They came to a heavy iron door, set into an even heavier stone wall. Deeper within the castle, D’Agosta could see that the stonework was beaded with moisture.
“The keep,” Fosco said as he unlocked the door with another key.
Immediately inside was a wide, windowless circular staircase that corkscrewed its way up from the depths and curved out of sight above their heads. Fosco removed a battery-powered torch from a wall sconce, turned it on, and led the way up the stairs. After five or six revolutions, they stopped at a small landing containing a single door. Opening it with yet another key, Fosco ushered them into what looked like a small apartment, retrofitted into the old castle keep, its tiny windows overlooking the valley of the Greve and the rolling hills marching toward Florence, far below. A fire burned in a stone fireplace at one end, and Persian rugs covered the terra-cotta floor. There was a comfortable sitting area in front of the fire; a table to one side well furnished with wines and liquors; a wall of well-stocked bookshelves.
“Eccoci quà! I trust you will find your chambers comfortable. There are two small bedrooms on either side. The view is refreshing, don’t you think? I am concerned that you brought no luggage. I will have Pinketts furnish you with anything you might need—razors, bathrobes, slippers, sleeping shirts.”
“I very much doubt we will be staying the night.”
“And I very much doubt you will be leaving.” The count smiled. “We eat late, in the Continental fashion. At nine.”
He bowed, backed out of the door, shutting it with a hollow boom. With sinking heart, D’Agosta heard a key rasp in the lock, and then the footsteps of the count disappearing quickly down the stairway.
{ 76 }
The staging area for the move on Buck’s encampment was a maintenance parking lot behind the arsenal, well out of sight of the tent city. Commissioner Rocker had called up no fewer than three NYPD riot control divisions, along with a SWAT team, two hostage negotiators, officers on horseback, two mobile command units, and plenty of rank and file with helmets and bulletproof vests to manage the arrests. Then there were the fire trucks, ambulances, and prisoner transport vans, all standing by at a discreet distance on 67th Street.
Hayward stood at the northern fringe of the staging area, giving her radio and weapon a final check. The crowd of uniformed officers milling around with batons and riot shields was enormous, not to mention various operations specialists with wires dangling from their ears and even a few confidential informants dressed as tent city residents. She understood the reason for the overkill: if you went in, you went in with overwhelming force, and nine times out of ten the opposition caved. The worst thing you could do was let them think they might have a chance if they made a stand.
And yet these people thought they had God behind them. These weren’t striking bus drivers or municipal workers with spouses and kids, two cars in the driveway. These were true believers. They were unpredictable. Her approach made more sense.
Didn’t it?
Rocker appeared out of the crowd, strode over, and laid a hand on Hayward’s shoulder. “Ready?”
She nodded.
He gave her a fatherly pat. “Radio if you run into heavy weather. We’ll move in early.” He glanced at the array of men and equipment behind them. “I hope to hell none of this is necessary.”
“So do I.”
She could see Wentworth at one of the mobile command units, wire dangling from his ear, talking, gesturing this way and that. He was playing cop, having the time of his life. He glanced in her direction and she turned away. It would be humiliating if she failed. Not only that, it would seriously damage her career. Wentworth had already predicted failure, and it was only through Rocker’s support that her mission had been approved at all. Not for the first time since the last meeting, she wondered why she’d stuck her neck out. This was not the way to advance a career. How many times had she seen that those who went with the flow rode the tide to success? D’Agosta’s attitude must be rubbing off on her.
“Ready?”
She nodded.
Rocker released her shoulder. “Then have at it, Captain.”
She took one more look back at the safety of the staging area. Then she set off along a walkway that curved north around the arsenal, taking her badge from her pocket and clipping it to her jacket as she did so.