James Rollins - Map of Bones

Rachel walked toward it in a happy daze.

They quickly climbed inside. Giuseppe agreed to wait for the fire department, continuing his post as caretaker of the catacombs.

Rachel slid into the driver’s seat. She knew the streets of Rome the best. But not all were happy with this choice of driver.

“Monk,” Rachel said as she turned the key and the engine roared.

“What?”

“Maybe you’d better close your eyes.”

AFTER A brief stop at a bank of public telephones, Rachel pulled away from the curb. She sped into traffic, earning an irritated beep from an angry driver. What was his problem? A full handspan stretched between her car and the Fiat behind her. Plenty of room…

The Maserati’s headlights speared ahead. Full night had descended. A line of brake lights wound toward the center of the city. She raced around and between the other cars, mere obstacles. She dove into the oncoming-traffic lane at times. The empty stretches on the far side were a shame to waste.

A groan echoed from the backseat.

She sped faster.

No one voiced a real complaint.

Back at the phones, Rachel had attempted to contact General Rende, while her uncle had called Cardinal Spera. Neither had been successful. Both men were at the memorial service, already under way. General Rende was personally overseeing the Carabinieri force that guarded St. Peter’s Square. Cardinal Spera was in attendance at the service. Messages had been left, the alarm raised. But would it be in time?

Everyone was at the memorial mass, only steps from where the Dragon Court would strike. The crowds of people acted as the perfect cover.

“How much longer?” Gray asked from the passenger seat. He had his pack open on his lap and worked rapidly. Too busy with the road, she had no time to see what he was doing.

Rachel sped past Trajan’s Market, the ancient Roman equivalent of a shopping mall. The crumbling semicircular building was set into the Quirinal Hill. It was a good landmark. “Two miles,” she answered Gray.

“With the memorial crowds, we’ll never reach the front entrances,” Vigor warned, leaning forward from the backseat. “We should try for the railway entry into the Vatican. Aim for Via Aurelia along the south wall. We can cross the grounds behind the basilica. Go in the back way.”

Rachel nodded. Already the traffic congested as the flow bottlenecked toward the bridge over the Tiber River.

“Tell me about the excavations under the basilica,” Gray said. “Are there any other entrances to it?”

“No,” Vigor said. “The Scavi region is self-contained. Just under St. Peter’s lies the Sacred Grottoes, accessed through the basilica. Many of the most famous crypts and papal tombs reside there. But in 1939, sampietrini workers were digging a tomb site for Pope Pius XI and discovered another layer beneath the Grottoes, a huge necropolis of ancient mausoleums dating back to the first century. It was named simply the Scavi , or Excavation.”

“How extensive is the area? What’s the lay of the land?”

“Have you ever been down to the underground city in Seattle?” Vigor asked.

Gray glanced over his shoulder to the monsignor.

“I once went to an archaeological conference there,” Vigor explained. “Beneath modern Seattle lies its past, a Wild West ghost town, where you can see intact shops, streetlamps, wooden walkways. The necropolis is like that, an ancient Roman cemetery buried beneath the Grottoes. Excavated by archaeologists, it’s a maze of gravesites, shrines, and stone streets.”

Rachel finally reached the bridge and fought her way across the Tiber River. Once on the far side, she left the main flow of traffic, circled out, and headed away from St. Peter’s Square. She swung to the south.

After a few serpentine turns, she found herself running alongside the towering Leonine Walls of the Vatican. It was dark here, with few streetlamps.

“Just ahead,” Vigor said, pointing an arm.

The railway spanned the road atop a stone bridge. It was here that the Vatican’s railroad line exited the Holy See and joined Rome’s system of tracks. Popes throughout the century had toured by train, leaving from the Vatican’s own railroad depot within the walls of the papal state.

“Take that turn before the bridge,” Vigor said.

She almost missed it in the dark. Rachel yanked the wheel, fishtailing off the main avenue and onto a gravel service road that climbed steeply. Tires spat rooster tails of gravel as she fought her way to the top. The road hit a dead end at the tracks.

“That way!” Vigor pointed to the left.

There was no street, only a narrow sward of grass, weeds, and chunky rocks that paralleled the railroad tracks. Rachel twisted the wheel, bumped off the service road and onto the side of the tracks.

She shifted gears and rattled her way toward the archway through the Leonine Wall. Her headlights bobbled up and down. Reaching the wall, she manhandled the Maserati through the opening, traversing the gap between the wall and the tracks.

Ahead, her headlights splashed across the side of a midnight-blue service van that blocked the way. A pair of Swiss Guards, in blue night uniforms, flanked the van. They had rifles out, pointing at the intruder.

Rachel braked, arm already out the window, waving her Carabinieri identification. She yelled. “Lieutenant Rachel Verona! With Monsignor Verona! We have an emergency!”

They were waved forward, but one of the guards kept his rifle at his shoulder, pointed at Rachel’s face.

Her uncle quickly showed his own Vatican papers. “We must reach Cardinal Spera.”

A flashlight searched the car, passing over the other occupants. Luckily all their weapons were hidden from direct view. It was no time for questions.

“I vouch for them,” Vigor said sternly. “As will Cardinal Spera.”

The van was directed out of the way, clearing the path into the Vatican grounds.

Vigor still leaned his head out the window. “Has word reached you here? Of a possible attack?”

The guard’s eyes widened. He shook his head. “No, Monsignor.”

Rachel glanced to Gray. Oh no… As they had feared, in all the confusion surrounding the memorial service, word was traveling too slowly up the chains of command. The Church was not known for its swift response…to change or emergency.

“Do not let anyone else through here,” Vigor ordered. “Lock this entry down.”

The guardsman responded to the command in the monsignor’s voice and nodded.

Vigor settled back into the car and pointed. “Take the first road after the depot.”

Rachel did not have to be told to hurry. She raced through a small parking lot that fronted the quaint two-story depot and took the first right. She crossed in front of the Mosaic Studio, the Vatican’s only industry, then tore between the Tribunal Palace and the Palazzo San Carlo. Here the buildings grew denser as the dome of St. Peter’s filled the world ahead of them.

“Park at the Hospice of Santa Marta,” her uncle ordered.

Rachel ran her car up to the curb. The Sacristy of St. Peter rose on her left, connected to the giant basilica. The papal hospice was on her right. A covered walkway joined the sacristy to the hospice. Rachel cut her engine. They would have to continue from here on foot.

Their destination — the entrance to the Scavi — lay on the other side of the sacristy.

As they climbed out, muffled singing reached them. The Pontifical Choir singing “Ave Maria.” The Mass was under way.

“Follow me,” Uncle Vigor said.

He led the way through the covered archway to the open yard on the far side. The grounds were oddly deserted. All attention and focus of the Vatican had turned inward on itself, to the basilica, to the pope. Rachel had witnessed this before. Great services, like this special memorial, could empty the entire city-state, leaving few about.