Brimstone p-5

by Douglas Preston

  He held out his hand. Pendergast ignored it.

  The count let the hand drop, his smile unaffected. "A pity. I had hoped we could conduct our business with courtesy, like gentlemen."

  "Is there a gentleman here? I should like to meet him."

  Fosco clucked disapprovingly. "Is this a way to treat a man in his own home?"

  "Is it any way to treat a man, burning him to death in his own home?"

  A look of distaste crossed Fosco's face. "So anxious to get to the business at hand, are we? But there will be time, there will be time. Do come in."

  The count stood aside, and they walked through a long archway into the castle's great hall. It was quite unlike what D'Agosta had expected. A graceful loggia ran along three sides, with columns and Roman arches.

  "Note the Della Robbiatondi ," said Fosco, gesturing toward some painted terra-cotta decorations set into the walls above the arches. "But you must be tired after the drive down. I will take you to your quarters, where you can refresh yourselves."

  "Our rooms?" Pendergast asked. "Are we spending the night?"

  "Naturally."

  "I'm afraid that won't be necessary, or even possible."

  "But I must insist." The count turned and seized an iron ring on the open castle door, drawing it shut with a boom. With a dramatic flourish, he removed a giant key from his pocket and locked it. Then he opened a small wooden box mounted on the nearby wall. Inside, D'Agosta saw a high-tech keypad, wildly out of place amidst the ancient masonry. The count punched a long sequence of numbers into the keypad. In response, there was a clank, and a massive iron bar shot down from above, sliding into a heavy iron bracket and barring the door.

  "Now we are safe from unauthorized invasion," said Fosco. "Or, for that matter, unauthorized departure."

  Pendergast made no answer. The count turned and, moving in his peculiar light-footed way, led them through the hall and into a long, cold stone gallery. Portraits, almost black with age, lined both walls, along with mounted sets of rusted armor, spears, lances, pikes, maces, and other medieval weaponry.

  "The armor is of no value, eighteenth-century reproductions. The portraits are of my ancestors, of course. Age has obscured them, fortunately-the counts of Fosco are not a pretty race. We have owned the estate since the twelfth century, when my distinguished ancestor Giovan de Ardaz wrested it from a Longobardic knight. The family bestowed the title 'cavaliere' on itself and took as its coat of arms a dragon rampant, bar sinister. During the time of the grand dukes, we were made counts of the Holy Roman Empire by the electress palatine herself. We have always led a quiet existence here, tending our vines and olive groves, neither meddling in politics nor aspiring to office. We Florentines have a saying: The nail that sticks out gets hammered back in. The House of Fosco did not stick out, and as a result, we never felt the blow of the hammer during many, many shifts of political fortune."

  "And yet you, Count, have managed to stick yourself out quite a bit these past few months," Pendergast replied.

  "Alas, and much against my will. It was only to recover what was rightfully ours to begin with. But we shall talk more of this at dinner."

  They passed out of the gallery and through a beautiful drawing room with leaded-glass windows and tapestried walls. Fosco gestured toward some large landscape paintings. "Hobbema and van Ruisdael."

  The drawing room was followed by a long series of graciously appointed, light-filled chambers, until quite suddenly the character of the rooms changed abruptly. "We are now entering the original, Longobardic part of the castle," Fosco said. "Dating back to the ninth century."

  Here the rooms were small and almost windowless, the only light admitted by arrow ports and tiny, square openings high on the walls. The walls were calcined, the rooms bare.

  "I have no use for these dreary old rooms," said the count as they passed through. "They are always damp and cold. There are, however, several levels of cellars, tunnels, and subbasements below, most useful for making wine, balsamico , and prosciutto di cinghiale . We hunt our own boar here on the estate, you know, and it is justly famous. The lowest of those tunnels were cut into the rock by the Etruscans, three thousand years ago."

  They came to a heavy iron door, set into an even heavier stone wall. Deeper within the castle, D'Agosta could see that the stonework was beaded with moisture.

  "The keep," Fosco said as he unlocked the door with another key.

  Immediately inside was a wide, windowless circular staircase that corkscrewed its way up from the depths and curved out of sight above their heads. Fosco removed a battery-powered torch from a wall sconce, turned it on, and led the way up the stairs. After five or six revolutions, they stopped at a small landing containing a single door. Opening it with yet another key, Fosco ushered them into what looked like a small apartment, retrofitted into the old castle keep, its tiny windows overlooking the valley of the Greve and the rolling hills marching toward Florence, far below. A fire burned in a stone fireplace at one end, and Persian rugs covered the terra-cotta floor. There was a comfortable sitting area in front of the fire; a table to one side well furnished with wines and liquors; a wall of well-stocked bookshelves.

  "Eccoci quà! I trust you will find your chambers comfortable. There are two small bedrooms on either side. The view is refreshing, don't you think? I am concerned that you brought no luggage. I will have Pinketts furnish you with anything you might need-razors, bathrobes, slippers, sleeping shirts."

  "I very much doubt we will be staying the night."

  "And I very much doubt you will be leaving." The count smiled. "We eat late, in the Continental fashion. At nine."

  He bowed, backed out of the door, shutting it with a hollow boom. With sinking heart, D'Agosta heard a key rasp in the lock, and then the footsteps of the count disappearing quickly down the stairway.

  { 76 }

  The staging area for the move on Buck's encampment was a maintenance parking lot behind the arsenal, well out of sight of the tent city. Commissioner Rocker had called up no fewer than three NYPD riot control divisions, along with a SWAT team, two hostage negotiators, officers on horseback, two mobile command units, and plenty of rank and file with helmets and bulletproof vests to manage the arrests. Then there were the fire trucks, ambulances, and prisoner transport vans, all standing by at a discreet distance on 67th Street.

  Hayward stood at the northern fringe of the staging area, giving her radio and weapon a final check. The crowd of uniformed officers milling around with batons and riot shields was enormous, not to mention various operations specialists with wires dangling from their ears and even a few confidential informants dressed as tent city residents. She understood the reason for the overkill: if you went in, you went in with overwhelming force, and nine times out of ten the opposition caved. The worst thing you could do was let them think they might have a chance if they made a stand.

  And yet these people thought they had God behind them. These weren't striking bus drivers or municipal workers with spouses and kids, two cars in the driveway. These were true believers. They were unpredictable. Her approach made more sense.

  Didn't it?

  Rocker appeared out of the crowd, strode over, and laid a hand on Hayward's shoulder. "Ready?"

  She nodded.

  He gave her a fatherly pat. "Radio if you run into heavy weather. We'll move in early." He glanced at the array of men and equipment behind them. "I hope to hell none of this is necessary."

  "So do I."

  She could see Wentworth at one of the mobile command units, wire dangling from his ear, talking, gesturing this way and that. He was playing cop, having the time of his life. He glanced in her direction and she turned away. It would be humiliating if she failed. Not only that, it would seriously damage her career. Wentworth had already predicted failure, and it was only through Rocker's support that her mission had been approved at all. Not for the first time since the last meeting, she wondered why she'd stuck her neck out. This was not the way to
advance a career. How many times had she seen that those who went with the flow rode the tide to success? D'Agosta's attitude must be rubbing off on her.

  "Ready?"

  She nodded.

  Rocker released her shoulder. "Then have at it, Captain."

  She took one more look back at the safety of the staging area. Then she set off along a walkway that curved north around the arsenal, taking her badge from her pocket and clipping it to her jacket as she did so.

  In a few minutes, the straggling outer tents of the encampment came into view. She slowed, getting a feel for the crowd. It was noon, and people were moving around everywhere. There was the smell of frying bacon in the air. As she neared the first line of tents, people stopped to stare. She nodded in a friendly way, receiving hostile looks in response. The crowd seemed a lot more tense than on Friday-and no wonder. They weren't stupid. They knew they weren't going to get away with threatening police officers. They were waiting for the second shoe to drop. She just had to make sure they realized she wasn't that shoe.

  She entered one of the crooked lanes, feeling all eyes on her, hearing whispered comments. The words Satan and unclean reached her ears. She kept a friendly smile on her face, an easiness in her walk. She remembered her professor in Social Dynamics saying a crowd was like a dog: if you showed fear, it would bite; if you ran, it would chase.

  The path was familiar, and in less than a minute, she found herself approaching Buck's tent. He was sitting at a table out front, reading a book, totally absorbed. The same officious man who had accosted her and Grable two days before-Buck had called him Todd-suddenly appeared in front of her. Already a crowd was forming. Nothing ugly: just curious, silent, and hostile.

  "You again," the man said.

  "Me again," Hayward replied. "Here to chat with the reverend."

  "They're back!" the man cried to the others, stepping forward to block her way.

  "Not 'they.' Just me."

  The murmur of the crowd rose like an electric buzz. The air was suddenly tense. Hayward glanced back, surprised at how large the crowd was growing. Focus on Buck. But he remained reading at the desk, ignoring her. From here, she could make out the title: Foxe's Book of Martyrs, Reader's Digest Edition.

  Todd advanced to the point where he was almost-but not quite-touching her with his body.

  "The reverend can't be disturbed."

  Hayward felt a twinge of something uncomfortably like doubt. Was this plan of hers really going to work? Or was Wentworth right, after all?

  She spoke loudly enough for Buck to hear. "I'm just here to talk. I've got no arrest warrant. I just want to talk to the reverend, one human being to another."

  "Prevaricator!" someone shouted from the crowd.

  She had to get past this aide-de-camp blocking her way. She took a step forward, brushing him.

  "That's assault, Officer," Todd said.

  "If the reverend doesn't want to talk to me, let me hear him say it himself. Let the reverend make his own decisions."

  "The reverend asked not to be disturbed." They were still touching, and it gave Hayward the creeps, but she sensed a back-down in the making.

  She wasn't wrong. Todd took a step back, still blocking her way.

  "Roman!" came a cry from the crowd.

  What is it with this Roman shit? "All I ask is five minutes of your time, Reverend," she called, leaning around Todd. "Five minutes."

  At last, Buck laid down the book with great deliberation, rose from the table, and finally raised his head to look at her. The instant her eyes met his, she felt a chill. On Friday he'd seemed a little unsure of what he'd wrought; perhaps amenable to persuasion. But today there was a coolness, a calmness, a sense of utter self-confidence she had not seen before. The only emotion she sensed in him was a passing flicker, perhaps, of disappointment. She swallowed.

  "Excuse me." She tried to step past the guardian.

  Buck nodded to the man, who took a step to the side. Then Buck looked back at her, but the look was such she was unsure whether he was seeing her, or seeing through her.

  "Reverend, I've been sent by the NYPD to ask you and your followers a favor.” Keep it chatty, informal, nonintimidating. That's what she had learned in negotiations training. Let them think they're making the decisions.

  But Buck showed no sign of having heard.

  The crowd had fallen ominously silent. She didn't turn, but she sensed it had grown enormous by now-no doubt much of the encampment.

  "Look, Reverend, we've got a problem. Your followers are ruining the park, trampling the bushes, killing the grass. On top of that, they've been using the surroundings as a public latrine. The neighbors are complaining. It's a health hazard, especially for you all."

  She paused, wondering if any of this was sinking in.

  "Reverend, can you help us out here?"

  She waited. Buck said nothing.

  "I need your help."

  She heard restless murmuring in the crowd behind her. People were flowing in around the back side of Buck's tent, filling her field of vision. She was truly surrounded now.

  "I've got a deal to offer you. I think it's a fair deal. A straight deal."

  Ask what it is, asshole. It was crucial to get him talking, asking questions, anything . But he said nothing. He continued looking at her, looking past her. Christ, she had somehow misjudged him-or something had changed since their last visit. This was not the same man.

  For the first time, the real possibility of failure loomed before her.

  "You want to hear it?"

  No response.

  She forged gamely ahead. "First, the health hazard. We don't want you or your followers to get sick. We'd like you to give your people a day off. That's all-a day off. Let them go home, shower, have a hot meal. In return, we'll give you a parade permit that'll allow you to gather lawfully with the city's blessing. Not like this, wrecking the park, annoying residents, earning the disrespect of the whole city. Look, I've heard you talk. I know you're a fair guy, a straight shooter. I'm giving you a chance to go legit, earn some respect-and still get your message out."

  She stopped. Don’t say too much. Let him come round.

  All around them, an air of expectancy had grown. Everyone was waiting for the reverend to speak. It all depended on Buck.

  At last, he moved. He blinked, raised his hand slowly, almost robotically. The tension increased with the silence. It was so silent, in fact, Hayward could hear birds chirping in the trees around them.

  The hand came around and pointed at her.

  "Centurion," he said in a voice so low it was barely more than a whisper.

  It was like the release of pressure from a cooker. “Centurion!" came the sudden cry of the crowd. "Soldier of Rome!" The throng jostled and shoved as it began to close in.

  For the first time, Hayward felt a stab of real fear. Failure was becoming a foregone conclusion, but there was more than her career at stake now. This crowd was dangerously aroused.

  "Reverend, if your answer is no-"

  But Buck had turned away, and now, to her overwhelming dismay, he was entering his tent, lifting the flap, disappearing inside. More people streamed in where he'd stood, filling the gap.

  He'd left her to the mercy of the crowd.

  She turned to face them. Now it was time to get the hell out. "All right, folks, I know when to take no for an answer-"

  "Silence, Judas!"

  Hayward saw sticks once again, swaying above the heads. It amazed her how ugly a crowd could get, so quickly. She had failed, failed miserably. Her career was ruined, no question. The real question was whether she could get out in one piece.

  "I'm leaving," she said loudly and firmly. "I'm leaving, and I expect to be allowed to leave peacefully. I am an officer of the law."

  She moved toward the wall of people, but this time no path opened. She kept walking, expecting, hoping for, them to fall back. But they didn't. Several hands reached out and shoved her back-hard.

  "I
came in peace!" she said loudly, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice. "And I'm leaving in peace!" She took another step toward the wall of people, coming face-to-face with Todd. He was brandishing something in one hand. A rock.

  "Don't do anything stupid," she said.

  He raised his hand as if to throw. She immediately took a step toward him, looking into his eyes, just as one would do with a dangerous dog. It was always the crazies who got to the front of a hot crowd. The followers stayed back, hoping for a good lick once the adversary was down and helpless. But these front ones, they were the killers.

  Todd took a step back. "Judas bitch," he said, waving the rock threateningly.

  Reaching down inside and searching for calm, Hayward quickly reviewed her options. If she pulled her piece, that would be the end. Sure, by firing into the air she might drive them back for a moment, but they would be on her in a flash and she'd be forced to shoot into the crowd. And then she'd be dead meat. She could call Rocker, but it would be ten minutes at least before he could mobilize and move in. Blood would be up, and he'd meet immediate resistance. By the time they reached her . God, she didn't have ten minutes, she didn't even have five.

  The only one who could control this crowd was Buck, and he was in his tent.

  She backed up, turning in a slow circle. The crowd was so thick she couldn't even see his tent anymore. And she was being pushed away from it, as if the crowd wanted to keep the unpleasantness of what was to come away from him. Taunts and chanting rose from all sides.

  She searched her mind desperately for something useful from her training. Crowd psychology was something that interested her, especially after the Wisher Riots a few years back. Problem was, an angry crowd did not behave like a normal human being. A crowd did not respond to the cues of body language. A crowd did not listen to anything except itself. You could not reason with a crowd. A crowd would enthusiastically commit an act of violence no single member would normally condone.

  "Centurion!" Todd had taken another step forward, emboldened, the crowd consolidating behind him. Hysterically angry. They weren't going to hurt her-they were going to kill her.