The Bone Labyrinth Read online

  “Actually we had intended to extract her in Germany, at the Max Planck Institute. But due to foul weather, she ended up leaving a day earlier than expected. Such are the whims of fate, spoiling the best-laid strategies.”

  “Then what did you want out of those caves?”

  “Let me show you.”

  Jiaying encouraged her to cross over to a long plastic transport case resting beside the sofa. The latches were already undone, so the general merely flipped open the lid. Maria stared inside. She immediately recognized the fossilized remains of a skeleton nestled inside. Despite her heart thudding in her throat, she could not discount a spark of professional interest.

  She dropped to a knee to better examine the skull, amazed at the preservation. “These bones, they’re not human . . . or rather not Homo sapiens.”

  “Neanderthal,” Wrightson corrected her.

  Frowning, she reached a finger toward the brow ridge. “No, I don’t think so. At least not completely. The facial bones are too flat. And what I can make of the molars, they appear too small.”

  She glanced up to find Jiaying smiling at her.

  But it was Dayne Arnaud who spoke, the paleontologist’s tone mournful. “I noted the same. And after taking meticulous measurements, I believe we’re dealing with the remains of a hybrid, some offspring very close to the original mating of an anatomically modern human and a Neanderthal.”

  Maria sat back on her heels. “If you’re right—”

  “It would be the first ever discovered,” Arnaud finished. “A specimen of astounding rarity, found in immaculée condition. Professor Wrightson radiocarbon-dated the remains to the last glacial period, around forty thousand years ago.”

  The geologist nodded. “But what’s most intriguing are the contradictions regarding—”

  “Enough, Alex,” Arnaud cut him off sharply. “No one cares about such anomalous details.”

  Wrightson looked ready to object, but instead settled back and crossed his arms. Clearly the two researchers were accustomed to bumping heads.

  Arnaud closed his eyes, then opened them, plainly trying to regain his composure. “It was because of this miraculous find that I reached out to the Max Planck Institute. And why I specifically requested your sister come to Croatia.”

  “Because of our research on Neanderthal hybridization,” Maria said.

  The paleontologist nodded. “I believed at the right facility there would be a great chance of extracting substantial DNA and wanted her expertise.”

  Maria understood. Such a discovery could unlock everything, offering a road map to what humans were as a species, to where we came from.

  If Lena and I had such a sample . . .

  Jiaying drew her attention away from the scientific potential and back to the immediate threat. “We learned of Dr. Arnaud’s discovery through one of our operatives already studying at Max Planck and acted quickly. Perhaps too hastily.”

  Maria gave a small shake of her head at the efficiency of the Chinese system of moles and spies. She knew Chinese students were enrolled at technical universities across the United States and abroad, but apparently many of them also had their ears to the ground, ready to alert the powers that be of any significant discovery.

  Jiaying continued, “Such a boon as this could shorten our own research by a full decade, if not more. Especially with the right team in place.”

  She bowed her head toward Maria and the others.

  Maria stood. “What exactly are you trying to accomplish here?”

  “Better I show you.”

  Jiaying waved her toward the door. The two men also stood to follow.

  Wrightson rose with a groan, palming his lower back. “No rest for the wicked.”

  Arnaud pushed past him gruffly.

  “I hope to enlist your cooperation,” Jiaying told Maria. “And Dr. Arnaud, your expertise as a paleontologist could also prove beneficial. But Professor Wrightson, we have little need for a geologist, even one of your esteem. But maybe you can serve in another capacity.”

  The old man looked baffled.

  Jiaying removed her sidearm, pointed it at Wrightson, and fired.

  The puzzlement never left the geologist’s face as he collapsed back onto the sofa, a small hole smoking in his forehead.

  The sudden blast in the small space deafened Maria. She stumbled backward, close to falling, but Jiaying kept her upright by gripping her arm. Maria looked aghast at the Chinese general, immediately realizing the intent behind Jiaying’s brutal action.

  It was a lesson.

  Maria understood.

  Be useful . . . or be dead.

  12

  April 30, 11:10 A.M. CEST

  Guadagnolo, Italy

  Gray drove their Mercedes SUV up another switchback into the Prenestini Mountains. Though it had taken them only an hour to travel from Rome’s airport to these highlands, it was like entering another era. The bustle of Rome had fallen behind them as they climbed into the farmlands and vineyards of rural Italy.

  Seated behind him, Lena Crandall had her window rolled down, taking in the fresh warm air of this spring day, but her eyes remained haunted, concerned for her sister. Upon arriving in Italy, they had received word that the GPS tracker being monitored by Sigma had finally died, placing the last known location of Lena’s sister somewhere in Beijing. Monk had just landed to continue the search for the kidnapped group.

  In the meantime, Gray’s party had their own quest.

  Father Roland sat in the backseat next to Lena. He had his nose buried in a small tourist guide, while balancing an iPad on his knee—where he had stored all of his information concerning Father Athanasius Kircher. The priest had purchased the booklet when they made a short stop at the village of Guadagnolo for lunch, dining at Ristorante da Peppe, a quaint family-run establishment with a roaring fireplace that was overhung with strings of handmade sausages. Roland had also used the time to make inquiries with the local diners concerning their destination: Santuario della Mentorella.

  The Catholic sanctuary—the ruins of which had been discovered and restored by Father Kircher—lay at the neighboring summit of Mount Guadagnolo. It was perched like an eagle’s nest a few kilometers higher up the peak, clinging to a spur of rock overlooking the surrounding Giovenzano Valley. Legend stated that it was upon that spur that Saint Eustace had his vision of a stag bearing aloft a glowing cross between his antlers.

  Gray pictured the faded drawing in Father Kircher’s journal.

  Let’s hope this isn’t all a wild-goose chase.

  As he finished the final switchback, a cluster of stone buildings with clay tile roofs appeared ahead, crowning the top of the peak. He passed a traffic sign written in Polish, Italian, and English.

  Seichan, who was seated in the passenger seat with an elbow out the window, frowned at the sign. “Why is so much around here written in Polish?”

  She was right. Even in that small village where they’d stopped for lunch, there had been a bookstore with a prominent display of Polish books.

  Roland explained, “Back in 1857, Pope Pius XI granted this church to the Congregation of the Resurrection—a Polish order. But what’s interesting is that Pope John Paul II often visited this shrine, even coming here immediately after his election to the papacy. As did his successor, Pope Benedict.”

  “So Father Kircher left his heart here,” Gray commented. “As did a pope from back then. And now the popes of our time make this place their first pilgrimage. Definitely sounds like there’s something important about this place.”

  Roland raised his tourist guide. “It also says here that the holy relics of over two hundred saints are interred at this sanctuary.”

  Lena turned from the window, clearly drawn by this strange fact. “Why so many?”

  “Probably because most people believe this church to be the oldest Marian sanctuary in the world.”

  Lena scrunched her brow. “Marian sanctuary?”

  “It’s a site dedicated
to the Madonna, to the Virgin Mary,” Roland explained. “The shrine dates back to when Emperor Constantine first founded it, some time in the fourth century. The Benedictine order oversaw this place for almost a thousand years before it finally fell into disrepair. In fact, it’s believed Saint Benedict spent time here in seclusion and prayer, living inside a cave just steps from the sanctuary’s church. You can still visit that grotto.”

  “I think I’ve had enough with caves for a while,” Lena said, which earned a rare snort of amusement from Seichan.

  Gray drove the last length of the winding road, passing a small cemetery, to park in a nearly empty lot next to a convent. The sanctuary’s church sat nearby. Its nondescript Romanesque facade hinted little at the significance of the site. Above the simple wooden doors, a rosette-shaped window reflected the sunlight, while below stood a bronze statue of a pope, with an upraised arm in blessing.

  “This is the place?” Lena asked, sounding disappointed.

  Gray climbed out and surveyed their surroundings. Whatever this church lacked in grandeur, the view from the rocky spur made up for it. The sweep of mountains faded into the distance to the north and south, while to the east, a wide valley opened, dropping far below in cliffs and forests to distant tilled fields.

  The others joined him.

  “We should check out the church first,” Roland said. “The nuns here are likely to know more about the mysteries of this place than we’ll find in any tourist guide.”

  The priest marched toward the door, adjusting his white Roman collar. Gray followed with the two women, letting Roland take the lead. If anyone could pry secrets out of a local nun, it would be a priest of the same faith.

  With the sun directly overhead, the day proved to be warm and bright, fading the cold and stormy mountains of Croatia into a distant memory. Still, Seichan kept a wary watch on their surroundings, glancing frequently toward the lone road that led up here. When they reached the church door, she hung back.

  “Something wrong?” he asked.

  “The approach here . . .” She narrowed her eyes. “There’s only one way up or down.”

  That was true. They were isolated up on this peak. It would be easy to get pinned down here. After Croatia, he didn’t blame her suspicions. He shifted his light jacket, feeling the weight of his SIG Sauer holstered at his shoulder.

  She noted the small movement, meeting his eyes. “I’ll stay out here. Let you all poke around on your own.”

  He appreciated her caution. While there was no evidence they had been followed, why take any chances? He touched her hand, thanking her. His fingers brushed along the inside of her wrist, remembering kissing that tender flesh—but now he felt the steel hilt of a sheathed dagger hidden under her cuff. It reminded him of the true nature of the woman he loved, that mix of tenderness and steel.

  That was Seichan.

  Roland tugged open the door to the church.

  “Get to work,” Seichan whispered throatily to Gray. The smoldering emerald of her eyes held both a challenge and a threat: Don’t leave me waiting for too long. Who knows what mischief I’ll get into?

  11:21 A.M.

  As Roland entered the church, he dipped his fingers into the font just inside the door and whispered a small prayer. He dabbed himself with holy water in the sign of the cross. As usual, he felt reverence and awe upon stepping into a house of God. Even the soft fragrance of old incense greeted him like a dear friend, blended with the vanilla-scented smoke from votive candles.

  While the sanctuary appeared drab on the outside, inside, the white plaster walls seemed awash with sacredness, arcing high into Gothic buttresses. Wooden pews led toward the altar, while on a landing overhead rose a magnificent eighteenth-century pipe organ. To the side, a few windows shone with stained glass, illuminating centuries-old frescoes and paintings. But it was the main altar that held the true treasure of the Sanctuary of Mentorella.

  In an alcove behind the altar rested a large wooden statue of the Madonna. It dated back to the twelfth century, a carving of Mary seated on a throne, cradling the infant Jesus. Both she and the child wore crowns embedded with gems and pearls. Tall bronze lamps flanked the figure, illuminating it, making the sculpture appear to glow from within, as if the wood itself was suffused with holiness.

  He headed toward it, drawn by its beauty.

  Lena broke the spell as she spoke behind him. “Where do we even begin this search?”

  His feet slowed, reminded of the task at hand: to hunt for what Father Kircher had removed from those caves. He allowed Lena and Gray to draw abreast of him in the center of the nave. He searched around, noting how few people were here. A pair of tourists—a husband and wife—made a slow ambulation along the perimeter of the pews, where a lone elderly woman, her hair tied in a scarf, knelt with her head bowed in prayer.

  The only other person present was a woman in a black nun’s habit. She stood to the side of the altar with her arms crossed, her hands hidden inside her sleeves. Considering the age of this convent, he would have expected to find an old nun in attendance, but instead the woman appeared no older than her twenties. Her hair was tucked and hidden under her wimple, but her bright blue eyes sparked with youth. Her gaze flicked to his Roman collar and gave a demure bow of her head, acknowledging his station.

  “Let’s see if she can help us,” Roland said and continued between the pews toward the altar.

  “Dzie dobry,” she greeted them in Polish, then repeated in Italian. “Buongiorno.”

  He smiled at her attempt to accommodate all visitors—or at least those that must drop in here the most often. “Lei parla inglese?” he asked in Italian.

  “Of course, Father, most certainly,” she said, her Polish accent still present. “In fact, I spent two years in Atlantic City. As a blackjack dealer.”

  Roland laughed. “Not exactly the usual path to serving our Lord.”

  She offered a shy grin, her gaze dropping in embarrassment. “It was a good job, paid well, and it let me see more of the world.”

  “I understand,” he said, encouraging her with a warm smile as he made their introductions. “And may I ask your name?”

  “Sister Clara.”

  “Excellent. Sister Clara, we were hoping you might help us.”

  “In any way I can, Father.”

  “We’ve traveled all the way from Croatia to study more about this sanctuary. We’re specifically interested in information about the priest who oversaw its reconstruction in the seventeenth century.”

  “You mean Father Kircher.”

  Roland felt a measure of shock, but then realized any nun here would certainly know this place’s history in detail.

  “Yes, precisely,” he answered. “I teach at a Catholic university in Zagreb and did my doctoral thesis on the reverend father. I came here to learn more about his later years, to discover why he became so focused on rebuilding this sanctuary, specifically why he took such a personal involvement. I had hoped that perhaps you and your sisters might know more than could be found in any textbook.”

  “Even if it’s just legend or rumor,” Gray added. “Anything that might direct us to discovering more about his work here.”

  Sister Clara pointed to the marble floor in front of the altar. “We can perhaps start right here. Father Kircher’s heart is buried at the foot of this altar, per his request to the pope. He wanted the grace of the Madonna to always be shining upon him.”

  Lena spoke up. “So Father Kircher was obsessed with the Virgin Mary.”

  “Revered, I believe is more accurate. It was why he petitioned to rebuild this sanctuary. Because it was the oldest site of worship for the Holy Mother.”

  Roland glanced quizzically at Lena, seeing some glimmer of realization shining in her eyes. He pulled her and Gray aside and asked softly, “Lena, what are you thinking?”

  “Eve was a woman, the mother of us all,” she whispered. “If Father Kircher was seeking a place to venerate her, too . . .”

&n
bsp; This would be the perfect place to inter her bones.

  “But if you’re right, how might he have hidden such a grave? How would he have marked it?”

  Gray offered a solution. “Didn’t you mention that Father Kircher had a great fascination with hieroglyphics, that he even carved some of his own symbols into ancient Egyptian obelisks?”

  “That’s correct, but what does that have to do—”

  Gray pressed on. “And didn’t he come to believe that hieroglyphics might be the lost language of Adam and Eve?”

  Shock and possibility widened in Roland’s eyes. He looked upon the American with more respect.

  “Let’s find out,” he said and crossed back to Clara. “Sister, when the reverend father oversaw the reconstruction here, I understand that he laid some of the bricks himself and also had a hand in restoring the artwork and ornamentation.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Fascinating. And I know this may sound odd. But is there anywhere on these grounds where he might have had hieroglyphics inscribed as decoration?”

  Clara’s brows rose in surprise. “As a matter of fact, yes, Father.” She turned to a side door to the church. “Up in the Chapel of Saint Eustace. I can direct you there if you’d like.”

  Roland inclined his head, trying to keep calm. “We’d be most grateful.”

  She led them past the altar to a small wooden door and held it ajar for them. Sunlight streamed inside from a small courtyard behind the church. A crushed gravel path led through a wild garden of olive trees and rosebushes, set among a scatter of marble statuary.

  “If you follow this path,” she instructed, “it will take you to a fork. To the left, steps lead down to Saint Benedict’s cave, but to the right, you’ll find the Scala Santa, the Holy Ladder. Those set of marble steps climb up to the Chapel of Saint Eustace.”

  Gray headed out first, nodding to Clara. “Thank you, Sister.”

  Clara stopped Roland with a touch on his arm before he left. “You asked about legends concerning Father Kircher.” She nodded in the direction of the solitary chapel sitting at the highest point of the summit. “It is said that Father Kircher worked on that building with a single mason. The only other person he ever allowed up there during its construction was a friend, a bishop named Nicolas Steno. According to our records, Bishop Steno and Father Kircher spent much time together here, and in fact it was the bishop who carried Kircher’s heart to the Sanctuary of Mentorella upon the reverend father’s death.”