"You will go to your quarters and await my answer," the count said imperiously.
When nobody moved, he gave an almost imperceptible nod to Pinketts.
All it took was a faint movement in the man's hand, and D'Agosta had dropped, rolled, and fired in one smooth, endlessly practiced move. Without even a cry, Pinketts staggered back against the wall, Beretta still in hand, firing once above their heads. D'Agosta rose to his knee and fired two more shots. Pinketts jerked, the gun skidded across the floor, coming to rest in a corner. Pendergast had his own gun out and was now aiming at the count.
Slowly, Fosco raised his hands.
Suddenly, men appeared in the doorways leading out of the dining room: rough-looking men in peasant dress, guns in hand, faces set. They came in orderly, deliberately, without haste, sure of themselves. In a moment, more than half a dozen had entered, guns aimed at Pendergast and D'Agosta.
There was a long silence, interrupted only by a long, gargling rattle from Pinketts that wheezed off into silence.
Fosco's hands were still raised. "We seem to be at a standoff," he said. "How very theatrical. You kill me, my men kill you." Though the words sounded light, they held a harsh, chill undertone.
"Let us walk out of here," said D'Agosta. "And nobody'll get killed."
"You've already killed Pinketts," Fosco replied crisply. "Here you are, the man who dared lecture me on the sanctity of human life. Pinketts, who was my best and most loyal servant."
D'Agosta took a step toward the count.
"Agent Pendergast!" Fosco said, turning and raising his voice. "A moment's reflection will show you this is a game you cannot win. At the count of three, I will order D'Agosta killed. I will die too, at your hand. You, on the other hand, will live to ponder how you brought death to your partner. You know me well enough to know it's not a bluff. You will lay down the gun—because you have the letter."
He paused. "One."
"It's a bluff!" D'Agosta shouted. "Don't fall for it!"
"Two."
Pendergast laid down his weapon.
The count paused again, hands still in the air. "Now, Mr. D'Agosta, you haven't put down your gun. Do I need to say that last number, or can you understand the situation has gone against you? Even with your remarkable marksmanship, you will not succeed in dropping more than one or two of my men before you are sent back to your Maker."
D'Agosta slowly lowered his gun. He still had a second strapped to his leg, and he knew Pendergast had one, too. The game was not over by a long shot. And they still had the letter.
Fosco looked from one to the other, eyes glittering. "Very well. My men will escort you to your rooms while I consider your offer."
{ 80 }
Dawn was finally breaking through the tiny windows of the keep when Pendergast emerged from his room. D'Agosta, sitting by the fire, grunted an acknowledgment. He had spent the night tossing restlessly, unable to sleep, but Pendergast seemed to have had no difficulty.
"Excellent fire, Vincent," he said, smoothing the front of his suit and taking a seat nearby. "I find these fall mornings a bit chilly."
D'Agosta gave the fire a savage poke. "Nice sleep?"
"The bed was an abomination. Otherwise, passable, thank you."
D'Agosta heaved on another log. He hated all this waiting, this not knowing, and was unable to completely suppress his irritation at Pendergast's going directly to his room the night before without a satisfactory explanation.
"How did you know about that secret society business, anyway?" he asked a little gruffly. "I've seen you pull a rabbit out of a hat before, but this one took the cake."
"What a delightful mixed metaphor. I had a suspicion that Fosco was involved in some way or another, even before I found the horsehair from the Stormcloud at the site of Bullard's killing."
"When did you first suspect him?"
"You recall the associate I mentioned, Mime? I had him perform Internet background checks on the recent activities of all who were at Grove's last party. His research eventually picked up the fact that, six months ago, Fosco quietly purchased a rare seventeenth-century Florentine cross from an antique dealer on the Via Maggio."
"The one he gave Grove?"
"Exactly. And recall the count himself was careful to point out to me that, had Grove lived only one more day, he would have been forty million dollars richer."
"Yeah. Anytime someone volunteers an alibi, something's fishy."
"The count's Achilles' heel is his volubility."
"That and his big mouth."
"I began to search for weaknesses in the count. He was clearly a dangerous man, and I felt we needed every advantage we could get—just in case. You may recall the comment of the colonnello's, back at his barracks, about secret societies. He said the Florentine nobility was 'rife with them.' I began to wonder if Fosco belonged to such a secret society, and if so, whether it might be used against him in some way. The Florentine nobility are among the oldest in Europe—their lineages go back to the 1200s. Most of their ancient titles are associated with various arcane orders and guilds, some going as far back as the Crusades. Most have secret documents, rites, and so forth. The Knights Templars, the Black Gonfaloniers, the Cavaliers of the Rose—there are many others."
D'Agosta nodded silently.
"Some of these societies take themselves extremely seriously, even if their original function has long passed and all that remains are empty observances and ceremonies. The count, coming from one of the most ancient families, surely belonged by hereditary right to a number of them. I e-mailed Constance, who managed to unearth several possibilities. I followed up with some of my own contacts here in Italy."
"When?"
"The night before last."
"And here I thought you were fast asleep in your hotel suite."
"Sleep is an unfortunate biological requirement that both wastes time and leaves one vulnerable. At any rate, I uncovered hints of the existence of the Comitatus Decimus, the Company of Ten. It was a group of assassins formed during the most contentious years of the thirteenth century, long before the Medici came to power. One of the founders of the order was a French baron named Hugo d'Aquilanges, who brought to Florence some peculiar manuscripts full of the dark arts. Using these manuscripts, the group conjured up the devil—or so they believed—to aid in their midnight assassinations. They swore blood secrecy to each other, and any violation was punishable by immediate death. The cavaliere Mantun de Ardaz da Fosco was another of the founders; he passed membership with the title to his son and so forth, down to our Fosco. Their line, apparently, was also the keeper of the library of the Comitatus. It was these ancient documents Fosco used in conjuring up the devil for Bullard and the rest on All Hallows' Eve. Whether he planned to use those documents from the beginning, I can't be sure. But he would have learned Beckmann could read Italian and that Grove, even as a student, was knowledgeable about old manuscripts. Fosco couldn't pass off any old manuscript—it had to be the real thing. I believe that he simply could not resist the fun. Of course, he didn't realize at the time what it meant—or what penalties his breach of secrecy would incur. You see, members aren't inducted into the order until they reach the age of thirty."
"But you still haven't explained how you knew Fosco belonged."
"The research indicated that when the hereditary member is inducted into the society, he is marked with a black spot—a tattoo, really—using a bottle of ashes from the corpse of Mantun de Ardaz, who was drawn, quartered, and burned in the Piazza della Signoria for heresy. This black spot is placed directly over the heart."
"And when did you get a glimpse of that?"
"When I interviewed him at the Sherry Netherland. He wore an open-necked white shirt. Of course, at the time I didn't understand its significance—it merely looked like a large mole."
"But you remembered it."
"A photographic memory can be quite useful."
Abruptly, Pendergast motioned for D'Agosta to be silent. F
or about a minute they waited, motionless. Then D'Agosta heard footsteps, a soft knock.
"Come in," Pendergast said.
The door opened and Fosco slipped through, followed by half a dozen men with guns. He bowed. "Good morning to you both. I trust you passed a decent night?"
D'Agosta did not reply.
"And how was your night, Count?" Pendergast asked.
"I always sleep like a baby, thank you."
"Funny how most murderers do."
Fosco turned to D'Agosta. "You, on the other hand, look a little peaked, Sergeant. I hope you haven't caught cold."
"You make me sick."
"There's no accounting for taste," Fosco said with a smile. Then he glanced back at Pendergast. "As promised, I've considered your offer. And I have brought you my riposte."
He reached inside his jacket and withdrew a smooth white envelope. He held it out to Pendergast, eyes twinkling.
D'Agosta was startled to see Pendergast go pale as he took the envelope.
"That's right. The very letter you left with Prince Maffei. Unopened and unread. I believe the word here is check, Mr. Pendergast. Your move."
"How did—?" D'Agosta began. Then he fell silent.
Fosco waved his hand. "Mr. Pendergast didn't count on my brilliance. I told Prince Maffei that my castle had been burglarized and that I was concerned for the safety of the Comitatus's most secret manuscript—which, as the librarian of the Comitatus, I of course had in my possession. I asked him if he would hold it himself for safekeeping until the burglars had been caught. Naturally he took me to his most secure repository, where I felt sure he would have placed your letter. I didn't know, of course, what you had said to him about the letter, so I felt it was better not even to mention it. The old fool opened his vault to put in the manuscript, and there, amidst all his moldy old papers, was a fresh, crisp envelope! I knew it had to be yours. A quick sleight of hand and the letter was mine. When you fail to return, the prince Maffei will open his vault and find nothing, and no doubt begin to worry about the toll old age is taking on his feeble mind." Fosco laughed silently, his capacious front shaking, holding out the envelope.
There was a silence as Pendergast stared at the envelope. Then he took it, opened it, glanced at the sheet inside, and let it fall to the ground.
"I said check, but perhaps I should have said checkmate, Mr. Pendergast." He turned to the men standing in the doorway. They were dressed in rough woolen and leather clothing, each pointing a firearm. Another man, in a stained suede jacket, stood behind them. He had a small, sharp face and was watching them with intelligent eyes.
D'Agosta's hand crept toward his gun. Pendergast noticed, made a brief suppressing motion.
"That's right, D'Agosta. Your superior knows it is futile—only in the movies can two men overpower seven. Of course, I am quite willing to see you both die right here and now. But then," he added teasingly, "don't lose hope—there's always the chance you might escape!" He chucked and turned. "Fabbri, disarm these gentlemen."
The man in the leather jacket stepped forward, held out his hand. After a moment, Pendergast removed his backup weapon and handed it to him. With a huge sense of foreboding, D'Agosta reluctantly gave the man his own as well.
"Now search them," said the count.
"You first, Mr. Pendergast," Fabbri said in a heavily accented voice. "Remove your jacket and your shirt. Then stand over there with your arms up."
Pendergast did as ordered, handing each article of clothing to Fabbri. When Pendergast removed his shirt, D'Agosta noticed for the first time that the agent wore a chain around his neck, with a small pendant attached: a strange design of a lidless eye hovering over the image of a phoenix, rising from the ashes of a fire.
One of the peasants shoved Pendergast toward the wall. Fabbri began patting him down expertly. He quickly found a stiletto.
"There will be lock-picking tools as well," said the count.
Fabbri searched Pendergast's collar and cuffs, finally removing a small tool kit held there with Velcro. Other things appeared: a syringe and needle, some small test tubes.
"You've got quite an arsenal tucked away in that suit of yours," Fosco said. "Fabbri, set it all on the table over here, if you please."
Removing a stitching knife, Fabbri proceeded to cut open the linings of Pendergast's suit, searching them thoroughly. Out came other items—tweezers, some small folded packets of chemicals—which the man placed on the table.
"His mouth. Check his mouth."
The man opened Pendergast's mouth, checked his teeth, looked under his tongue.
D'Agosta recoiled in horror at this indignity. With the discovery of each additional tool, he'd felt his hopes dim further. But Pendergast had a lot of tricks up his sleeve. He'd get them out of this somehow.
Fabbri directed Pendergast to step to one side and bend his head forward so he could search his hair. Pendergast complied, his arms still raised, positioning himself so he was facing away from the half-circle of men and the count, who was examining the items on the table with murmurs of interest. Now Fabbri's back was turned to D'Agosta, while Pendergast was facing him. And D'Agosta was amazed at what he saw.
He saw Pendergast, moving his hands ever so slightly, extract a tiny piece of metal from between the ring and little fingers of his left hand. Somehow he had managed to palm this at the beginning of the search.
"All right," Fabbri said. "Lower your arms and step over here."
Pendergast did as directed. With a motion so fleeting D'Agosta wasn't even sure he'd seen it, Pendergast tucked the piece of metal beneath Fabbri's own jacket collar—using the man himself as a hiding place.
Next, Fabbri examined Pendergast's shoes, cutting off the heels with a knife and stabbing through the sole in several places. This produced a second lock-picking set. He frowned and returned once again to Pendergast's suit.
At last, the search was completed, leaving Pendergast's clothes in tatters.
"Now the other one," said Fosco.
They repeated the same process with D'Agosta, stripping him and unstitching everything, subjecting him to the same humiliating search.
"I would leave you both bare," said the count, "but the dungeons of this castle are so damp. I would hate to see you catch cold." He nodded toward their clothes. "Get dressed."
They did so.
Fabbri spun them around and manacled their hands behind their backs. "Andiamoci."
The count turned and stepped out of the apartment. Fabbri followed, then Pendergast and D'Agosta. The half dozen thugs brought up the rear.
Down the circular staircase they went, out of the keep and back into the ancient rooms of the castle. The count led the way back to the dining salotto, then through the kitchen and into a large, drafty pantry. An arched opening was set into the far wall, with a staircase descending out of sight. The group descended this into a deep, vaulted tunnel, its walls weeping moisture and encrusted with calcite crystals. Silently they walked past storerooms and empty galleries of stone.
"Ecco," said the count, stopping before a low doorway. Fabbri stopped in turn, and Pendergast, his eyes on the ground, clumsily stumbled into him from behind. Fabbri cursed and pushed him away, sending the agent sprawling to the stone floor.
"Get in," said the count.
Pendergast rose to his feet and ducked into the tiny room beyond the doorway. D'Agosta followed. The iron door slammed, the metal key turned, and they were in darkness.
The count's face appeared at the small grating set into the door.
"You'll be secure here," he said, "while I attend to a few final details. And then I will be back. You see, I have prepared something special, something fitting, for you both. For Pendergast, a literary end—something out of Poe, actually. And for D'Agosta, murderer of my Pinchetti, I will use my microwave device one more time before destroying it, and with it the last evidence of my involvement in this affair."
The face vanished. A moment later, the faint illumination of the c
orridor was extinguished.
D'Agosta sat in the dark, listening to the echo of retreating footsteps. In a moment, all was silent save for the faint dripping of water and the flutter of what D'Agosta thought must be bats.
He shifted, pulled his torn clothes more tightly around him. Pendergast's voice came to him through the darkness, so low as to be almost inaudible.
"I don't see any reason to delay our departure. Do you?"
"Was that a lockpick I saw you hiding under Fabbri's collar?" D'Agosta whispered.
"Of course. Most obliging of him to carry it for me. Naturally, I stumbled into him just now in order to reclaim it. And now I have little doubt that Fabbri or one of the others is outside, guarding us. Bang on the door, Vincent, and see if you can't get a response from him."
D'Agosta banged and shouted: "Hey! Let us out! Let us out!"
The echoes slowly died away in the corridor beyond.
Pendergast touched D'Agosta's arm and whispered again. "Keep making noise while I pick the lock."
D'Agosta shouted, yelled, and swore. A minute later, Pendergast touched his arm once again.
"Done. Now listen. The man waiting in the dark no doubt has an electric torch, which he'll turn on at the slightest indication of funny business. I'm going to find him and take care of him. You keep making noise as a diversion, and to cover any sounds of my crawling through the dark."
"Okay."
D'Agosta once again took up the cry, stomping around and demanding to be let out. It was pitch-black, and he could see nothing of what Pendergast was doing. He yelled and yelled. Suddenly there was a loud thump outside, followed by a thud. Then a beam of light stabbed through the low opening.
"Excellent work, Vincent."
D'Agosta ducked back out beneath the low doorway. There, about twenty feet away, was Fabbri, facedown on the stone floor, arms flung wide.
"Are you sure there's a way out of this pile?" D'Agosta asked.
"You heard the squeaking of bats. Right?"
"Right."
Brimstone Page 47
