“I didn’t know you had a sweet tooth,” D’Agosta said as they leaned against the bar.
“I have something of a weakness for gelato. But our main reason for stopping here is to learn his intentions.”
“His intentions? Whose intentions?”
“The man who’s following us.”
D’Agosta straightened up. “What?”
“No—don’t look. He’s nondescript, mid-thirties, wearing a blue shirt and dark pants. Quite professional.”
Pendergast’s cone arrived and he took a dainty bite. Then, suddenly, a change came over his face.
“He’s just entered the pensione,” he said. Abandoning his gelato, Pendergast dropped a few euros on the counter and strode out of the café, D’Agosta following.
“Are you afraid for the signora?”
“The signora is perfectly safe. It’s the priest for whom I fear.”
“The priest—?” Suddenly, D’Agosta understood. “Then we can stop this guy when he leaves the pensione.”
“That would serve no purpose but to embroil us in endless legalities. Our best chance is the monastery itself. Come, Vincent: we haven’t a moment to lose.”
In twenty minutes, they were driving through the hills northeast of Florence, Pendergast at the wheel of their rented Fiat. Although D’Agosta had done more than his share of high-speed driving—and though Pendergast was clearly an expert—D’Agosta’s heart was beating at an uncomfortable rate. The car was squealing around a series of hairpin curves, none of which had guardrails, at a terrifying clip. With each climbing turn, a rising sea of mountains swam into view before them: the great spine of the Apennines.
“I’ve been aware of surveillance for some time now,” Pendergast said. “Since we found Bullard’s body, and perhaps even before. At important moments—such as our trip to Cremona—I’ve managed to keep him at arm’s length. I haven’t yet confronted our shadower, hoping instead to learn who’s behind him. I did not think he would take such a direct approach as he did just now in the piazza. It means we are getting close to the truth. It also means increased danger, for us and for those with crucial information—such as Father Zenobi.”
The car squealed around another curve. D’Agosta braced himself against the lateral g-forces, sweat breaking out on his brow.
“I’ve seen you weasel information out of all kinds of people,” he said when it was safe to draw breath again. “But if you can convince a priest to reveal a thirty-year-old confession, I’ll swim all the way back to Southampton.”
Another long, screeching turn, the car hanging practically over the edge of a chasm.
This time, D’Agosta almost had to pry his fingers from the dashboard. “Do you think we might slow down?”
“I don’t think so.” And Pendergast nodded over his shoulder.
The car made another semicontrolled skid around a corner, and as D’Agosta fell against the passenger window he got a terrifying glimpse back down the mountainside. About three switchbacks below he could see a motorcycle, black and chrome, its angular chassis exposed and gleaming. It was approaching fast.
“There’s a motorcycle on our tail!” he said.
Pendergast nodded. “A Ducati Monster, S4R model, if I’m not mistaken. A four-valve twin, well over a hundred horsepower, light but very powerful.”
D’Agosta glanced back again. The rider was dressed in red leather, wearing a helmet with a smoked visor.
“The man from the plaza?” he asked.
“Either him or somebody allied with him.”
“He’s after us?”
“No. He’s after the priest.”
“We sure as hell can’t outrun him.”
“We can slow him down. Get out your weapon.”
“And do what?”
“I’ll leave that to your discretion.”
Now D’Agosta could hear the high-pitched whine of an engine in high gear, approaching from behind. They tore around another corner, scattering clouds of dust as the Fiat slewed, first right, then left. But already the motorcycle was biting into the same corner, leaning at an incredible angle, almost pegging the road. The rider straightened quickly and began closing the gap, preparing to pass.
“Hang on, Vincent.”
The car swerved into the left lane just as the motorcycle came alongside, then swerved back with a shriek of rubber, cutting him off. D’Agosta looked back and saw the motorcyclist dropping back, preparing to make another run past them.
“He’s coming on the right!” he shouted.
At the last minute, Pendergast jerked the car to the left again, correctly anticipating a feint; there was a screech of tires behind them as the motorcyclist dumped his rear brake and the bike rose in a reverse wheelie. The rider straightened, recovered. D’Agosta saw him reach into his jacket.
“He’s got a gun!”