Brimstone p-5

by Douglas Preston

  "Please." And Esposito gestured for him to proceed.

  D'Agosta led the group out of the dining room, through the large and empty kitchen, and into the pantry beyond. The staircase leading down to the storage cellars was now covered by a massive armoire, copper pots and cookware hanging from its ancient brass hooks.

  Bingo! D'Agosta thought.

  "The stairway's behind there," he said. "He's covered it up with that armoire."

  Esposito nodded to his two men, who moved it with great difficulty. D'Agosta felt himself go cold. The stairway was gone. In its place was bare wall, ancient and dusty as the rest of the room.

  "Feel it!" he said, unable now to keep the frustration and mounting horror from his voice. "He's bricked it in! The mortar's got to be still wet!"

  The colonnello stepped forward, removed a penknife from his pocket, and stabbed its point into the mortar. Small, dried pieces crumbled away in a train of dust. He dug it in farther, probing. Then he turned and, without a word, handed the knife to D'Agosta.

  D'Agosta knelt, felt along the bottom. The wall looked old, dusty-there were even what appeared to be cobwebs exposed by the moving of the armoire. He stepped back, looked around the room. No mistake: this was the right place.

  "The count has covered it up. Disguised it somehow.There was a door here. "

  Another, longer, silence fell. Esposito's eyes met D'Agosta's, then looked away.

  Seeing the speculative look, D'Agosta felt a renewed sense of steely determination settle over him. "Let's join your men. Search the whole goddamned place."

  An hour later, D'Agosta found himself back in the central gallery. They had explored more passages, salons, rooms, vaults, basements, and tunnels than he'd ever imagined one castle could hold. The castle was so large, so sprawling, it was impossible to know whether or not they had covered all its drafty spaces and dank stairwells. All his muscles quivered with weariness. The canvas bag with the microwave weapon hung like a dead weight by his side.

  As the search progressed, Esposito had grown increasingly quiet. Throughout it all, Fosco had stayed by their side, solicitous, patient, unlocking every door, even suggesting new routes of inquiry from time to time.

  Now, the count cleared his throat. "Could I suggest we return to my library? We can talk more comfortably there."

  As they seated themselves around the fire, one of the carabinieri came in and whispered in Esposito's ear. The colonnello nodded, then dismissed the man with a gesture, his expression unreadable. Fosco once again offered him a cigar, and this time Esposito accepted. D'Agosta watched all this with a sense of growing disbelief. He felt rage taking over now, almost beyond his ability to control, combined with a sense of horror and grief. It was unreal, a nightmare.

  Esposito spoke at last, his voice neutral. "My men looked into the Stylo. It was returned to Eurocar at 13:00 yesterday. The chit was signed by A. X. L. Pendergast, paid for with an American Express card belonging to Pendergast. A Special Agent A. X. L. Pendergast had a reservation on a flight to Palermo at 14:30 from Firenze Peretola. We're still trying to find out whether he was, in fact, on that flight. The airlines these days are so difficult . "

  "Of course it will appear he was on the flight! Can't you see what Fosco's game is?"

  "Sergeant-"

  "It's all bullshit! " D'Agosta said, rising from his chair. "Orchestrated by Fosco! Just like he walled up the passageway, disguised the apartment. Just like he's planned every fucking thing! "

  "Sergeant, please," Esposito said quietly. "Control yourself "

  "You said yourself we were dealing with a determined man!"

  "Sergeant." The voice was firmer.

  D'Agosta stood, almost out of his mind with rage, frustration, and grief. Fosco had Pendergast's credit card. What did it mean? And now the bastard was slipping through his fingers. Pendergast was gone, vanished. He made an almost superhuman struggle at control-if he lost it, he would never have another chance. He had to find a chink in the count's armor. "He's not in the castle, then. They've taken him into the woods, up on the mountain. We've got to search the area "

  Esposito puffed thoughtfully on the cigar, waiting for D'Agosta to finish. Then he spoke. "Sergeant D'Agosta. In your story, you claim the count killed four people to get back a violin-"

  "At least four people. We're just wasting time here! We have to-"

  Esposito raised a hand for silence. "Excuse me. You claim the count killed these men with that device you're carrying "

  "Yes." D'Agosta tried to control his breathing.

  "Why don't you show it to the count?"

  D'Agosta pulled the microwave device from the bag.

  "My goodness," Fosco said, staring with great interest. "What is that?"

  "The sergeant tells us it is a microwave weapon," Esposito said. "Designed by you, and used by you, to burn to death Mr. Locke Bullard, a peasant from Abetone, and two other people back in the United States."

  Fosco looked first at the colonnello , then at D'Agosta, astonishment and then-pity?-on his face. "The sergeant says this?"

  "Correct."

  "A machine, you say? That zaps people, turns them into smoking piles of ash? That I built?" He spread his hands, astonishment on his face. "I should like to see a demonstration "

  "Sergeant, perhaps you'd care to demonstrate the device for us and the count?"

  D'Agosta looked down at the weapon, turned it over in his hands. Fosco's skeptical tone went unrefuted by the colonnello , and no wonder: the device looked almost cartoonish, a Flash Gordon confection

  "I don't know how to use it," D'Agosta said.

  "Try," said Esposito, an edge of sarcasm in his voice.

  It occurred to D'Agosta that if he could get it working, it might be his only chance to turn the tide. It was his last chance.

  He pointed it toward the fireplace hearth, where-as if placed as a deliberate challenge-sat a fresh pumpkin. He tried to clear his mind, tried to remember precisely what Fosco had done before. He turned a knob, pulled the trigger.

  Nothing happened.

  He spun more dials, pressed a button, aimed, pulled the trigger.

  Still nothing.

  For all he knew, it had been damaged during the escape, when he tossed it into the bushes. He fiddled with the dials, pulling the trigger again and again, hoping for the low hum he'd heard during the demonstration. But the machine remained silent, cold.

  "I think we've seen enough," said Esposito quietly.

  Slowly, very slowly, D'Agosta replaced it in the canvas bag. He could hardly bring himself to look at the colonnello. The man was staring at him, his face a mask of skepticism. No, not just skepticism: pure disbelief, anger-and pity.

  From over Esposito's shoulder, Fosco also stared. Then-very slowly and deliberately-Fosco reached into his collar, drew out a chain with a medallion at the end, and draped it carefully over his shirtfront, patting it familiarly with a plump hand.

  With a sudden, burning shock of recognition, D'Agosta recognized the medallion: the lidless eye over a phoenix rising from the ashes. Pendergast's own chain. Fosco's private message was all too terribly clear.

  "You bastard-!" And D'Agosta lunged for the count.

  In a moment, the carabinieri leaped on D'Agosta and pulled him back, restraining him against a far wall of the library. The colonnello quickly placed himself between D'Agosta and Fosco.

  "The son of a bitch! That's Pendergast's chain! There's your proof! He killed Pendergast and took it! "

  "Are you all right?" Esposito asked the count, ignoring D'Agosta.

  "Quite all right, thank you," Fosco said, sitting back and smoothing his capacious front. "I was startled, that is all. To settle the question once and for all, so there can beno doubt -" He turned the disc over, and there, on the reverse of the medallion, evidently worn by time, was an intricate engraving of the count's own crest.

  Esposito looked at the crest, then turned to stare at D'Agosta, dark eyes glittering. D'Agosta, clamped in the
arms of six men, could barely move. He tried to regain control of himself, his voice. The way the count had said So there can be no doubt, with that peculiar emphasis on the words no doubt . It was a message aimed directly at D'Agosta It was a message that told him he was too late. Those twelve hours maneuvering for the warrant had proved fatal. The desperate hope D'Agosta had been fighting to hold on to-that the count might have kept Pendergast alive, a prisoner-guttered and died. Pendergast was dead. So there can be no doubt .

  Esposito extended his hand to Fosco. "Abbiamo finito qui, Conte. Chiedo scusa per il disturbo, e la ringrazio per la sua pazienza con questa faccenda piuttosto spiacevole."

  The count inclined his head graciously. "Niente disturbo, Colonnello. Prego." He glanced in D'Agosta's direction. "Mi dispiace per lui."

  Esposito and Fosco shook hands. "We'll be going now," Esposito said. "There is no need to show us out." And with this he bowed deeply to Fosco and left the room, ignoring D'Agosta.

  The carabinieri holding D'Agosta released him. D'Agosta picked up the canvas bag and headed for the door. A red mist hung before his eyes In the doorway, he stopped to look back at Fosco. "You're a dead man," he said, barely managing to speak. "You-"

  But the words died in his throat as Fosco swiveled to stare at him in turn, his large features and wet lips spreading into a horrible grin It was like nothing D'Agosta had ever seen before-malevolent, triumphant, a grotesque leer of exultation. If the count had spoken the words out loud, the message couldn't have been clearer. He had murdered Pendergast.

  And then the smile was gone, hidden behind a cloud of cigar smoke.

  Colonnello Esposito said nothing during the walk back along the gallery, across the manicured lawn, through the gate of the inner ward. He remained silent as the cars made their way down the narrow road, past the cypress trees and olive groves It was not until they were on the main road back to Florence that he turned to D'Agosta.

  "I misjudged you, sir," he said in a low, chill voice. "I welcomed you here, gave you credentials, cooperated with you in every way In return, you disgraced yourself and humiliated me and my men I will be lucky if the count doesn't bring a denuncia against me for this invasion of his home and insult to his person."

  He leaned a little closer. "You may consider all your official privileges revoked from this moment on. The paperwork to have you declared persona non grata in Italy will take a little time-but if I were you, signore, I would leave this country by the next available flight."

  Then he sat back, stared stonily out the window, and spoke no more.

  { 86 }

  It was approaching midnight when Count Fosco finished his evening constitutional and, puffing slightly, returned to the main dining salotto of the castle. Whether in town or country, it was his habit, before turning in, to take a short stroll for his health's sake. And the long galleries and corridors of Castel Fosco offered an almost endless variety of perambulations.

  He took a seat in a chair facing the vast stone fireplace, warming his hands before the merry blaze, dispelling the damp embrace of the castle. He'd take a glass of port and sit here awhile before retiring: sit here, and contemplate the end of a successful day.

  The end, in fact, of a successful undertaking.

  His men had been paid off and had all melted away, back into the huts and tenant farmhouses of his estate. The small detachment of police had gone, along with Sergeant D'Agosta and his fire and bluster. The man would soon be on a flight back to New York. The servants would not return until the next morning. The castle seemed almost watchful in its silence.

  Fosco rose, poured himself a glass of port from a bottle on an ancient sideboard, then returned to his comfortable chair. For the past few days, the walls of the castle had rung with noise and excitement. Now, by comparison, they seemed preternaturally quiet.

  He sipped the port, found it excellent.

  It was a great pity, not having Pinketts, or rather Pinchetti, here to anticipate his every need. It was a great pity, to think of him at rest in an unmarked tomb within the family vault. The man would be difficult, even impossible, to replace. Truth to tell, sitting here by himself, in this vast empty edifice, Fosco found himself feeling just the least bit lonely.

  But then, he reminded himself, he was not alone. He had Pendergast for company-or, at least, his corpse.

  Fosco had faced many adversaries in the past, but none had shown the brilliance or tenacity of Pendergast. In fact, had it not been for Fosco's home soil advantages-his moles in the police and elsewhere, the maturity of his long-laid plans, the scope of his contingency arrangements-the story might well have ended differently. Even so, he'd felt just the least bit anxious. And so Fosco had made sure this evening's constitutional took him back down-very deep down indeed-to Pendergast's current domicile. Just to make sure. As expected, he'd found the newly mortared but carefully disguised wall as he left it. He'd rapped on it, listened, called softly, but, of course, there was no answering response. Almost thirty-six hours had passed. No doubt the good agent was already dead.

  He sipped the port, sank back in the chair, basking in the reflections of a successful outcome. There was, of course, one loose end: Sergeant D'Agosta. Fosco reflected on the fury, the impotent murderous rage, on the policeman's face as he'd been led off the grounds. Fosco knew this rage would soon fade. And in its place would come first resignation, then uncertainty, and then-ultimately-fear. Because by now D'Agosta surely must know the kind of man he was dealing with. He, Fosco, would not forget. He would snip off that loose end, finish the business, make D'Agosta repay the debt he incurred for shooting Pinchetti, and in so doing retrieve his clever little invention.

  But there was no hurry. No hurry at all.

  As he sipped his port, Fosco realized there was, in fact, a second loose end. Viola, Lady Maskelene. He thought of her, tending her bit of vineyard, strong limbs made tawny by the Mediterranean sun. Her bearing, her movements, had a mix of good breeding, catlike athleticism, and sexuality he found deliciously intoxicating. Her conversation sparkled like no other woman's he had met. She was bursting with vitality. She would bring warmth to any place she visited-even Castel Fosco .

  A faint sound, like the scurry of dead leaves on stone, came from the darkness beyond the room.

  Fosco paused in mid-sip.

  Slowly, he put the glass down, stood, and walked to the main entrance to the salotto . Beyond lay the long gallery, lit only by the moon and the occasional wall sconce. Long ranks of suited armor lined the walls, glowing faintly in the pallid light.

  Nothing.

  Fosco turned thoughtfully. The old castle was full of rats; it was high time he had the head gardener in again to deal with them.

  He began walking back toward the fire, feeling a chill that could not entirely be explained by the cool air.

  Then he stopped again. There was one thing, he knew, that would put him in fine high spirits.

  Taking a tack away from the fire, he made for the small doorway that led into his private workshop. He crossed the dark room, threading his way through a maze of lab tables and freestanding equipment, until he reached the wooden paneling of the rear wall. He knelt, ran one fat hand along the polished wainscoting, found a tiny detent. He pressed it. One of the wooden panels above his head popped ajar with a faint snick. Rising, the count pulled the panel wide, exposing a large safe retrofitted into the stonework of the wall. He punched a code into the safe's keypad, and its door sprung open. Carefully, reverently, the count reached inside and pulled out the small, coffin-shaped wooden case that held the Stormcloud Stradivarius.

  He carried the case into the dining salotto and placed it on the table against the wall, well away from the heat of the fire, leaving it closed, so it would slowly accustom itself to the change in temperature. Then he returned to his seat. Compared to the chill of the lab, it was deliciously warm before the fire. He took another sip of port, thinking about what he would play. A Bach chaconne? A flashy Paganini? No: something simple, so
mething clean, refreshing . Vivaldi. "La Primavera," from Le Quattro Stagioni.

  After a few minutes, he rose again, walked over to the violin, undid the brass fastening, and lifted the lid. He did not play it, not yet: it would need at least another ten minutes to adjust to the ambient temperature and humidity. He merely gazed dotingly on its wondrous and mysterious finish, its sensual lines. Staring at the violin, Fosco felt a joy, a sense of completion, flood through him.

  He returned to his comfortable chair, loosened his cravat, undid his waistcoat. The Stormcloud was back where it belonged: in the family seat. He had snatched it from the jaws of oblivion. It had been worth the expense, the extravagant planning, the danger, the lives. It was worth any cost, any struggle. As Fosco stared at it, glowing crimson in the warm reflected firelight, it seemed to him that the instrument was not of this world. Rather, it was the voice-the song-of the better world to come.

  It was now very warm in the room. He rose, took up a poker, pushed the logs back a little, turned his chair from the fire. "La Primavera." The sweet, lively melody coursed through his mind as if he was already playing it. Five more minutes. He removed his cravat and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt.

  A log cracked loudly in the fireplace, startling him; he sat bolt upright, the port sloshing out of his glass and spilling onto his open waistcoat.

  He sat back slowly, wondering at the sense of unease. Nerves: the affair had taken more of a toll on him than he'd thought. His stomach gave a small lurch, and he set down the glass of port. Perhaps he should have taken something stronger as a digestivo : a drop of Calvados, a grappa, or, even better, one of the excellent herbal digestives produced by the monks at Monte Senario.

  A most unpleasant sensation of poor digestion now infused his stomach. He rose, lumbered over to the sideboard-how uncharacteristically heavy he felt on his feet!-and took out a small bottle of Amaro Bor-ghini, filled a small glass with the reddish-brown liquid, and returned to the chair. His stomach was protesting vociferously, and he took a swallow, then a second, of the bitter liqueur. And as he did, he heard another sound, like a footfall, at the door.