Map of Bones (Sigma Force 2)

He carried a book under one arm and shook a finger at Rachel. “You haven’t been totally honest with us.”

Rachel felt her heart stop beating, her breath became trapped.

Alberto turned to Raoul. “And if you hadn’t distracted me with the need to mend that American’s wrist, I would’ve discovered this sooner. Both of you, come here.”

They were waved to the cluttered desk.

Rachel noted her map of the Mediterranean spread out on the top. New lines had been added, circles, meridians, degree marks. Tiny arcane numbers were inscribed along one edge of the map. A compass and T square rested beside it, along with a sextant. Plainly, Alberto had been working on this puzzle, either not trusting Rachel or figuring she and her uncle were too obtuse.

The prefect tapped the map. “Rome is not the next place.”

Rachel forced herself not to flinch.

Alberto continued, “All the subtext to this geometric design signifies forward motion in time. Even this hourglass, it segments time, marching forward one grain at a time, to the inevitable end. For this reason, the symbol of the hourglass has always represented death, the end of time. To have an hourglass show up here can only mean one thing.”

Raoul’s frown deepened, indicating his lack of understanding.

Alberto sighed. “Obviously, it signifies the end of this journey. I’m sure that wherever this clue points, it marks the last stop.”

Rachel felt Raoul stir beside her. They were close to their end goal. But they didn’t have the gold key, and for all Alberto’s intelligence, he hadn’t solved the complete riddle yet. But he would.

“It can’t be Rome,” Alberto said. “That’s moving backward, not forward. There is another mystery to solve here.”

Rachel shook her head, feigning exhausted disinterest. “That’s all we could calculate before we were attacked.” She waved around his room. “We didn’t have your resources.”

Alberto studied her as she spoke. She stared, unflinching.

“I…I believe you,” he said slowly. “Monsignor Vigor is quite sharp, but this riddle is layered in mystery.”

Rachel kept her features dull, allowing some fear to show, acting cowed. Alberto worked alone. He’d plainly ensconced himself in here to solve the Court’s mysteries. Trusting no one else, conceited in his own superiority. He would not understand the value of the wider perspective, a diversification of viewpoint. It had taken the entire team’s expertise to piece the mystery together, not the work of one man.

But the prefect was no fool. “Still,” he said, “we should be sure. You kept hidden the discovery of the gold key. Maybe there’s more you kept hidden.”

Fear edged higher. “I’ve told you everything,” she swore with mustered conviction. Would they believe her? Would they torture her?

She swallowed hard, trying to hide it. She would never talk. Too much was at stake. She had seen the power displayed in Rome and Alexandria. The Dragon Court must never possess it.

Even Monk’s life would be forfeit from here. They were both soldiers. Back on the hydrofoil, she had given the information about the gold key not only to spare Monk, but also to engage Gray, to give him a chance to do something. It had seemed a reasonable risk. Like now, the Court had still been missing a vital piece of the puzzle. She had to hold on to the discovery of Avignon and the French papacy.

Or all would be lost.

Alberto shrugged. “There’s only one way to find out if you know more. It’s time we ensured the complete truth from you. Take her next door. We should be ready.”

Rachel’s breathing grew quicker, but she could not seem to get enough air. She was manhandled by Raoul back out the door. Alberto followed, shedding his jacket, ready to get down to work.

Rachel pictured again Monk’s hand flopping on the ship’s deck. She had to gird herself for worse. They must not know. Not ever. No reason would be good enough for her to reveal the truth.

As Rachel stepped out into the hall, she saw that the far room, the one that held the strange X-shaped table, was lit up much brighter. Someone had turned on the overhead surgical lamp.

Raoul partially blocked the view. She spotted an IV bottle on a stand. A tray of long surgical instruments, sharp-edged, corkscrewed, and razor-toothed. A figure was strapped to the table.

Oh God…Monk…?

“We can stretch this interrogation all night long,” Alberto promised, stepping past to enter the room first. He crossed and donned a pair of sterile latex gloves.

Raoul finally dragged her forward into the suite of surgical horrors.

Rachel finally saw who was strapped to the table, pinioned, limbs stretched and tied, nose already dripping blood.

“Someone came snooping where they shouldn’t have,” Raoul said with a hungry smile.

The captive’s face turned toward her. Their eyes met with recognition. And at that moment, all will left her.

Rachel lunged forward. “No!”

Raoul grabbed a fistful of her hair and dragged Rachel to her knees. “You’ll watch from here.”

Alberto picked up a silver scalpel. “We’ll start with the left ear.”

“No!” Rachel screamed. “I’ll tell you! I’ll tell you everything!”

Alberto lowered the blade and turned to her.

“Avignon,” she sobbed. “It’s Avignon.”

She felt no guilt in the telling. She had to trust Gray from here. All hope rested on him. Rachel stared into the terrified eyes of the bound prisoner.

“Nonna…” Rachel moaned.

It was her grandmother.

2:22 A.M.

AVIGNON, FRANCE

THE CITY of Avignon glowed, shouted, sang, and danced.

The annual Summer Theater Festival ran each July, the world’s largest showcase of the music, drama, and art. Youth crowded into the city, camping in parks, flooding hotels and youth hostels. It was an around-the-clock party. Even the lowering skies did not discourage the festival-goers.

Vigor turned from a couple in full fellatio on a secluded park bench. The woman’s long hair hid most of her effort at pleasuring her male companion. Vigor hurried past with Kat at his side. They had chosen to pass through the high park to reach the Place du Palais, the Palace Square. The pope’s castle sat atop a spur of rock overlooking the river.

As they passed a lookout spot, a curve of the river appeared below. Jutting out into it was the famous bridge of French nursery rhymes, Le Pont d’Avignon, or St. Benezet Bridge. Built in the late twelfth century, it was the only bridge to span the Rhône River…though after so many centuries, only four of its original twenty-two arches remained. The partial span was lit up brilliantly. Partiers danced atop it, traditional folk dancers from the look of it. Music trailed up to them.