"And just who are all these people camped around you?"
"The saved, Mr. Harriman. Out there are the damned. Which are you?"
Harriman was taken aback by the suddenness of the question. Buck was eyeing him with an almost Rasputin-like intensity.
"Does it matter?" Harriman laughed weakly.
"Does it matter whether you spend eternity boiling in a lake of fire or lying sweetly in the lap of Jesus? Because the time has come to make a choice. These awful deaths have made that clear. No more sitting on the fence, wondering where the truth is. This question enters everyone's life at some point, and now that life-changing decision has suddenly, without warning, come to you. Remember Paul's Epistle to the Romans: There is none righteous, no, not one… For all have sinned, and come short of the glory of God. You must repent and be born again in the love of Jesus. You can wait no longer. So, Mr. Harriman: are you saved, or are you damned?"
Buck waited for a reply.
Harriman felt a cold sweat break out on the back of his neck. The guy was really waiting for an answer, and it was clear he wouldn't go on until he got one. What was he going to reply? Sure, he'd always considered himself a Christian, sort of—but not a Bible-thumping, proselytizing Christian.
"I'm still working it out," he finally said. How had he allowed Buck to set the agenda like this? Who was in charge of this interview, anyway?
"What's there to work out? The decision is simple. Remember what Jesus said to the wealthy man who desired eternal life: Sell all that thou hast, and distribute unto the poor… For it is easier for a camel to go through a needle's eye, than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God. Are you ready to give away your earthly goods, Mr. Harriman, and join me? Or will you walk away, like that rich man in the Gospel of Luke?"
Harriman thought about this. Had Jesus really said that? Something must have been lost in the translation.
Maybe another tack would break this impasse. "So when, Reverend, is all this going to happen?"
"If everybody knew when the Day of Judgment would dawn, we'd have a whole lot of converts the night before. It will come when the world least expects it."
"But you expect it. And very soon."
"Yes. Because God has sent his faithful a sign, and that sign was the death that took place right across the street."
Harriman noted that the group of policemen in the distance had grown a little bigger. They were talking and taking notes. He realized abruptly this little Shangri-La wasn't going to last. If Christ didn't come soon, the police would. You couldn't have hundreds of people shitting in the bushes of Central Park forever. And come to think of it, there was an odd smell wafting on the air…
"What will you do if the police move in to evict you?" he asked.
Buck paused, his face betraying another fleeting glimpse of uncertainty, but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared. The serene expression returned.
"God will be my guide, Mr. Harriman. God will be my guide."
{ 59 }
D'Agosta heard the sirens first, shattering the peace of the Tuscan countryside with their dissonant two-note ditty. Next came the headlights of two vehicles speeding around a nearby hill and sweeping up the drive. They ground to a halt before the villa with an audible spray of gravel. Police lights cartwheeled across the ceiling of the salone.
Pendergast rose from his crouch. The tweezers that had magically appeared from his clothing just as magically disappeared.
He glanced at D'Agosta. "Shall we retire to the chapel? We wouldn't want these good gentlemen to think we've been tampering with their crime site."
D'Agosta, still gripped with fear and dread, nodded dumbly. The chapel. That seemed like a good idea. A really good idea.
The chapel was in the traditional location at the far end of the salone, a tiny but exquisite Baroque room which could fit little more than a priest and half a dozen family members. There didn't seem to be any electric lights, so Pendergast lit a votive candle in a red glass holder, and they settled on the hard wooden benches to wait.
Almost immediately there was the sound of a door booming open; boots echoing in the downstairs hall; police radios blaring. D'Agosta was still holding his cross, his eyes on the small marble altar. The candle gave out a flickering reddish glow, and the air was redolent with frankincense and myrrh. He resisted the impulse to go down on his knees. He reminded himself he was a policeman, this was a crime scene, and the idea that the devil had come and claimed Bullard's soul was ridiculous.
And yet, in the perfumed darkness, it didn't feel the least bit ridiculous. His hand shook as it clutched the cross.
Now the carabinieri burst into the salone. D'Agosta heard a gasp; some muffled expostulations of shock; what sounded like a prayer being quickly intoned. Then came the familiar sounds of a crime scene being secured and floodlights being set up. A moment later the room beyond was bathed in almost unbearably bright light. A beam lanced into the chapel, striking the marble Christ behind the altar and setting it aglow.
A man appeared in the doorway, casting a long shadow. He was dressed, not in uniform, but in a tailored gray suit, a couple of gold leaves on his lapel signifying rank. He paused, staring. To D'Agosta, he seemed no more than an outline, framed in brilliant light, a short-barreled 9mm Beretta Parabellum in his hand.
"Rimanete seduti, mani in alto, per cortesìa," he said calmly.
"Remain seated, hands in view," translated Pendergast. "We're policemen—"
"Tacete!"
D'Agosta suddenly remembered they were dressed in black, their faces still half painted. God only knew what this police officer was thinking.
The man advanced, gun in hand, not exactly aimed at them but not quite aimed away, either. "Who are you?" he asked in lightly-accented English.
"Special Agent Pendergast, Federal Bureau of Investigation, United States of America." Pendergast's wallet was in his hand, and it fell open to reveal his shield on one side, his ID on the other.
"And you?"
"Sergeant Vincent D'Agosta, Southampton Police Department, FBI liaison. We're—"
"Basta." The man stepped forward. He reached for Pendergast's wallet, looked at the badge, the ID card. "Are you the one who called in the homicide?"
"Yes."
"What are you doing here?"
"We are investigating a series of murders in the United States, which that man"—Pendergast nodded out into the great room—"was connected to."
"Mafiosi?"
"No."
The man looked visibly relieved. "You know the identity of the deceased?"
"Locke Bullard."
The man handed back the wallet, gestured at their outfits. "Are these the newest uniforms among the FBI?"
"It's a long story, Colonnello."
"How did you get here?"
"You will find our car—if you haven't already—in the olive grove across the street. A black Fiat Stylo. I will, of course, prepare a formal report for you on all the particulars: who we are, why we're here. Some of it is already on file at the Questura."
"God, no. No reports. It is so inconvenient when facts get written down. At the proper time, we will talk about it over an espresso, like civilized human beings." The man moved out of the glaring backlight. For the first time, D'Agosta could see his features: prominent cheekbones, cleft chin, and deep-set eyes. He was about sixty, and he moved with a stiff military bearing, his graying hair brushed back, restless eyes taking in everything.
"I am Colonnello Orazio Esposito. Forgive me for not introducing myself earlier." He shook their hands. "Who is your liaison at the Questura?"
"Commissario Simoncini."
"I see. And what do you make of this…" He nodded again toward the great room. "This…casino?"
"It is the third in a series of murders, the first two of which took place in New York."
A cynical smile grew on Esposito's face. "I can see we're going to have quite a lot to talk about, Special Agent Pendergast. Listen. There is a nice l
ittle caffè in Borgo Ognissanti, just two doors down from the church and very near our headquarters. Shall we meet there at eight this morning? Unofficially, of course."
"It would be my pleasure."
"And now it would be better if you leave. We'll make no note of your presence in the official report. To have the American FBI reporting a crime on Italian soil…" His smile broadened. "It just wouldn't do."
He briskly shook their hands and turned on his heel, crossing himself so rapidly as he passed the altar D'Agosta wasn't sure if he had done it at all.
{ 60 }
D'Agosta had seen a lot of police headquarters in his time, but the so-called barracks of the carabinieri in Florence beat them all. It wasn't a barracks at all, but rather a decaying Renaissance building—D'Agosta thought it was Renaissance, anyway—facing a narrow medieval street. It was huddled up beside the famous Ognissanti Church, its gray limestone facade streaked with dirt, every ledge and projection covered with needle-like spikes to ward off pigeons. Florence itself was nothing like what he'd imagined: even in the warm, mid-October light, the city seemed austere, its crooked streets always in shadow, the rough-cut stone facades of its buildings almost grim. The air smelled of diesel fumes, and the impossibly narrow sidewalks were clogged with slow-moving tourists dressed in floppy hats and khaki shorts, with packs on their backs and water bottles strapped to their waists, as if they were on an expedition into the Sahara rather than walking around perhaps the most civilized city in the world.
They had met the colonnello in the nearby café, as planned, and Pendergast had quickly brought him up to speed on their investigation—omitting, D'Agosta noticed, certain small but critical details. Now they were following him back to his office, single file, fighting a steady stream of Japanese tourists coming in the opposite direction.
The colonnello turned into the grand arched entryway of the barracks, over which hung a limp Italian flag—the first D'Agosta had seen since arriving in Italy. They passed through a colonnaded corridor and into a vast interior courtyard. Once elegant, the courtyard itself had been turned into a parking lot and was wall-to-wall with police vans and cars, packed together with such mathematical precision it seemed impossible to move one without moving them all. The windows looking down on the courtyard were all open, and from them issued a continuous clamor of ringing telephones, voices, and slamming doors, magnified and distorted by the confined space.
They turned into another vaulted corridor lined with stone pillars—the crumbling remains of religious frescoes still visible—past a battered statue of a saint; then up a massive flight of stone stairs and into a warren of modern cubicles constructed haphazardly out of what had once been a single pillared room.
"The caserma," said Esposito as they walked, "was once the monastery connected to the Ognissanti Church. That large room is the secretarial pool, and beyond"—he waved his hand at a series of small but massive oaken doors giving onto tiny offices—"are the work spaces of the officers, built in the former cells of the monks."
They turned a corner and proceeded down yet another vaulted corridor. "The refectory, where the monks used to eat, has an important fresco by Ghirlandaio that nobody ever sees."
"Indeed."
"Here in Italy, we make do with what we have."
Reaching the far end of the corridor, they went up another flight of stairs. From the landing, they passed through what D'Agosta realized must have once been a secret door in the wall; mounted a tiny circular staircase; passed through crowded rooms smelling of mold and overheated fax machines—and then suddenly arrived at a small, grimy door bearing nothing but a number. Here Esposito stopped with a smile. Then he pushed the door open and ushered them in.
D'Agosta stepped into a light-flooded room that ended in a wall of glassed-in columns and arches. Beyond lay a sweeping view southward, over the Arno River. Almost despite himself, he was drawn toward the view.
From above, finally, Florence looked like he had imagined it: a city of church domes and towers, red-tile roofs, gardens, and piazze, surrounded by steep green hills covered with fairy-tale castles. There was the Ponte Vecchio and the Pitti Palace; the Boboli Gardens; the dome of San Frediano in Cestello; and, beyond, the hill of Bellosguardo. It was a moment before he could shift his attention back to the room itself.
It was large and open, filled with rows of old mahogany desks. The floor, polished by five hundred years of feet, was inlaid in a striking array of colored marbles, and on the stuccoed walls hung giant paintings of old men in armor. There was a tense air in the room, and a number of men in suits at the desks were glancing nervously in their direction. The killing—and its bizarre particulars especially—were clearly on everyone's mind.
"Welcome to the Nucleo Investigativo, the elite unit of the carabinieri of which I am in charge. We investigate the major crimes." Esposito looked at D'Agosta sideways. "Is this your first visit to Italy, Sergeant D'Agosta?"
"It is."
"And how do you find it?"
"It's… not quite what I expected."
He could see a faint look of amusement in the man's eyes. Esposito's hand swept over the skyline. "Beautiful, no?"
"From up here."
"The Florentines…" He rolled his eyes. "They live in the past. They believe they created everything beautiful in the world—art, science, music, literature—and that is enough. Why do anything more? They've been resting on their laurels for four hundred years. Where I grew up we have a saying: Nun cagnà 'a via vecchia p'a nova, ca saie chello che lasse, nun saie chello ca trouve."
"Don't live in the past—you will know what you've lost but not what you've found?" D'Agosta asked.
Esposito went still. Then he smiled. "Your family is originally from Naples?"
D'Agosta nodded.
"This is remarkable. And you actually speak Neapolitan?"
"I thought I grew up speaking Italian."
Esposito laughed. "This is not the first time I have heard of this happening. You are fortunate, Sergeant, to speak a beautiful and ancient language no longer taught in any school. Anyone can learn Italian, but only a real man can speak Napolitano. I myself am from Naples. Impossible to work there, of course, but a marvelous place to live."
"Si suonne Napele viato a tte," D'Agosta said.
Esposito looked even more astonished. " 'Blessed be you if you dream of Naples.' What a lovely saying. I've never heard it before."
"When I was a little boy, my grandmother used to whisper that in my ear every time she kissed me good night."
"And did you ever dream of Naples?"
"I sometimes dreamed of a city that I thought was Naples, but I'm sure it was all my imagination. I've never been there."
"Then don't go. Live in your dreams: they are always so much better " He turned to Pendergast. "And now—as you Americans say—to business."
He led them to a small sitting area in a far corner of the room, couches and chairs positioned around an old stone table. Esposito waved his hand. "Caffè per noi, per favore."
In moments, a woman appeared with a tray of tiny cups of espresso. Esposito took one, tossed it back, then drank a second just as quickly. He slipped out a pack of cigarettes, offered them around.
"Ah, you Americans never smoke." He took one himself, lit it, exhaled. "This morning, between seven and eight, I received sixteen telephone calls—one from the American Embassy in Rome, five from the American Consulate on the Lungarno, one from the U.S. State Department, two from the New York Times, one from the Washington Post, one from the Chinese Embassy in Rome, and five from various unpleasant people in Mr. Bullard's company." He looked up, eyes twinkling. "Given that, and what you told me just now in the café, it's clear this Bullard was an important man."
"You didn't know him?" Pendergast asked.
"By reputation only." Inhale, exhale. "My colleagues at the polizia have a file on him already, which naturally they will not share with us."
"I could supply you with far more on Bullard, b
ut it would do you no good. The information will only distract you, as it did me."
Esposito turned to the two carabinieri who were whispering together behind him. "Basta' cù stì fessarie! Mettiteve à faticà! Marònna meja, chist' so propri' sciem'!"
D'Agosta suppressed a laugh. "I understood that."
"I didn't," said Pendergast.
"He was just telling those men in, ah, Neapolitan, 'Cut the bullshit and get back to work.' "
"My men are foolish and superstitious. Half of them believe this to be the work of the devil. The other half think it the work of some secret society. As you know, Florentine nobility is rife with them." Inhale, exhale. "It appears to me, Mr. Pendergast, that we have a joker on our hands."
"On the contrary, our killer could not be more serious."
"But all this—chest è 'nà scena rò diavulo? Come, now. All this may scare my men half to death, but you?"
"I assure you there is a most purposeful design here."
"I see you already have a theory as to what happened to Mr. Bullard. Perhaps you will be kind enough to share it with me?" The colonnello leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "After all, I've already done you an enormous favor by not reporting your presence at the scene of the crime. Otherwise, you would be filling out paperwork from now until Christmas."
"I am grateful," said Pendergast. "But for now, there's little more I can tell you than what I mentioned last night. We're investigating two mysterious deaths that took place recently in New York State. Locke Bullard was a possible suspect. At the very least, he was involved in some extremely shady dealings. But as it happens, his own death patterns the first two."
"I see. And do you have any ideas? Conjectures?"
"It would be unwise for me to answer that question. And you wouldn't believe me if I did."
"Va be’. Well then, what now?" He leaned back, picked up yet another cup of espresso, and tossed it back like a Russian tosses back a shot of vodka.
Brimstone Page 34
