Brimstone (Pendergast #5)(145)
“Over five thousand acres,” said Pendergast. “I understand it dates back more than a millennium.”
But D’Agosta did not reply. The sight of the castle had chilled him more than he cared to admit. The sense of oppression grew stronger. It seemed insane, walking into the lion’s den like this. But he’d learned to trust Pendergast implicitly. The man never did anything without a reason. He’d outfoxed the sniper. He’d saved them from death at the hands of Bullard’s men. He’d saved their lives many times before, on earlier cases. Pendergast’s plan—whatever it was—would work.
Of course it would work.
{ 75 }
The car came around a final turn and passed the ruined outer gate. The castle rose above them in its stern and immense majesty. They proceeded down an avenue of cypress trees with massive ribbed trunks and stopped at a parking area just outside the inner curtain. D’Agosta peered at this wall through the passenger window with deep misgiving. It towered twenty feet over his head, its great sloping buttresses streaked with lime, dripping moss and maidenhair ferns. There was no gate in this inner wall, just a spiked and banded pair of wooden doors at the top of a broad stone staircase.
As they got out of the car, there was a humming sound, followed by a deep scraping noise, and the doors opened at an invisible cue.
They mounted the stairs, passed through a hulking doorway, and stepped into what seemed like another world. The smooth lawn of the inner ward ran for a hundred yards to the skirt of the castle itself. To one side of the lawn lay a large, circular reflecting pool surrounded by an ancient marble balustrade, ornamented at its center by a statue of Neptune astride a sea monster. To the right stood a small chapel with a tiled dome. Beyond was another marble balustrade overlooking a small garden that stepped down the hillside, ending abruptly at the fortified inner wall.
There was another scraping noise, and the ground trembled; D’Agosta turned to see the great wooden doors rumbling closed behind them.
“Never mind,” murmured Pendergast. “Preparations have been made.”
D’Agosta hoped to hell he knew what he was talking about. “Where’s Fosco?” he asked.
“We’ll no doubt see him soon enough.”
They crossed the lawn and approached the main entrance of the massive keep. It opened with a creak of iron. And there stood Fosco, dressed in an elegant dove-gray suit, longish hair brushed back, his smooth white face creased with a smile. As always, he was wearing kid gloves.
“My dear Pendergast, welcome to my humble abode. And Sergeant D’Agosta, as well? Nice of you to join our little party.”
He held out his hand. Pendergast ignored it.
The count let the hand drop, his smile unaffected. “A pity. I had hoped we could conduct our business with courtesy, like gentlemen.”
“Is there a gentleman here? I should like to meet him.”
Fosco clucked disapprovingly. “Is this a way to treat a man in his own home?”
“Is it any way to treat a man, burning him to death in his own home?”
A look of distaste crossed Fosco’s face. “So anxious to get to the business at hand, are we? But there will be time, there will be time. Do come in.”
The count stood aside, and they walked through a long archway into the castle’s great hall. It was quite unlike what D’Agosta had expected. A graceful loggia ran along three sides, with columns and Roman arches.
“Note the Della Robbia tondi,” said Fosco, gesturing toward some painted terra-cotta decorations set into the walls above the arches. “But you must be tired after the drive down. I will take you to your quarters, where you can refresh yourselves.”
“Our rooms?” Pendergast asked. “Are we spending the night?”
“Naturally.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be necessary, or even possible.”
“But I must insist.” The count turned and seized an iron ring on the open castle door, drawing it shut with a boom. With a dramatic flourish, he removed a giant key from his pocket and locked it. Then he opened a small wooden box mounted on the nearby wall. Inside, D’Agosta saw a high-tech keypad, wildly out of place amidst the ancient masonry. The count punched a long sequence of numbers into the keypad. In response, there was a clank, and a massive iron bar shot down from above, sliding into a heavy iron bracket and barring the door.
“Now we are safe from unauthorized invasion,” said Fosco. “Or, for that matter, unauthorized departure.”
Pendergast made no answer. The count turned and, moving in his peculiar light-footed way, led them through the hall and into a long, cold stone gallery. Portraits, almost black with age, lined both walls, along with mounted sets of rusted armor, spears, lances, pikes, maces, and other medieval weaponry.
“The armor is of no value, eighteenth-century reproductions. The portraits are of my ancestors, of course. Age has obscured them, fortunately—the counts of Fosco are not a pretty race. We have owned the estate since the twelfth century, when my distinguished ancestor Giovan de Ardaz wrested it from a Longobardic knight. The family bestowed the title ‘cavaliere’ on itself and took as its coat of arms a dragon rampant, bar sinister. During the time of the grand dukes, we were made counts of the Holy Roman Empire by the electress palatine herself. We have always led a quiet existence here, tending our vines and olive groves, neither meddling in politics nor aspiring to office. We Florentines have a saying: The nail that sticks out gets hammered back in. The House of Fosco did not stick out, and as a result, we never felt the blow of the hammer during many, many shifts of political fortune.”