Brimstone

by Douglas Preston

  But Rocker was still looking directly at her. Keep things rational for me, Hayward, the look seemed to say.

  "Buck will appreciate two ranking officers. That should appeal to his sense of importance." Rocker turned. "Grable, you've got seniority and it's your operation. I leave it to you to organize the details and timing. This meeting is adjourned."

  { 64 }

  The morning after the trip to Cremona was bright and crisp, and D'Agosta squinted against the noonday sun as he accompanied Pendergast back to Piazza Santo Spirito, across the river from their hotel.

  "You checked in with Captain Hayward?" Pendergast asked as they walked.

  "Just before going to bed."

  "Anything of interest?"

  "Not really. What few leads they'd been following up on Cutforth all turned into dead ends. The security video cams at his building told them nothing. It's the same with Grove, apparently. And now, all the top New York brass are preoccupied with this preacher who's taken up residence in Central Park."

  This time, D'Agosta found the piazza not nearly as quiet as before: its tranquillity was spoiled by a large group of backpackers sitting on the steps of the fountain, smoking pot and passing around a bottle of Brunello wine, talking loudly in half a dozen languages. They were accompanied by at least ten loose dogs.

  "Careful where you step, Vincent," murmured Pendergast with a wry smile. "Florence: such a marvelous mixture of high and low." He raised his hand above the piles of dogshit and gestured at the magnificent building which occupied the southeast corner. "For example, the Palazzo Guadagni. One of the finest examples of a Renaissance palace in the entire city. It was constructed in the 1400s, but the Guadagni family goes back several more centuries."

  D'Agosta examined the building. The first story was built in rough blocks of dun-colored limestone, while the upper floors were covered in yellow stucco. Most of the top floor was a loggia: a roofed portico supported by stone columns. The structure was restrained but elegant.

  "There are various offices and apartments on the second floor, a language school on the third. And the top floor is a pensione, run by a Signora Donatelli. That, without doubt, is where Beckmann and the rest met back in 1974."

  "Does this woman own the palazzo?"

  "She does. The last descendant of the Guadagni."

  "You really think she'll remember a couple of college students who visited three decades ago?"

  "One can only try, Vincent."

  They picked their way gingerly across the piazza and through an enormous pair of iron-studded wooden doors. A once-grand but now grimy vaulted passageway led to a stairway and a second-floor landing. Here, a shabby piece of cardboard had been hung on the cornice of a faded Baroque fresco. A hand-drawn arrow and the word Reception had been scrawled on the cardboard with a firm hand.

  The reception room was incongruously small for such a giant palace: cluttered yet neat as a pin, bisected by a wooden transom, a battered set of wooden mail slots on one side and a rack of keys on the other. The room had only one occupant: a tiny old lady sitting behind an ancient desk. She was dressed with extraordinary elegance, her hair perfectly dyed and coiffed, red lipstick impeccably applied, with what looked like real diamonds draped around her neck and dangling from withered ears.

  She rose and Pendergast bowed.

  "Molto lieto di conoscer La, signora."

  The woman responded crisply, "Il piacere è mio." Then she continued in accented English. "Obviously, you are not here to take a room."

  "No," said Pendergast. He removed his ID, offered it to her.

  "You are policemen."

  "Yes."

  "What is it that you want? My time is limited." The voice was sharp and intimidating.

  "In the fall of 1974, I believe, several American students stayed here. Here is a picture of them." Pendergast took out Beckmann's photo.

  She did not look at it. "Do you have the names?"

  "Yes."

  "Then come with me." And she turned and walked around the transom, through a back door, and into a much larger room. D'Agosta saw it was an old library of sorts, with bound books, manuscripts, and vellum documents filling shelves from floor to ceiling. It smelled of parchment and dry rot, old leather and wax. The ceiling was coffered and had once been elaborately gilded. Now it was crumbling with age, the wood riddled with holes.

  "The archives of the family," she said. "They go back eight centuries."

  "You keep good records."

  "I keep excellent records, thank you." She made a beeline to a low shelf at the far end of the room, selected a massive register, carried it to a center table. She opened the register, revealing page after page of accounts, payments, names, and dates, written in a fanatical, tiny hand.

  "Names?"

  "Bullard, Cutforth, Beckmann, and Grove."

  She began flipping pages, scanning each with tremendous rapidity, each flip sending up a faint cloud of dust. Suddenly, she stopped.

  "There. Grove." A bony finger, burdened with a huge diamond ring, pointed to the name. Then it slid down the rest of the page.

  "Beckmann… Cutforth… Bullard. Yes, they were all here in October."

  Pendergast peered at the register, but even he was clearly having trouble deciphering the minuscule hand.

  "Did their visits overlap?"

  "Yes." A pause. "According to this, one night only, that of October 31."

  She closed the book with a snap. "Anything else, signore?"

  "Yes, signora. Will you do me the courtesy of looking at this photograph?"

  "Surely you don't expect me to remember some slovenly American students from thirty years ago? I am ninety-two, sir. I have earned the privilege of forgetting."

  "I beg your indulgence."

  Sighing with impatience, she took the photograph, looked at it—and visibly started. She stared a long time, what little color there was in her face slowly disappearing. Then she handed the photograph back to Pendergast.

  "As it happens," she said in a low tone, "I do remember. That one." She pointed to Beckmann. "Let me see. Something terrible happened. He and some other boys, probably those others in the photograph, went off somewhere together. They were gone all night. He came back and was terribly upset. I had to get a priest for him…"

  She paused, her voice trailing off. Gone was the crisp confidence, the unshakable sense of self.

  "It was the night before All Saints' Day. He came back from a night of carousing, and he was in a bad state. I took him to church."

  "What church?"

  "The one right here, Santo Spirito. I remember him panicked and begging to go to confession. It was long ago, yet it was such a strange occurrence it stuck in my mind. That, and the expression on the poor boy's face. He was begging for a priest as if his life depended on it."

  "And?"

  "He went to confession and right afterwards he packed up his belongings and left."

  "And the other American students?"

  "I don't recall. Every year they celebrate All Saints' Day, or rather the day before, which I believe you call Halloween. It's an excuse to drink."

  "Do you know where they went that evening, or who they might have encountered?"

  "I know nothing more than what I have told you."

  The ring of a bell came from the front office. "I have guests to attend to," she said.

  "One last question, signora, if you please," Pendergast said. "The priest who heard the confession—is he still alive?"

  "That would have been Father Zenobi. Yes, Father Zenobi. He is now living with the monks of La Verna."

  She turned, then paused and slowly glanced back. "But if you think you can persuade him to break the sacred seal of the confessional, sir, you are sadly mistaken."

  { 65 }

  D'Agosta assumed that, upon leaving the palazzo, they would return directly to their hotel. But instead, Pendergast lingered in the piazza: strolling, hands in his pockets, eyes glancing first left, then right. After a fe
w minutes, he turned to D'Agosta.

  "Gelato? Some of the best in Florence, if I am not mistaken, can be found right here at Café Ricchi."

  "I've given up on ice cream."

  "I haven't. Indulge me."

  They entered the café and approached the bar. Pendergast ordered his cone—tiramisu and crème anglaise—while D'Agosta asked for an espresso.

  "I didn't know you had a sweet tooth," D'Agosta said as they leaned against the bar.

  "I have something of a weakness for gelato. But our main reason for stopping here is to learn his intentions."

  "His intentions? Whose intentions?"

  "The man who's following us."

  D'Agosta straightened up. "What?"

  "No—don't look. He's nondescript, mid-thirties, wearing a blue shirt and dark pants. Quite professional."

  Pendergast's cone arrived and he took a dainty bite. Then, suddenly, a change came over his face.

  "He's just entered the pensione," he said. Abandoning his gelato, Pendergast dropped a few euros on the counter and strode out of the café, D'Agosta following.

  "Are you afraid for the signora?"

  "The signora is perfectly safe. It's the priest for whom I fear."

  "The priest—?" Suddenly, D'Agosta understood. "Then we can stop this guy when he leaves the pensione."

  "That would serve no purpose but to embroil us in endless legalities. Our best chance is the monastery itself. Come, Vincent: we haven't a moment to lose."

  In twenty minutes, they were driving through the hills northeast of Florence, Pendergast at the wheel of their rented Fiat. Although D'Agosta had done more than his share of high-speed driving—and though Pendergast was clearly an expert—D'Agosta's heart was beating at an uncomfortable rate. The car was squealing around a series of hairpin curves, none of which had guardrails, at a terrifying clip. With each climbing turn, a rising sea of mountains swam into view before them: the great spine of the Apennines.

  "I've been aware of surveillance for some time now," Pendergast said. "Since we found Bullard's body, and perhaps even before. At important moments—such as our trip to Cremona—I've managed to keep him at arm's length. I haven't yet confronted our shadower, hoping instead to learn who's behind him. I did not think he would take such a direct approach as he did just now in the piazza. It means we are getting close to the truth. It also means increased danger, for us and for those with crucial information—such as Father Zenobi."

  The car squealed around another curve. D'Agosta braced himself against the lateral g-forces, sweat breaking out on his brow.

  "I've seen you weasel information out of all kinds of people," he said when it was safe to draw breath again. "But if you can convince a priest to reveal a thirty-year-old confession, I'll swim all the way back to Southampton."

  Another long, screeching turn, the car hanging practically over the edge of a chasm.

  This time, D'Agosta almost had to pry his fingers from the dashboard. "Do you think we might slow down?"

  "I don't think so." And Pendergast nodded over his shoulder.

  The car made another semi controlled skid around a corner, and as D'Agosta fell against the passenger window he got a terrifying glimpse back down the mountainside. About three switchbacks below he could see a motorcycle, black and chrome, its angular chassis exposed and gleaming. It was approaching fast.

  "There's a motorcycle on our tail!" he said.

  Pendergast nodded. "A Ducati Monster, S4R model, if I'm not mistaken. A four-valve twin, well over a hundred horsepower, light but very powerful."

  D'Agosta glanced back again. The rider was dressed in red leather, wearing a helmet with a smoked visor.

  "The man from the plaza?" he asked.

  "Either him or somebody allied with him."

  "He's after us?"

  "No. He's after the priest."

  "We sure as hell can't outrun him."

  "We can slow him down. Get out your weapon."

  "And do what?"

  "I'll leave that to your discretion."

  Now D'Agosta could hear the high-pitched whine of an engine in high gear, approaching from behind. They tore around another corner, scattering clouds of dust as the Fiat slewed, first right, then left. But already the motorcycle was biting into the same corner, leaning at an incredible angle, almost pegging the road. The rider straightened quickly and began closing the gap, preparing to pass.

  "Hang on, Vincent."

  The car swerved into the left lane just as the motorcycle came alongside, then swerved back with a shriek of rubber, cutting him off. D'Agosta looked back and saw the motorcyclist dropping back, preparing to make another run past them.

  "He's coming on the right!" he shouted.

  At the last minute, Pendergast jerked the car to the left again, correctly anticipating a feint; there was a screech of tires behind them as the motorcyclist dumped his rear brake and the bike rose in a reverse wheelie. The rider straightened, recovered. D'Agosta saw him reach into his jacket.

  "He's got a gun!"

  D'Agosta planted himself against the passenger door and waited, his own weapon at the ready. He doubted that a man on a motorcycle, going eighty miles an hour on a winding mountain road, could fire with any accuracy—but he wasn't going to take any chances.

  With a burst of speed, the motorcycle closed again, the gun leveling, steadying. D'Agosta aimed his weapon.

  "Wait until he fires," Pendergast murmured.

  There was a bang and a blue puff, instantly whisked away; a simultaneous thump; and the back window went abruptly opaque, a web of cracks running away from a perfect 9mm hole. An instant later Pendergast braked with terrifying suddenness, throwing D'Agosta forward against the seat belt, then swerved and accelerated again.

  D'Agosta unbuckled the seat belt, jumped into the backseat, kicked away the sagging rear window, steadied his gun, and fired. The cyclist swerved and dropped back behind a curve, kicking his way down through the gears.

  "The bastard—!"

  The car slid into the next corner, fishtailing on loose gravel and sliding perilously close to the cliff edge. D'Agosta knelt in the rear seat, hardly daring to breathe, aiming through the ruined window, ready to fire as soon as the motorcycle reappeared. As they ripped around another hillside, he saw the Ducati flash into view about a hundred yards back.

  Pendergast downshifted, the engine screaming with the effort, the rpm needle redlining. The car went into another long, sickening turn.

  As they accelerated out of the curve, the road emerged onto a shoulder of a mountain, heading straight through a long, dark forest of pine trees, tunneling into shade. A sign flashed past: Chiusi della Verna 13km. Keeping watch on their rear, D'Agosta could see a whirlwind of dancing pine needles thrown up by their passage.

  …And there came the Ducati, swinging around the curve. D'Agosta aimed but it was an impossible shot, two hundred yards back from a moving car. He sat, awaiting his chance.

  With a piercing whine, the motorcycle came surging forward, screaming into fifth, then sixth gear, approaching at ever-increasing speed. The man had put away his gun, and both his gloved hands were on the handlebars, his head lowered.

  "He's going to try another run past us."

  "No doubt." Pendergast stayed in the center of the road, accelerator floored.

  But the car was no match for the Ducati. It came straight up behind them, accelerating all the way. The thing must top out at a hundred and eighty, D'Agosta thought. He knew it would try to turn and dart past them at the last moment, and there would be no way for Pendergast to guess if the rider would veer to the right or the left. He steadied his gun. He had vastly improved his shooting from many sessions at the 27th Precinct range, but with the vibration, the motion of the car, the motion of the bike—it was going to be tough. The bike was going at least twice their speed now, coming up on them fast…

  D'Agosta squeezed off a shot, aiming low at the machine, and missed.

  The car made a violent mot
ion to the right as the bike came blasting past on the left—dual silencers flashing, rider leaning so far forward he seemed draped over the front fork—and was gone around the next curve.

  "I lost that coin toss," Pendergast said dryly.

  They were now approaching the curve themselves, their speed beyond any possibility of controlling the turn. Pendergast braked hard while simultaneously jamming on the gas pedal and twisting the wheel left. The car spun violently around, twice, perhaps three times—D'Agosta was too shaken to be sure—before coming to rest on the very edge of the cliff.

  They paused just a moment, the acrid smell of burned brake pads wafting over the car.

  "Fiat, for all its troubles, still knows how to make a decent vehicle," said Pendergast.

  "Eurocar isn't going to like this," D'Agosta replied.

  Pendergast jammed on the gas, and the car screeched back onto the road, accelerating into the next turn.

  They tore through the fir forest once again before mounting another series of steep switchbacks, worse than the last. D'Agosta felt his stomach begin to rise uncomfortably. He allowed himself a single glance out over the edge. Far below—very, very far below—he could see the Casentino Valley, dotted with fields and villages. He looked quickly away.

  Turn after turn they mounted, Pendergast driving in grim silence. D'Agosta reloaded and checked his gun: it beat looking out the window. Suddenly houses flashed past, and they whipped through the town of Chiusi della Verna, Pendergast leaning on the horn, pedestrians jumping into the doorway of a shop in terror as the car blasted by, clipping the side-view mirror from a parked van and sending it bouncing and rolling down the street. Just past town was another faded sign: Santuario della Verna 6km.

  The road climbed steadily through a steep forest, one brutally sharp turn after another. And then suddenly they emerged from the trees into a meadow, and there—directly ahead but still a thousand feet above them—stood the monastery of La Verna: a great tangle of ancient stone, perched on a crag that seemed to hang over open space. It was windowless, so old and vast and scarred by time it looked a part of the cliff face itself. Despite everything, D'Agosta felt a chill go down his spine; he knew from Sunday school that this was perhaps the holiest Christian monastery in the world, built in 1224 by St. Francis himself.