Map of Bones: A Sigma Force Novel Read online

  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 god.

  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, surpassed 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. 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 bastards 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.”

  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 space as she pressed the button.

  “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 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.”

  “—capitò, 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, petition, 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 passed 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?

  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 head that sells well on the black market. There’s a huge demand for ancient art of the 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.”

  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.M.

  STILL SO very, very late…
r />   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.

  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.

  And then again…it was a convertible. She was a woman who appreciated flexibility—if she couldn’t get it from her man, she’d get it from her car.

  Though today it was too hot to go topless.

  A shame.

  She unlocked the door, but before she climbed inside, her cell phone chimed at her belt.

  Now what?

  It was probably Carabiniere Gerard, into whose care she had just left Roberto. The student was on his way to be interrogated at Parioli Station. She squinted at the incoming phone number. She recognized the international telephone prefix—39-06—but not the number.

  Why was someone from the Vatican calling her?

  Rachel flipped her cell phone to her ear. “Lieutenant Verona here.”

  A familiar voice answered. “How is my favorite niece doing today…besides aggravating her mother?”

  “Uncle Vigor?” A smile formed. Her uncle, better known as Monsignor Vigor Verona, headed the Pontifical Institute of Christian Archaeology. But he was not calling from his university office.

  “I called your mother, thinking you were with her. But it seems a carabiniere’s work follows no clock. A fact, I think, that your dear mother does not appreciate.”

  “I’m on my way to the restaurant right now.”

  “Or you would be…if not for my call.”

  Rachel leaned a hand against her car. “Uncle Vigor, what are you—”

  “I’ve already passed on your regrets to your mother. She and your sister will see you for an early dinner instead. At Il Matriciano. You’ll be paying, of course, due to the inconvenience.”

  No doubt Rachel would pay—and in more ways than just in euros. “What’s this all about, Uncle?”

  “I need you to join me here at the Vatican. Immediately. I’ll have a pass waiting for you at the St. Anne’s Gate.”

  She checked her watch. She would have to cross half of Rome. “I’m supposed to meet with General Rende back at my station to follow up on an open investigation.”

  “I’ve already spoken with your commander. He’s approved your excursion here. In fact, I have you for a full week.”

  “A week?”

  “Or more. I’ll explain all when you get here.” He gave her directions to where he wanted to meet. Her brow crinkled, but before she could ask more, her uncle signed off.

  “Ciao, my bambina.”

  Shaking her head, she climbed into her car.

  A week or more?

  It seemed when the Vatican spoke, even the military listened. Then again, General Rende was a family friend, going back two generations. He and Uncle Vigor were as close as brothers. It wasn’t pure chance that Rachel had been brought to the general’s attention and recruited from the University of Rome. Her uncle had been watching over her since her father had died in a bus accident fifteen years before.

  Under his tutelage, she had spent many summers exploring Rome’s museums, staying with the nuns of Saint Brigida, not far from the Gregorian University, better known as il Greg, where Uncle Vigor had studied and still taught. And while her uncle might have preferred she had entered the convent and followed in his footsteps, he had recognized she was too much of a hellion for such a pious profession and encouraged her to pursue her passion. He had also instilled in her one other gift during those long summers: the respect and love of history and art, where the greatest expressions of mankind were cemented in marble and granite, oil and canvas, glass and bronze.

  And now it seemed her uncle was not done with her yet.

  Slipping on a pair of blue-tinted Revo sunglasses, she pulled out onto Via Labicano and headed toward the massive Coliseum. Traffic congested around the landmark, but she crisscrossed through some backstreets, narrow and lined with crookedly parked vehicles. She zipped, slipping between the gears with the skill of a Grand Prix racer. She downshifted as she approached the entrance to a roundabout where five streets converged into a mad circle. Visitors considered Roman drivers ill-tempered, short of patience, and heavy of foot. Rachel found them sluggish.

  She lunged between an overloaded flatbed and a boxy Mercedes G500 utility vehicle. Her Mini Cooper appeared to be no more than a sparrow flitting between two elephants. She flicked around the Mercedes, filled the tiny space in front of it, earned the blare of a car horn, but she was already gone. She whisked off the roundabout and onto the main thoroughfare that headed toward the Tiber River.

  As she raced down the wide street, she kept an eye fixed to the flow of traffic on all sides. To move safely through Roman streets required not so much caution as it did strategic planning. As a result of such particular attention, Rachel noted her tail.

  The black BMW sedan swung into position, five cars back.

  Who was following her—and why?

  2:05 P.M.

  FIFTEEN MINUTES later, Rachel pulled into the entrance of an underground parking garage just outside the walls of the Vatican. As she descended, she searched the street behind her. The black BMW had vanished shortly after she had crossed the Tiber River. There was still no sign of it.

  “Thank you,” she said into her cell phone. “The car is gone.”

  “Are you secure?” It was the warrant officer from her station house. She had called in the tail and kept the line open.

  “It appears to be.”

  “Do you want a patrol sent out?”

  “No need. There are carabinieri on guard on the Square. I’ll be fine from here. Ciao.”

  She felt no embarrassment for calling in the false alarm. She would earn no ridicule. The Carabinieri Corps fostered a certain level of healthy paranoia among its men and women.

  She found a parking space, climbed out, and locked her car. Still, she kept her cell phone in hand. She would’ve preferred her 9mm.

  At the top of the ramp, she stepped out of the car park and crossed toward St. Peter’s Square. Though she approached one of the architectural masterpieces of the world, she kept a watch on the nearby streets and alleys.

  There continued to be no sign of the BMW.

  The car’s occupants had probably just been tourists, surveying the city’s landmarks in air-conditioned luxury rather than on foot in the blaze of the midday heat. Summer was high season, and all visitors eventually headed to the Vatican. It was most likely the very reason she thought she was being followed. Was it not said that all roads lead to Rome?

  Or at least in this case, all traffic.

  Satisfied, she pocketed her cell phone and crossed St. Peter’s Square, heading toward the far side.

  As usual, her eyes were drawn down the length of the piazza. Across the travertine square rose St. Peter’s Basilica, built over the t
omb of the martyred saint. Its dome, designed by Michelangelo, was the highest point in all of Rome. To either side, Bernini’s double colonnade swept out in two wide arcs, framing the keyhole-shaped plaza between. According to Bernini, the colonnade was supposed to represent the arms of Saint Peter reaching out to embrace the faithful into the fold. Atop these arms, one hundred and forty stone saints perched and stared down upon the spectacle below.

  And a spectacle it was.

  What had once been Nero’s circus continued to be a circus.

  All around, voices babbled in French, Arabic, Polish, Hebrew, Dutch, Chinese. Tour groups congregated in islands around guides; sightseers stood with arms around shoulders, wearing false grins as photographs were taken; a few pious stood in the sun, Bibles open in hands, heads bowed in prayers. A tiny cluster of Korean supplicants knelt on the stones, all dressed in yellow. Throughout the square, vendors worked the crowd, selling papal coins, scented rosaries, and blessed crucifixes.

  She gratefully reached the far side of the square and approached one of the five entrances to the main complex. Porta Sant’Anna. The gate nearest to her destination.

  She stepped to one of the Swiss Guards. As was traditional for this gate, he was dressed in a uniform of dark blue with a white collar, topped by a black beret. He took her name, checked her identification, and glanced up and down her slender frame as if disbelieving she was a Carabinieri lieutenant. Once satisfied, he perfunctorily directed her off to the side, to one of the Vigilanza, the Vatican Police, where a laminated pass was handed to her.

  “Keep it with you at all times,” the policeman warned.

  Armed with her pass, she followed the line of visitors through the gate and down Via del Pellegrino.

  Most of the city-state was off-limits. The only public spaces were St. Peter’s Basilica, the Vatican Museums, and the Gardens. The rest of the hundred acres were restricted without special permission.

  But one section was truly forbidden territory to all but a few.

  The Apostolic Palace, the home of the pope.