He turned to one of the security officers escorting them. "Did you hear what I said?"
"Yes, sir," the man said in an American accent.
"Make it so."
"Yes, sir."
"Call a detail to remove this man and prefer charges against him for trespassing." Bullard stepped over the prostrate form and looked into the retinal scan himself. There was a click of disengaging metal, then the vault door swung open, exposing machined stainless steel and brass. Beyond lay a small vault. On one side were several hard drives, locked in transparent plastic cases and carefully stacked atop plastic filing cabinets. On the other was a small, rectangular box of polished walnut, surrounded by a cluster of sophisticated electronics: climate-control sensors, humidity readouts, a seismograph, gas analyzer, barometers, and temperature gauges. Bullard strode over to the box, picked it up gently by the handle. It was so light that in Bullard's massive grip it seemed weightless. He turned.
"Let's go."
"Mr. Bullard, perhaps you might care to check the contents?"
Bullard turned to the man who'd spoken. "I'll check soon enough. If it isn't there, losing your jobs will be the least of your worries."
"Yes, sir."
The tension in the room was palpable. The men shifted uneasily, apparently reluctant to leave. Bullard brushed past them, started to duck through the vault door, turned back. "You coming?"
The men followed him out of the vault. The door hissed shut behind. Bullard stepped over Martinetti again and walked through the three sets of doors, the men in his wake, the only sound the clicking of heels on the polished corridors. In another few minutes, he was back at the curb, where the limousine sat idling. The men stood on the sidewalk uncertainly, looking at Bullard. There was no more mention of lunch.
Without a backward glance, Bullard got in the car, slammed the door. "To the villa," he said, placing the wooden box very carefully on his lap.
{ 50 }
D'Agosta stood at the windows of his suite in the Lungarno Hotel, looking out over the deep green of the Arno, the pale yellow palaces of Florence lining both banks, the Ponte Vecchio with its crooked little buildings perched out over the water. He felt strangely expectant, even a little light-headed. He wasn't sure if it was jet lag, the opulence of his surroundings, or the fact that he was in his country of origin for the first time in his life.
D'Agosta's father had left Naples as a boy with his parents, right after the war, to escape the terrible famine of '44. They settled on Carmine Street in New York City. His father, Vito, outraged by the rising power of the Mafia, had fought back by becoming a New York City cop, and a damn good one. His shield and awards still stood in a glass case on the mantel like holy relics: police combat cross, medal of honor. D'Agosta had grown up on Carmine Street, surrounded by Italian immigrants from Naples and Sicily, immersed in the language, the religion, the cycles of saints' days and celebrations. From childhood, Italy had for him taken on the air of a mythical place.
And now here he was.
He felt a lump rising in his throat. He had not expected it to be such an emotional experience. This was the land of his ancestors going back millennia. Italy was the birthplace of so much: art, architecture, sculpture, music, science, and astronomy. The great names of the past rolled through his mind: Augustus Caesar, Cicero, Ovid, Dante, Christopher Columbus, Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo, Galileo… The list stretched back more than two thousand years. D'Agosta felt certain no other nation on earth had produced such genius.
He opened the window and breathed in the air. It was something his wife never understood, his immense pride in his heritage. It was something that she had always thought a little silly. Well, no wonder. She was English. What had the English done but scribble a few plays and poems? Italy was the birthplace of Western civilization. The land of his ancestors. Someday he would take his son, Vinnie, here…
These delicious reveries were interrupted by a knock on the door. It was the valet with his luggage.
"Where would you like it, sir?" the valet said in English.
D'Agosta made a flourish with his hand and launched nonchalantly into Italian. "Buon giorno guagliòne. Pe' piacère' lassàte ì valigè abbecìno o liett', grazie."
The valet looked at him strangely, with what seemed to D'Agosta a fleeting look of disdain. "Excuse me?" he asked in English.
D'Agosta felt a brief swell of irritation "Ì valigè, aggia ritt', mettitelè' allà." He pointed to the bed
The valet placed the two bags by the bed. D'Agosta fished in his pockets but could not find anything less than a five-euro note. He gave it to the valet.
"Grazie, signore, Lei è molto gentile. Se Lei ha bisogno di qualsiasi cosa, mi dica." And the valet left.
D'Agosta hadn't understood a word the man had said after "Grazie, signore." It didn't sound at all like the language his grandmother spoke. He shook his head. It must be the Florentine accent throwing him off: he knew he hadn't forgotten that much. Italian was his first language, after all.
He looked around. This was like no hotel room he had ever stayed in before, the height of clean, understated taste and elegance. It was also huge: almost an apartment, really, with a bedroom, sitting room, marble bath, kitchen, and well-stocked bar, along with a wall of windows looking out over the Arno, the Ponte Vecchio, the Uffizi Gallery, the great cupola of the Duomo. The room must've cost a fortune, but D'Agosta had long ago given up worrying about how Pendergast spent his money, if indeed it was his money. The guy remained as mysterious as ever.
There came another soft knock on the door, and D'Agosta opened it. It was Pendergast. The detective, still dressed in his usual black—which somehow looked less out of place in Florence than it did in New York—glided in. He carried a sheaf of papers in one hand.
"Accommodations to your satisfaction, Vincent?"
"A bit cramped, lousy view of some old bridge, but I'll get used to it."
Pendergast settled on the sofa and handed D'Agosta the sheaf of papers. "You will find here a permesso di soggiorno, a firearm permit, an investigative authorization from the Questura, your codice fiscale, and a few other odds and ends to be signed—all through the count's good offices."
D'Agosta took the papers. "Fosco?"
Pendergast nodded. "Italian bureaucracy moves slowly, and the good count gave it a swift kick forward on our behalf."
"Is he here?" D'Agosta asked with little enthusiasm.
"No. He may come later." Pendergast rose and strolled to the window. "There is his family's palazzo, across the river, next to the Corsini Palace."
D'Agosta glanced out at a medieval building with a crenellated parapet. "Nice pile."
"Indeed. It's been in the family since the late thirteenth century."
Another knock came at the door.
"Trasite'," D'Agosta called, proud to be able to use his Italian in front of Pendergast.
The valet came in again, carrying a basket of fruit. "Signori?"
"Faciteme stù piacère' lassatele 'ngoppa' o' tavule."
The valet made no move toward the table, saying instead, "Where shall I put it?" in English. D'Agosta glanced at Pendergast and saw a twinkle of amusement in his eye.
"O' tavule," he answered more brusquely.
The man stood there with the fruit in his hand, looking from the table to the desk, finally placing it on the desk. D'Agosta felt a surge of irritation at his willful incomprehension—hadn't he given the man a big enough tip? Words he had so often heard from his father flowed unbidden off his lips. "Allòra qual'è ò problema','sì surdo? Nun mi capisc'i? Ma che è parl' ò francèse'? Mannaggi' 'a miseria'."
The man backed out of the room in confusion. D'Agosta turned to Pendergast, to find the agent making a rare and unsuccessful attempt to suppress an effervescence of mirth.
"What's so funny?" D'Agosta said.
Pendergast managed to compose his features. "Vincent, I didn't know you had such a flair for languages."
"Italian was my first
language."
"Italian? Do you speak Italian, too?"
"What do you mean, too? What the hell do you think I was speaking?"
"It sounded remarkably to me like Neapolitan, which is often called a dialect of Italian but is actually a separate language. A fascinating language, too, but, of course, incomprehensible to a Florentine."
D'Agosta froze. Neapolitan dialect? The thought had never occurred to him. Sure, there were families that spoke the Sicilian dialect where he grew up in New York, but he'd just assumed his own language was real Italian. Neapolitan? No way. He spoke Italian.
Pendergast, noticing the look on D'Agosta's face, continued. "When Italy was united in 1871, there were six hundred dialects. A debate began to rage as to what language the new country should speak. The Romans thought their dialect was the best, because, after all, they were Rome. The Perugians thought theirs was the purest, because that's where the oldest university in Europe was. The Florentines felt theirs was correct, because theirs was the language of Dante." He smiled again. "Dante won."
"I never knew that."
"But people continued to speak their dialects. Even when your parents emigrated, only a small portion of the citizenry spoke official Italian. It wasn't until the arrival of television that Italians began abandoning their dialects and speaking the same language. What you consider 'Italian' is actually the dialect of Naples, a rich but sadly dying language, with hints of Spanish and French."
D'Agosta was stunned.
"Who knows? Perhaps our researches will take us south, where you can shine. But for now, seeing as how it is getting on toward dinnertime, shall we head out for a bite to eat? I know a wonderful little osteria in Piazza Santo Spirito, where there is also a curious fountain I believe might be of interest to our investigation."
Five minutes later they were walking through the crooked medieval streets of Florence, which led them to a broad, spacious piazza, shaded by horse chestnut trees and shut in on three sides by lovely Renaissance buildings stuccoed in hues of ivory, yellow, and ocher. Dominating the end closest to the river was the plain facade of the Chiesa di Santo Spirito, severe in its simplicity. An old marble fountain splashed merrily in the center of the piazza. Students with backpacks clustered around it, smoking cigarettes and chatting.
Pendergast casually removed Beckmann's photograph from his pocket, held it up toward the fountain, and then slowly circled the piazza until the background matched. He stared for a long moment. Then he put the photo away.
"That's where the four of them stood, Vincent," he said, pointing. "And there, behind, is the Palazzo Guadagni, now managed as a student pensione. We shall inquire there tomorrow to see if they remember any of our friends, although I do not hold out much hope. But let us dine. I find myself in the mood for linguini with white truffles."
"I could really do with a cheeseburger and fries."
Pendergast turned to him, a stricken look on his face. D'Agosta smiled back crookedly. "Just kidding."
They strolled across the piazza toward a small restaurant, the Osteria Santo Spirito. Tables had been set up outside, and people were eating and drinking wine, their lively conversation floating into the piazza.
Pendergast waited until they were shown to a table, then gestured for D'Agosta to sit. "I must say, Vincent, you are looking fitter these days."
"Been working out. And after that jaunt in Riverside Park, I've also been brushing up at the shooting range."
"Your firearm skills are the stuff of legend. That just might come in handy for the little adventure we'll be having tomorrow night."
"Adventure?" D'Agosta was tired, but jet lag only seemed to energize Pendergast.
"We are going to Signa to visit Bullard's secret laboratory. While you were unwinding in your hotel room this afternoon, I was speaking with various Florentine officials, trying to procure the files on Bullard and BAI's doings here. But even Fosco's influence got me nowhere. It seems Bullard is well connected with the right people—or at least knows where to spend his money. All I was able to procure was a long-outdated map of his plant site. In any case, it's clear we're not going to get anywhere through regular channels."
"I take it he doesn't know we're coming."
"Our visit will be in the manner of an insertion. We can get the gear we need tomorrow morning."
D'Agosta nodded slowly. "Could be exciting."
"Let us hope not too exciting. As I get older, Vincent, I have come to prefer a quiet evening at home to a bracing exchange of gunfire in the dark."
{ 51 }
Bryce Harriman walked north along Fifth Avenue, threading his way through the crowds with practiced ease, his mind on the devil killings. Ritts was right: the Von Menck piece had really touched a nerve in the city. He'd been flooded with calls. Mostly from cranks, of course—this was the Post, after all—but still he couldn't recall a bigger reaction to a story. The whole business of the golden ratio and the way everything fitted so neatly with the historic dates, the aura of mathematics—for an ignorant person, it had all the ring of hard scientific fact. And, Harriman had to admit, it was a bit uncanny how the dates just happened to fall in line like that.
He passed the Metropolitan Club, glimpsing the marvels of old New York money within. That was his world in there, or rather, the world of his grandparents. Although he was approaching the age where he could start expecting the first of several prestigious club invitations (arranged by his father), he worried that his current position at the Post would be an impediment. He needed to get back to the Times, and fast.
This was the story that could do it.
Ritts loved him—at least as much as that reptile could love anyone. But a good story was like a fire. It needed to be fed. And this one was already guttering. He sensed Ritts's good favor could fade as quickly as it came, leaving him and his big new raise uncomfortably exposed. He needed a development, even if it was manufactured. That was what he hoped this return visit to Cutforth's building might provide. His earlier pieces had already swelled the ranks of the Bible-thumpers, devil worshipers, Goths, freaks, satanists, and New Agers who now gathered daily along the fringes of Central Park opposite the building. There had already been a couple of fistfights, some name-calling, a few visits by New York's finest to break things up. But it was all disorganized. All reactions needed a catalyst and this was no exception.
He was nearing 68th Street. He could already see the gatherings of freaks on the park side of Fifth Avenue, each in its own little clump. He sidled up to the milling groups, elbowing his way through the ring of rubberneckers. Nothing much had changed from the last time he was there, except the crowd had swelled. A satanist in black leather, clutching a Bud, was hurling curses at a New Ager in hemp robes. There was the smell of beer and pot, not unlike a rock concert. At the far end, a man in faded jeans and a Black Watch plaid short-sleeved shirt was speaking to a rather large crowd. Harriman couldn't hear what he was saying, but of all the acts going on in this circus, his seemed to be the biggest.
Harriman peeled out of the group of onlookers and inserted himself back in, much closer to the man. He was preaching, that much was clear; but he looked normal, and his voice, instead of cracking at the edge of hysteria, sounded calm, educated, and reasonable. Even as he spoke, the crowd around him was swelling. A lot of onlookers were attracted by what he was saying, and even some satanists and Goths were listening.
"This is an amazing city," the man was saying. "I've been here just twenty-four hours, but I can already safely say there's nothing else on earth like it. The tall buildings, the limousines, the beautiful people. It dazzles the eye, it surely does. This is my first time in New York City. And you know what strikes me most, more than the glitter and the glamour? It's the hurry. Look around you, friends. Look at the pedestrians. Look how fast they walk, talking into their phones or staring straight ahead. I've never seen a thing like it. Look at the people in the taxis and buses as they pass—even when they're not moving, they seem to be in a rush. And
I know what they're all so busy with. I've been doing a lot of listening since I arrived. I've probably listened to a thousand conversations already, most of them one-sided, because people on this Manhattan Island seem to prefer talking into cell phones than talking to real people, face-to-face. What are they busy with? They're busy with themselves. With tomorrow's big meeting. With dinner reservations. With cheating on their spouses. With backstabbing a business associate. All sorts of plans and schemes and stratagems, and none of them any more foresighted than, say, next month's trip to Club Med. How many of all these busy folk are busy thinking thirty, forty years ahead—to their own mortality? How many of these folks are busy making their peace with God? Or thinking of the words of Jesus in Luke: Verily I say unto you, This generation shall not pass away, till all be fulfilled? Precious few, I'd guess. If any."
Harriman looked more closely at the preacher. He had sandy hair, neatly cut, a good-looking all-American face, well—developed arms, trim, neat, clean-shaven. No tattoos or piercings, no metal-studded leather codpiece. If he had a Bible, it wasn't in evidence. It was as if he was talking to a group of friends—people he respected.
"I've done something else since reaching New York," the man went on. "I've visited churches. Lots of churches. I never knew one city, no matter how big, could boast so many churches. But see, friends, here's the sad thing. No matter how many people were thronging the streets outside, I found every one of these churches empty. They're starving. They're perishing from neglect. Even St. Patrick's Cathedral—as beautiful a Christian place as I've ever seen in my born days—had only a sprinkling of worshipers. Tourists? Yes, indeed, by the hundreds. But of the devout? Less than the fingers on my two hands.
"And this, my friends, is the saddest thing of all. To think that—in a place of so much culture, so much learning and sophistication—there can be such a terrible spiritual emptiness. I feel it all around me like a desert, drying the very marrow of my bones. I didn't want to believe what I read in the papers, the awful stories that brought me here to this place almost against my will. But it's true, my brothers and sisters. Every last word of it. New York is a city devoted to Mammon, not God. Look at him," and he pointed to a well-dressed twenty-something passing by in a pinstripe suit, yakking into a phone. "When do you suppose was the last time he thought about his mortality? Or her?" He pointed to a woman with bags from Henri Bendel and Tiffany's, climbing out of a cab. "Or them?" His accusing finger aimed at a pair of college students, walking hand in hand down the street. "Or you?" His finger now swiveled across the crowd. "How long since you thought about your own mortality? It may be a week away, ten years, or fifty—but it's coming. As sure as my name is Wayne P. Buck, it's coming. Are you ready?"
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