Brimstone (Pendergast #5)(170)

But there was nothing further.

Fosco stepped back, kicked a pile of scattered bones into position before the wall, then grabbed the torch and made his way hastily through the rat’s nest of tunnels to the ancient stairwell. Reaching it, he began to climb—a dozen steps, two dozen, three—heading for the surface and the warm evening sunlight, leaving the restless netherworld of shadows far behind.





{ 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.