James Rollins - Map of Bones

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.

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.”

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 discern 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.

He tapped a sheet on his desk. “From this fresh handwriting — a woman’s, if I’m not mistaken — this map must have been embellished by your own hand.”

He waved her over.

Rachel had no choice. Raoul shoved her forward.

She tripped over a stack of books and had to grab the edge of the desk to keep from falling. She stared down at the map of the Mediterranean. The hourglass was drawn upon it, as were the names of the Seven Wonders.

She kept her face stoic.

They had found her map. She had sealed it in a pouch of her dry suit. Now she wished she’d burned it.

Alberto leaned closer. His breath reeked of olives and sour wine. He drew a fingernail along the axis line that Gray had scribed. It stopped at Rome. “Tell me about this.”

“It’s where we’re supposed to go next,” Rachel lied. She was relieved her uncle had not drawn on the map in ink himself. He had simply extended the line with his finger and the straight edge of Gray’s knife.