“It is the third in a series of murders, the first two of which took place in New York.”
A cynical smile grew on Esposito’s face. “I can see we’re going to have quite a lot to talk about, Special Agent Pendergast. Listen. There is a nice little caffè in Borgo Ognissanti, just two doors down from the church and very near our headquarters. Shall we meet there at eight this morning? Unofficially, of course.”
“It would be my pleasure.”
“And now it would be better if you leave. We’ll make no note of your presence in the official report. To have the American FBI reporting a crime on Italian soil . . .” His smile broadened. “It just wouldn’t do.”
He briskly shook their hands and turned on his heel, crossing himself so rapidly as he passed the altar D’Agosta wasn’t sure if he had done it at all.
{ 60 }
D’Agosta had seen a lot of police headquarters in his time, but the so-called barracks of the carabinieri in Florence beat them all. It wasn’t a barracks at all, but rather a decaying Renaissance building—D’Agosta thought it was Renaissance, anyway—facing a narrow medieval street. It was huddled up beside the famous Ognissanti Church, its gray limestone facade streaked with dirt, every ledge and projection covered with needle-like spikes to ward off pigeons. Florence itself was nothing like what he’d imagined: even in the warm, mid-October light, the city seemed austere, its crooked streets always in shadow, the rough-cut stone facades of its buildings almost grim. The air smelled of diesel fumes, and the impossibly narrow sidewalks were clogged with slow-moving tourists dressed in floppy hats and khaki shorts, with packs on their backs and water bottles strapped to their waists, as if they were on an expedition into the Sahara rather than walking around perhaps the most civilized city in the world.
They had met the colonnello in the nearby café, as planned, and Pendergast had quickly brought him up to speed on their investigation—omitting, D’Agosta noticed, certain small but critical details. Now they were following him back to his office, single file, fighting a steady stream of Japanese tourists coming in the opposite direction.
The colonnello turned into the grand arched entryway of the barracks, over which hung a limp Italian flag—the first D’Agosta had seen since arriving in Italy. They passed through a colonnaded corridor and into a vast interior courtyard. Once elegant, the courtyard itself had been turned into a parking lot and was wall-to-wall with police vans and cars, packed together with such mathematical precision it seemed impossible to move one without moving them all. The windows looking down on the courtyard were all open, and from them issued a continuous clamor of ringing telephones, voices, and slamming doors, magnified and distorted by the confined space.
They turned into another vaulted corridor lined with stone pillars—the crumbling remains of religious frescoes still visible—past a battered statue of a saint; then up a massive flight of stone stairs and into a warren of modern cubicles constructed haphazardly out of what had once been a single pillared room.
“The caserma,” said Esposito as they walked, “was once the monastery connected to the Ognissanti Church. That large room is the secretarial pool, and beyond”—he waved his hand at a series of small but massive oaken doors giving onto tiny offices—“are the work spaces of the officers, built in the former cells of the monks.”
They turned a corner and proceeded down yet another vaulted corridor. “The refectory, where the monks used to eat, has an important fresco by Ghirlandaio that nobody ever sees.”
“Indeed.”
“Here in Italy, we make do with what we have.”
Reaching the far end of the corridor, they went up another flight of stairs. From the landing, they passed through what D’Agosta realized must have once been a secret door in the wall; mounted a tiny circular staircase; passed through crowded rooms smelling of mold and overheated fax machines—and then suddenly arrived at a small, grimy door bearing nothing but a number. Here Esposito stopped with a smile. Then he pushed the door open and ushered them in.
D’Agosta stepped into a light-flooded room that ended in a wall of glassed-in columns and arches. Beyond lay a sweeping view southward, over the Arno River. Almost despite himself, he was drawn toward the view.