still be here.”
“I’m sure that means a lot to Alessandra and my friend Tasha.”
“I did not ask Alessandra to become involved. She and I merely shared some of the same academic interests which happened to involve ancient burial sites.”
“How do you know it wasn’t your interests that got her killed?”
Francesca’s brown eyes glistened. “I’ve thought of nothing else. Or maybe I’ve tried not to think it…”
Someone jostled Sydney from behind, trying to move through the aisle, and she turned to see a teenage boy with an accordion, who filled the space with his presence as he pumped a lively off-key rendition of the Venetian Boat Song—a little too lively for that hour of the morning. Behind him was a young girl with long dark braids, who moved shyly forward, her calloused hand outstretched, and a sweet, professional smile playing about her pretty face as she begged for coins. Sydney judged her to be about the same age as her own sister, Angie, just eleven, and her heart went out to the girl, her instinct to dig into her purse. Before she could, Francesca said something in Italian, rather rudely, judging from the tone of her voice.
To Sydney, the girl said, “You are American? I tell your fortune, yes?”
Francesca looked about to protest, but Sydney waved her back, dug into her bag, and pulled out a few euros, handing them to the girl. “What’s my fortune?”
“It smiles on you, nice lady.”
To which Francesca said, “Va via!” She waved her hand impatiently, and the boy and the girl moved on, but not before the girl turned around, looked back at Francesca, then Sydney, her dark eyes sharp, unyielding, the smile from her young face gone.
When they were out of earshot, Francesca said, “Professional beggars. Bad idea to encourage them.”
After a silence, Sydney asked, “What is the Vatican’s involvement in this affair? Father Dumas? If he was working with Alessandra, he must have known about this map.”
“I’m quite sure he does,” Francesca said. “This map is said not to exist, yet the most powerful church in the world has been searching for it for the past two centuries, perhaps even longer, since it appears that someone had to have been a guardian before di Sangro was appointed. That they would imprison di Sangro because he is a Freemason? I have always found that suspect, especially considering their interrogation of the Jesuit priest who hid the first key. They were interested then, and they’re interested now. Whether or not it is for the same reason that your government wants it, I don’t know. And if you have any suppositions about my callousness, put yourself in my shoes. When I find what I’m looking for, then I find out why Alessandra was killed.”
“I am in your shoes,” Sydney said. “In a fashion.”
“How so?”
“Let’s just say I insinuated myself in this investigation to find answers as to why my friend was killed. I might be employed by the government, but my loyalties belong to Tasha, because in a way, it’s my fault she’s dead. I was the one who recommended her services to Griffin in order to discover Alessandra’s identity after she was killed.”
“Her identity?”
“She was missing her face and her fingerprints at the time.”
Francesca paled. “Missing them…?”
“Her face was carved off, or a piece of it in the shape of a pyramid was removed, and her fingerprints removed as well. My friend was a forensic anthropologist. I was the forensic artist who was supposed to work with her.”
Francesca stared mutely out the window for several long seconds. Finally she said, “Was your anthropologist friend killed the same way?”
“No. A hit-and-run, no doubt intended to deflect our attention from the two cases, so we wouldn’t think they were connected.”
“A hit-and-run…? I—I didn’t think any of this would lead to…” She took a breath. “I can’t believe this…” Looking shaken, she closed her eyes, crossed her arms tightly about her, as though the thought of so much death was too much to bear.
Griffin walked up just then, bearing a plastic tray with three espressos. “If any of Adami’s crowd is on this train, I haven’t noticed them,” he said, taking a seat besides Sydney. He turned his attention to Francesca, then back to Sydney. “What happened?” he asked, nodding toward the professor.
“We were discussing Alessandra’s murder,” Sydney replied, taking one of the plastic cups from the tray. Francesca took hers, but didn’t drink. Griffin asked no further questions, and the remainder of the trip passed in a