Brimstone

{ 85 }

D'Agosta sat silently in the backseat of the car as it moved up the winding mountain road. The countryside was as beautiful as it had been two days before: the hills clad in autumn raiment, shining rust and gold under the early morning sun. D'Agosta barely noticed. He was staring up at the cruel-looking keep of Castel Fosco, just now rising into view above its spar of gray rock. Merely seeing the castle again brought a chill not even the convoy of police cars could allay.

He shifted the weight of the canvas bag from one leg to the other. Inside was Fosco's diabolical weapon. The chill evaporated before the furious, carefully controlled anger that burned within him. D'Agosta tried to channel that anger: he'd need it for the encounter to come. The maddening, excruciating twelve-hour delay was finally over. The paperwork, the warrant, had finally come through; the bureaucracy had been satisfied. Now he was back here, on the enemy's home ground. He had to stay calm, stay in control. He knew he had only one shot to save Pendergast-if indeed Pendergast was still alive-and he wasn't going to blow it by losing his cool.

Colonnello Esposito, sitting beside him, took a last deep drag on his cigarette, then ground it out in an ashtray. He'd been quiet during the drive, moving only occasionally to light a new cigarette. Now he, too, glanced out the window.

"A most formidable residence," he said.

D'Agosta nodded.

Esposito pulled out a fresh cigarette, reconsidered, replaced it, and turned to D'Agosta. "This Fosco you describe seems a shrewd character. It will be necessary to catch him red-handed, secure the evidence ourselves. We will therefore go in fast."

"Yes. Good."

Esposito ran a hand over his brushed-back gray hair. "He is also clearly one who leaves nothing to chance. I worry that Pendergast may be . " His voice trailed off.

"If we hadn't waited twelve hours-"

The colonnello shook his head. "One cannot change the way things are " He fell silent while the cars passed the castle's ruined outer gate and made their way along the avenue of cypress trees. Then he stirred again. "One request, Sergeant."

"What?"

"Let me do the talking, if you please. I will make sure the conversation is in English. Fosco speaks English well?"

"Perfectly."

D'Agosta was more exhausted than he ever remembered being. Every limb ached, and his skin was scratched and torn in countless places. Only his iron resolve to rescue Pendergast, his fear about what his friend might be undergoing at the hands of the count, kept him going. Maybe he's still alive, he thought. Back in the same cell. Of course he is. He must be.

D'Agosta prayed briefly, fervently, that this would prove the case. The alternative was too dreadful to contemplate.

The cars pulled into the graveled parking area just outside the inner wall. Here, in the deep shadow of the stone buttresses, it was chilly. D'Agosta opened the car door and stepped out briskly despite his aches and pains.

"The Fiat," he said. "Our rented car. It's gone."

"What model?" Esposito asked.

"A Stylo, black. License IGP 223."

Esposito turned to one of his men and barked an order.

The castle seemed deserted, almost preternaturally quiet. The colonnello nodded to his men, then led the way quickly up the stone steps to the banded doors.

This time, the doors to the inner ward did not open by themselves. In fact, it took five minutes-and increasingly agitated raps by the colonnello -before they groaned slowly open. There, on the far side, stood Fosco. His gaze traveled over the knot of policemen, coming to rest at last on D'Agosta. He smiled.

"Why, my heavens! It's Sergeant D'Agosta. How are you finding Italy?"

D'Agosta did not reply. Just the sight of the grotesque count brought on a rush of loathing. Keep it cool, he reminded himself.

Fosco was puffing just a bit but otherwise seemed his jovial, unflappable self. "Please excuse my delay in responding. I wasn't expecting any company today." Then he turned toward the colonnello . "But we haven't yet been introduced. I am Fosco."

"I am Colonnello Orazio Esposito of the Nucleo Investigativo," Esposito said brusquely. "We have a warrant to search these premises. I would ask you to step aside, sir."

"A warrant!" Surprise bloomed on the count's face. "What's it about?"

Esposito ignored him, walking past, barking orders to his men. He turned to the count. "My men will need access to all parts of the castle."

"Of course!" The count hastened across the lawn of the inner ward, past the purling fountain, and into the fastness of the dark and brooding keep, putting on a remarkable front of surprise and alarm, mingled with subservient cooperation.

D'Agosta maintained a stony silence, keeping his canvas bag well away from Fosco. He noticed that, this time, none of the massive doors scraped closed behind them.

The count led the way down the central gallery and into a room D'Agosta hadn't seen before: a large and elegant library, its walls covered with ancient volumes, leather spines stamped and gilded. A fire crackled merrily on the hearth.

"Please, gentlemen," Fosco said, ushering them in. "Have a seat. Can I offer you sherry? A cigar?"

"I'm afraid there is no time for pleasantries," Esposito said. He reached into his pocket, withdrew a sheet of paper bearing official stamps, laid it on the table. "Here is the warrant. We will search the basements and cellars first, then work our way up."

The count had taken a cigar from a carved wooden box. "Of course I shall cooperate, but I'd like to know what it's about."

"Sergeant D'Agosta has leveled very grave charges against you."

"Against me ?" the count said. He glanced at D'Agosta. "Whatever are you talking about?"

"Kidnapping, attempted murder-and the accusation that you are still holding Pendergast."

The surprise on Fosco's face deepened. "But this-this is outrageous!" He lowered the cigar, looking from D'Agosta to Esposito and back again. "Sergeant, is this true? Do you make such accusations?"

"Let's go," said D'Agosta impatiently. Although he kept his tone level, he seethed inwardly at the masterful acting. The count truly looked like a man struggling with shock and disbelief.

"Well. If that is the case, who am I to protest?" Fosco examined the cigar, snipped off the end with a tiny silver clipper, lit it. "But you may put away that warrant, Officer. I give you and your men free run of the castle. Every door is open to you. Search where you will. Please allow me to assist you in any way I can."

Esposito turned briskly to some of the carabinieri, speaking in Italian. The men saluted, fanned out, disappeared.

Esposito turned back to D'Agosta. "Sergeant, perhaps you could take us to the room where you were incarcerated for the night. Count, you will accompany us."

"I would insist upon it. The Focus are an ancient and noble family, and we value our honor above all else. These charges must be addressed, and settled, immediately." He glanced back at D'Agosta with just a trace of indignation.

D'Agosta led the way down the gallery, through the drawing room, and into the long procession of elegant chambers. The count followed, walking in his peculiar light-footed way, pointing out various works of art and sights of interest for the colonnello , who ignored him. The remaining two carabinieri brought up the rear.

Then came a point where D'Agosta lost his way. He looked around, stepped forward, stopped again. There had been a door in this stuccoed wall-hadn't there?

"Sergeant?" Esposito said.

"Perhaps I could be of assistance?" Fosco volunteered.

D'Agosta glanced through one doorway, backtracked, looked through another. It had been less than twenty-four hours; he couldn't have forgotten. Could he? He advanced, touched the stucco, but it was old, crumbling, anything but fresh.

"The sergeant said the apartment where he was held prisoner was in the tower itself," the colonnello told Fosco.

The count cast a puzzled gaze on the colonnello , turned to D'Agosta. "There is only one apartment in the tower, but it is not this way."

"Take us to it."

The count led them quickly through a series of passages and low, dark stone rooms, barren of furnishings.

"This is the oldest part of the castle," Fosco said. "Dating back to the ninth century. It's rather cold and depressing. There are no modern amenities like electricity or plumbing. I never come here myself."

Within a minute, they had reached the heavy iron door of the keep. Fosco opened it with difficulty, the lock rusty. The door creaked open, Fosco brushing away cobwebs. He led the way up the staircase beyond, the echo of feet filling the stony spaces. Reaching the landing, D'Agosta paused before the door of their apartment. It was ajar.

"Is this it?" Esposito asked.

D'Agosta nodded.

Esposito beckoned to his men, who came forward, opened the door, and stepped inside. Esposito followed, D'Agosta on his heels.

The snug apartment where he'd spent the night before last was gone. The rugs, bookshelves, and furniture were nowhere to be seen. Lights, plumbing fixtures-everything that had been retrofitted into the space was now gone. Instead, he gazed into a chill, dark vault filled with decaying lumber, broken stone carvings, moldering stacks of heavy draperies. A massive iron chandelier, twisted and rusting, lay on the floor. Everything was coated in a thick mantle of dust. It looked like a storage area for the cast-off detritus of past centuries.

"Sergeant-are you sure this is the room?"

D'Agosta's astonishment gave way to puzzlement, then anger. "Yes, but it wasn't like this. It wasn't like this at all. There were bedrooms, a bathroom-"

The room fell silent.

So that's the game, D'Agosta thought. "The count has used the twelve hours it took to get the warrant to fix things. To disguise everything."

Esposito ran his finger over the dust on an old, wormy table, rubbed it between thumb and finger, then looked at D'Agosta rather intently. He turned to the count. "Are there any other apartments in the tower?"

"As you can see, this occupies the entire upper floor."

Esposito looked back at D'Agosta. "All right. What next?"

"We went down to dinner." D'Agosta was careful to keep his voice calm. "In the main dining room. Fosco said we'd never leave the castle alive. There was an exchange of gunfire. I killed his manservant."

The count's eyebrows shot up again. "Pinketts?"

Within five minutes, they were stepping into the cheery dining salotto . But it was as D'Agosta had begun to fear: there were no bloodstains, no sign of any struggle. The remains of a single breakfast lay on the table.

"You'll excuse me, I hope," Fosco said, gesturing toward the half-eaten meal. "You caught me breakfasting. As I said, I was not expecting visitors. And I gave the staff a few days off."

Esposito was strolling around the room, hands clasped behind his back, examining the walls, searching for chips or holes that would indicate bullet marks. He asked, "Sergeant, how many rounds were exchanged?"

D'Agosta thought a moment. "Four. Three went into Pinketts. The other should be somewhere on the wall above the fireplace. If it hasn't been plastered over."

But of course there was no mark: none at all.

Esposito turned toward the count. "This Pinketts, may we meet him?"

"He's back in England for a few weeks. Left the day before yesterday-a death in the family, I understand. I would be glad to give you his address and telephone number in Dorset."

Esposito nodded. "Later."

Another silence fell over the room.

He's not English! D'Agosta almost shouted. And his name's not Pinketts! But he knew there was no point in arguing about it now. Fosco had clearly prepared things all too well. And he would not allow himself to rise to the bait-not in front of the colonnello .

Find Pendergast. That's the most important thing.

Two of the carabinieri returned, speaking rapidly in Italian to the colonnello . Esposito turned to D'Agosta. "My men found no sign of the car in the garages or anywhere else on the grounds."

"He's obviously disposed of it."

Esposito nodded thoughtfully. "What was the rental company?"

"Eurocar."

Esposito turned back to his men, spoke in Italian. The men nodded and left.

"After Fosco returned from Florence, we were locked in an old storeroom," D'Agosta said, struggling against a growing sense of panic. "In the cellars. I can lead you there. The stairway's just off the pantry."

"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.