“Yes, sir.”
“Call a detail to remove this man and prefer charges against him for trespassing.” Bullard stepped over the prostrate form and looked into the retinal scan himself. There was a click of disengaging metal, then the vault door swung open, exposing machined stainless steel and brass. Beyond lay a small vault. On one side were several hard drives, locked in transparent plastic cases and carefully stacked atop plastic filing cabinets. On the other was a small, rectangular box of polished walnut, surrounded by a cluster of sophisticated electronics: climate-control sensors, humidity readouts, a seismograph, gas analyzer, barometers, and temperature gauges. Bullard strode over to the box, picked it up gently by the handle. It was so light that in Bullard’s massive grip it seemed weightless. He turned.
“Let’s go.”
“Mr. Bullard, perhaps you might care to check the contents?”
Bullard turned to the man who’d spoken. “I’ll check soon enough. If it isn’t there, losing your jobs will be the least of your worries.”
“Yes, sir.”
The tension in the room was palpable. The men shifted uneasily, apparently reluctant to leave. Bullard brushed past them, started to duck through the vault door, turned back. “You coming?”
The men followed him out of the vault. The door hissed shut behind. Bullard stepped over Martinetti again and walked through the three sets of doors, the men in his wake, the only sound the clicking of heels on the polished corridors. In another few minutes, he was back at the curb, where the limousine sat idling. The men stood on the sidewalk uncertainly, looking at Bullard. There was no more mention of lunch.
Without a backward glance, Bullard got in the car, slammed the door. “To the villa,” he said, placing the wooden box very carefully on his lap.
{ 50 }
D’Agosta stood at the windows of his suite in the Lungarno Hotel, looking out over the deep green of the Arno, the pale yellow palaces of Florence lining both banks, the Ponte Vecchio with its crooked little buildings perched out over the water. He felt strangely expectant, even a little light-headed. He wasn’t sure if it was jet lag, the opulence of his surroundings, or the fact that he was in his country of origin for the first time in his life.
D’Agosta’s father had left Naples as a boy with his parents, right after the war, to escape the terrible famine of ’44. They settled on Carmine Street in New York City. His father, Vito, outraged by the rising power of the Mafia, had fought back by becoming a New York City cop, and a damn good one. His shield and awards still stood in a glass case on the mantel like holy relics: police combat cross, medal of honor. D’Agosta had grown up on Carmine Street, surrounded by Italian immigrants from Naples and Sicily, immersed in the language, the religion, the cycles of saints’ days and celebrations. From childhood, Italy had for him taken on the air of a mythical place.
And now here he was.
He felt a lump rising in his throat. He had not expected it to be such an emotional experience. This was the land of his ancestors going back millennia. Italy was the birthplace of so much: art, architecture, sculpture, music, science, and astronomy. The great names of the past rolled through his mind: Augustus Caesar, Cicero, Ovid, Dante, Christopher Columbus, Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo, Galileo . . . The list stretched back more than two thousand years. D’Agosta felt certain no other nation on earth had produced such genius.
He opened the window and breathed in the air. It was something his wife never understood, his immense pride in his heritage. It was something that she had always thought a little silly. Well, no wonder. She was English. What had the English done but scribble a few plays and poems? Italy was the birthplace of Western civilization. The land of his ancestors. Someday he would take his son, Vinnie, here . . .
These delicious reveries were interrupted by a knock on the door. It was the valet with his luggage.
“Where would you like it, sir?” the valet said in English.
D’Agosta made a flourish with his hand and launched nonchalantly into Italian. “Buon giorno guagliòne. Pe’ piacère’ lassàte ì valigè abbecìno o liett’, grazie.”
The valet looked at him strangely, with what seemed to D’Agosta a fleeting look of disdain. “Excuse me?” he asked in English.
D’Agosta felt a brief swell of irritation. “ì valigè, aggia ritt’, mettitelè’ allà.” He pointed to the bed.
The valet placed the two bags by the bed. D’Agosta fished in his pockets but could not find anything less than a five-euro note. He gave it to the valet.