Free The Bone Labyrinth by James Rollins Page A

reviewed the mission files loaded there. He had reviewed everything thoroughly en route to Zagreb and knew what he wanted to find. He brought up a photo of a man in his midfifties with salt-and-pepper hair, decked out in a climbing harness, standing at the edge of a gorge.
    Twisting around, he showed the picture to Seichan. “Fredrik Horvat, head of the local mountaineering society. It was his group that first entered the caves up in the mountains and kept it secret until a research team could be put together to secure the site.”
    Seichan leaned forward. “And he lives in this little town?”
    “He does. And I expect he knows these mountains better than anyone. If he can guide us there . . .”
    Seichan sat straighter. “Then we wouldn’t have to wait until morning.”
    “I have his address.”
    The pilot quickly landed the helicopter in a wide field. Shortly thereafter, the twin beams of a sedan pierced the gloom and sped along the neighboring road toward their position. Gray and Seichan exited the aircraft and hunched in their jackets against the wind-whipped sheets of rain. As soon as the sedan arrived, they climbed into the backseat.
    Once the car started moving, Gray gave the driver—a young man named Dag—the name and address of the local mountaineer.
    “Ah, Fredrik . . . I know him,” Dag said in halting English, smiling brightly, showing a wide gap in his front teeth. “This is a small place. He is crazy man. Crawling through all those caves. Me, I want open air. More the better.”
    “I tried phoning him,” Gray said. “No answer.”
    “He maybe at the pub. At Hotel Frankopan. He lives nearby. Lots of people go to the pub during storms. Good to drink brandy when the vještice— witches—howl.” Thunder boomed, loud enough to shake the windows of the sedan. Dag ducked slightly from the din, then straightened and made the sign of the cross with one arm. “Maybe best not to talk about those vještice right now.”
    As they headed toward the center of town, Gray repeatedly tried to raise the mountaineer on his cell, but he had no better luck reaching the man. Gray was left with little other choice.
    “We’ll try the pub first,” he told Dag, then turned to Seichan. “If we fail to find Fredrik there, someone at the hotel might know another guide.”
    “That is, if they’re not all afraid of those witches,” Seichan added, leaning her head back and closing her eyes.
    As they entered the town, Gray studied the passing landscape. It was a quaint fairy-tale village of narrow streets, small wooded parks, and homes roofed in red tiles. All around, the town’s sixteenth-century origin revealed itself: from an old stately church with a tall steeple to the remains of an ancient fort atop a nearby hill. They finally stopped below the thick walls of a stone castle, each corner flanked by massive round towers. Its battlements overlooked a deep river gorge, likely the same one pictured in the photo of Fredrik.
    “Frankopan Castle,” Dag said as he parked the car at the curb. He drew their attention to the neighboring whitewashed building that abutted the Gothic castle. “And that is Hotel Frankopan. The pub is just inside. I will show you and ask about Fredrik.”
    Normally Gray would have preferred to maintain a low profile, but they’d already lost enough time detouring here and still had a long slog ahead of them.
    “ Hvala ,” Gray said, thanking the man in his native tongue, which raised another wide smile from Dag.
    “Come then. Perhaps we drink a brandy, too. To keep the vještice away.”
    Gray had no objection. If Dag could put him in front of Fredrik quickly enough, he would buy the kid a whole bottle.
    Dag led them quickly through the rain and up the steps to the main entrance of the hotel. Inside, the lobby was equally whitewashed but warmed by wooden furniture that looked like antiques. They passed by the front desk, earning a curious look from the receptionist, but Dag waved to