laptop computer.

  The room’s occupant straightened and turned. He had been leaning over his desk, glasses perched on the tip of his nose.

  “Rachel,” the man said warmly, as if they were the best of friends.

  She recognized the older man from the days when she had accompanied Uncle Vigor to the Vatican Libraries. He had been the head prefect of the Archives, Dr. Alberto Menardi. The traitor stood a few inches taller than she, but he had a perpetual hunch to his posture, making him seem shorter.