Brimstone

by Douglas Preston

  Fosco stopped talking long enough to eat some more steak and sip his wine.

  "To do that, Bullard needed to cut up a golden period Strad. Any would do, but none were for sale—especially to him. And then along came the black-market Stormcloud. Ecco fatto!"

  D'Agosta stared in mingled repulsion and disbelief as the count wiped his red and greasy lips on an oversize napkin. It seemed outrageous, impossible.

  "Now you see, Pendergast, why I needed to go to such lengths. It was worth a billion to Bullard on the Chinese deal alone. With more money to come as he resold the technology to a host of other eager buyers. I had to get the violin quickly, before he destroyed it. He had already brought it to his Italian laboratory, where it was guarded under truly impenetrable security. And that's when it came to me. I'd use the only leverage I had: our first and only encounter, thirty years ago. I’d frighten Bullard into giving up the violin!"

  "Through murdering the others who had been at the staged devil raising."

  "Yes. I would kill Grove, Beckmann, and Cutforth, making it look in each case like the devil had finally come for their souls. Beckmann seemed to have disappeared, so that left only Grove and Cutforth. Only two. Whatever I did, it had to be utterly convincing. Bullard was an ignorant, blustering man with few religious impulses. I needed a way to kill them that was so unique and dreadful that the police would be baffled, that would generate all kinds of talk about the devil—and most important, that would convince Bullard. It had to be heat, naturally. And that was how I came to invent my little device. But that is another story."

  He paused for another sip of wine.

  "I prepared the scene of Grove's death with great care. I began by calling and alarming him with a story of a terrible visitation I'd had; how I feared Lucifer was coming for us because of the ceremony years before, how we had to do something. He was skeptical at first, so I had Pinketts set up a few bits of stage business in his house. Strange sounds, smells, and the like. Remarkable how a few props can undermine the conviction of even the most arrogant man. He grew frightened. I suggested some kind of atonement for his sins; hence, the peculiar dinner party. I loaned him my beloved cross. The poor fool gave me the keys to his house, the codes to the alarm system—everything I needed.

  "His death worked like a charm. Almost immediately Bullard was on the phone to me. I was careful to ensure all my calls were made from an untraceable phone card. I continued playing the role of terrified count. I told him of strange things that had happened to me, sulfurous smells, disembodied sounds, uncomfortable tingling sensations—all the things, of course, that would happen to him later. I pretended to be convinced the devil was coming for all of us: after all, we had offered our souls in the compact we made thirty years before. The devil had completed his side of the bargain; now it was time for us to fulfill ours.

  "After sending Bullard off to stew about this, it was time to deal with Cutforth. I had Pinketts here purchase the apartment next to his, posing as an English baronet, to assist with the various, ah, arrangements. Like Grove, Cutforth scoffed at the idea at first. He'd been convinced my little show back in 1974 was a fraud. But as details of Grove's death emerged, he grew increasingly nervous. I didn't want him too nervous—just nervous enough to call Bullard and alarm him further. Which, of course, he did."

  He issued a dry laugh.

  "After Cutforth's death, your vulgar tabloids did a fabulous job beating the drum, whipping people into a frenzy. It was perfect. And Bullard fell apart. He was out of his mind. Then the colpo di grazia: I called Bullard and said that I had managed to cancel my contract with Lucifer!"

  Fosco patted his hands together with delight. Watching, D'Agosta felt his stomach turn.

  "He was desperate to know how. I told him I'd located an ancient manuscript explaining the devil would sometimes accept a gift in return for a human soul. But it had to be a truly unique gift, something of enormous rarity, something whose loss would debase the human spirit. I told him I'd sacrificed my Vermeer in just such a way.

  "Poor Bullard was beside himself. He had no Vermeer, he said; nothing of value except boats, cars, houses, and companies. He begged me to advise him what he should buy, what he should give the devil. I told him it had to be something utterly unique and precious, an object that would impoverish the world by its loss. I said I couldn't advise him—naturally he couldn't know I was aware of the Stormcloud—and I said I doubted he owned anything the devil would want, that I had been hugely fortunate to have a Vermeer, that the devil surely would not have accepted my Caravaggio!"

  At this witticism, Fosco burst into laughter.

  "I told Bullard that, whatever it was, the devil had to have it immediately. The thirty-year anniversary of our original pact was nearing. Grove and Cutforth were already dead. There was not enough time for him to acquire something of the requisite rarity. I reminded him the devil would be able to see into his heart, that there would be no cheating the old gentleman, and that whatever he offered had better fit the bill or his soul would burn forever.

  "That's when he finally broke down and told me he had a violin of great rarity, a Stradivarius called the Stormcloud—would that do? I told him I couldn't speak for the devil, but that I hoped for his sake it would. I congratulated him on being so fortunate."

  Fosco paused to place another piece of dripping meat into his mouth. "I, of course, returned to Italy far earlier than I let on to you. I was here even before Bullard arrived. I dug an old grimoire out of the library here, gave it to him, told him to follow the ritual and place the violin inside a broken circle. Within his own, unbroken circle, he would be protected. But he must send away all his help, turn off the alarm system, and so forth—the devil didn't like interruptions. The poor man did as I asked. In place of the devil, I sent in Pinketts, who is devil enough, I can tell you. With theatrical effects and the appropriate garb. He took the violin and retreated, while I used my little machine to dispense with Bullard."

  "Why the machine and the theatrics?" Pendergast asked quietly. "Why not put a bullet in him? The need to terrify your victim had passed."

  "That was for your benefit, my dear fellow! It was a way to stir up the police, keep you in Italy a while longer. Where you would be easier to dispose of."

  "Whether we will be easy to dispose of remains to be seen."

  Fosco chuckled with great good humor. "You evidently think you have something to bargain with, otherwise you wouldn't have accepted my invitation."

  "That is correct."

  "Whatever you think you have, it won't be good enough. You are already as good as dead. I know you better than you realize. I know you because you are like me. You are very like me."

  "You could not be more wrong, Count. I am not a murderer."

  D'Agosta was surprised to see a faint blush of color in Pendergast's face.

  "No, but you could be. You have it in you. I can see it."

  "You see nothing."

  Fosco had finished his steak and now he rose. "You think me an evil man. You call this whole affair sordid. But consider what I've done. I've saved the world's greatest violin from destruction. I've prevented the Chinese from penetrating the planned U.S. antimissile shield, removing a threat to millions of your fellow citizens. And at what cost? The lives of a pederast, a traitor, a producer of popular music who was filling the world with his filth, and a godless soul who destroyed everyone he touched."

  "You haven't included our lives in this calculation."

  Fosco nodded. "Yes. You and the unfortunate priest. Regrettable indeed. But if the truth be known, I'd waste a hundred lives for that instrument. There are five billion people. There is only one Stormcloud."

  "It isn't worth even one human life," D'Agosta heard himself say.

  Fosco turned, his eyebrows raised in surprise. "No?"

  He turned and clapped his hands. Pinketts appeared at the door.

  "Get me the violin."

  The man disappeared and returned a moment later with an old woo
den case, shaped like a small dark coffin, covered with the patina of ages. Pinketts placed it on a table next to the wall and withdrew to a far corner.

  Fosco rose and strolled over to the case. He took out the bow, tightened it, ran a rosin up and down a few times, and then—slowly, lovingly—withdrew the violin. To D'Agosta, it didn't look at all extraordinary: just a violin, older than most. Hard to believe it had led them on this long journey, cost so many lives.

  Fosco placed it under his chin, stood tall and straight. A moment of silence passed while he sighed, half closing his eyes. And then the bow began moving slowly over the strings, the notes flowing clearly. It was one of the few classical tunes D'Agosta recognized, one that his grandfather used to sing to him as a child: Bach's Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring. The melody was simple, the measured notes rising, one after another, in a dignified cadence, filling the air with beautiful sound.

  The room seemed to change. It became suffused with a kind of transcendent brightness. The tremulous purity of the sound took D'Agosta's breath away. The melody filled him like a presence, sweet and clean, speaking in a language beyond words. A language of pure beauty.

  And then the melody was over. It was like being yanked from a dream. D'Agosta realized that, for a moment, he'd lost track of everything: Fosco, the killings, their perilous situation. Now it all came back with redoubled vengeance, all the worse for having been temporarily forgotten.

  There was a silence while Fosco lowered the violin. Then he spoke in a whisper, his voice trembling. "You see now? This is not just a violin. It is alive. Do you understand, Mr. D'Agosta, why the sound of the Stradivarius is so beautiful? Because it is mortal. Because it is like the beating heart of a bird in flight. It reminds us that all beautiful things must die. The profound beauty of music lies somehow in its very transience and fragility. It breathes for a shining moment—and then it expires. That was the genius of Stradivari: he captured that moment in wood and varnish. He immortalized mortality."

  He looked back at Pendergast, eyes still haunted. "Yes, the music always dies. But this"—he held up the violin—"will never die. It will outlive us all a hundred times over. Tell me now, Mr. Pendergast, that I have done wrong to save this violin. Please, say that I have committed a crime."

  Pendergast said nothing.

  "I'll say it," said D'Agosta. "You're a cold-blooded murderer."

  "Ah, yes," Fosco murmured. "One can always count on a philistine to lay down absolute morality." He carefully wiped down the violin with a soft cloth and put it away. "Beautiful as it is, it isn't at its best. It needs more playing. I've been exercising it every day, fifteen minutes at first, now up to half an hour. It's healing already. In another six months, it will be back to its perfect self. I will loan it to Renata Lichtenstein. Do you know her? The first woman to win the Tchaikovsky Competition, a girl of only eighteen but already a transcendental genius. Yes, Renata will play it and go on to glory and renown. And then, when she can no longer play, my heir will loan it to someone else, and his heir to someone else, and so it will go down the centuries."

  "Do you have an heir?" Pendergast asked.

  D'Agosta was surprised by the question. But Fosco was not; he seemed to welcome it.

  "Not a direct heir, no. But I shall not wait long to furnish myself with a son. I have just met the most charming woman. The only drawback is that she is English, but at least she can boast an Italian great-grandfather." His smile broadened.

  As D'Agosta watched, Pendergast grew pale. "You are grotesquely deluded if you think she will marry you."

  "I know, I know. Count Fosco is fat, revoltingly fat. But do not underestimate the power of a charming tongue to capture a woman's heart. Lady Maskelene and I had a marvelous afternoon on the island. We are both of the noble classes. We understand each other." He dusted his waistcoat. "I might even go on a diet."

  This was greeted by a short silence. Then Pendergast spoke again. "You've showed us the violin. May we now see this little device that you spoke of? The device that killed at least four men?"

  "With greatest pleasure. I'm very proud of it. Not only will I show it to you, I'll give you a demonstration."

  D'Agosta felt a chill. Demonstration?

  Fosco nodded to Pinketts, who took the violin and left the room. Within moments he returned with a large aluminum suitcase. Fosco unlatched the case and raised the lid, exposing half a dozen pieces of metal nestled in gray foam rubber. He began removing them, screwing them together. Then he turned and nodded to D'Agosta.

  "Will you please stand over there, Sergeant?" he asked quietly.

  { 78 }

  Buck!" Hayward screamed again, fighting against an almost overwhelming panic. "Don't let them do this!" But it was hopeless; the roar of the crowd drowned out her voice, and Buck was in his tent, flaps closed, out of sight behind a wall of people.

  The crowd was closing in now, the noose tightening fast. The ringleader—Buck's aide-de-camp, bolstered by increasingly frenzied followers—raised the hand with the rock. Watching him, Hayward saw his eyes widen, his nostrils flare. She'd seen that look before: it was the look of someone about to strike.

  "Don't!" she shouted. "This isn't what you're about! It's against everything you stand for!"

  "Shut up, centurion!" Todd cried.

  She stumbled, righted herself. Even at this moment of extreme danger, she realized she could not show fear. She kept her eyes on Todd—he was the greatest threat, the match for the powder keg—and let her gun hand hover near her piece. As a last resort—a very last resort—she'd have to use it. Of course, once she did, that would be the end. But she wasn't going to go down like a cat under a pack of dogs.

  Something about all this isn't right. Something was going on; something was being played out here that she didn't understand.

  The cries of the crowd, their strange epithets, made no sense. Centurion. Soldier of Rome. What was this talk? Something Buck was subtly encouraging in recent sermons? And speaking of Buck, why had he seemed disappointed when she arrived—and then just walked away? Why the glassy, expectant look in his eyes? Something had happened to him, between this visit and the last.

  What was it?

  "Blasphemer!" Todd screamed. He took another step closer.

  In response, the crowd tightened around Hayward. She had barely enough room to turn around now. She could feel rancid breath on the back of her neck; feel her heart beating like mad. Her hand strayed closer to the butt of her gun.

  There was a pattern here, if only she could see it. There had to be.

  She fought to stay rational. Her only way out of this was Buck himself. There was no other.

  Quickly, she went back over her knowledge of deviant psychology, over Buck's possible motivations. What had Wentworth said? Possibly paranoid schizophrenic, potential for a Messianic complex. Deep down, she was still convinced Buck was no schizophrenic.

  But a Messianic complex…?

  The need to be the Messiah. Perhaps—just perhaps—Wentworth was more right on that point than he knew.

  Then, in an instant of revelation, it came to her. All of Buck's new hopes, new desires, were suddenly laid bare. This talk about Romans—they weren't talking about Roman Catholics. They were talking about real Romans. Pagan Romans. Centurions. The soldiers who came to arrest Jesus.

  She suddenly understood the script Buck was following. That was why he ignored her, walked back into the tent. She didn't fit into his vision of what had to happen.

  She faced the crowd, addressed them in her loudest voice. "A band of soldiers are coming to arrest Buck!"

  This had a galvanic effect on the crowd. The yelling faltered a little, front to back, like the ripple of a stone on a pond.

  "Did you hear!"

  "The soldiers are coming!"

  "They're coming!" Hayward yelled encouragingly.

  The crowd took up the cry as she hoped they would, acting as a megaphone to Buck. "The soldiers are coming! The centurions are coming!"

  T
here was a movement in the crowd, a kind of general sigh. As one group moved back, Hayward saw that Buck had reappeared at the door of his tent. The crowd seethed with expectation. Todd raised his rock once again, then hesitated.

  It was the opening she needed. Momentary, but just enough to call Rocker. She slipped out her radio and bent forward, shielding herself from the crowd.

  "Commissioner!" she called out.

  For a moment, static. Then Rocker's voice crackled over the tiny speaker.

  "What the hell's going on, Captain? It sounds like a riot. We're mobilizing, we're going in now and getting your ass out—"

  "No!" Hayward said sharply. "It'll be a bloodbath!"

  "She's using her radio!" Todd screamed. "Betrayer!"

  "Sir, listen to me. Send in thirty-three men. Thirty-three exactly. And those undercover cops you've been using for on-site intel, the ones dressed like Buck's followers? Send in one of them. Just one."

  "Captain, I have no idea what you're—"

  "Shut up, please, and listen. Buck has to act out the passion of Christ. That's how he sees himself. He's New York's sacrificial lamb. There's no other explanation for his behavior. So we've got to play along, let him act it out. The undercover cop, he's the shill, he's Judas, he's got to embrace Buck. Do you hear, sir? He’s got to embrace Buck. And then the cops move in and make the cuff. You do that, Commissioner, and there'll be no riot. Buck will go peacefully. Otherwise—"