Fosco patted his hands together with delight. Watching, D’Agosta felt his stomach turn.
“He was desperate to know how. I told him I’d located an ancient manuscript explaining the devil would sometimes accept a gift in return for a human soul. But it had to be a truly unique gift, something of enormous rarity, something whose loss would debase the human spirit. I told him I’d sacrificed my Vermeer in just such a way.
“Poor Bullard was beside himself. He had no Vermeer, he said; nothing of value except boats, cars, houses, and companies. He begged me to advise him what he should buy, what he should give the devil. I told him it had to be something utterly unique and precious, an object that would impoverish the world by its loss. I said I couldn’t advise him—naturally he couldn’t know I was aware of the Stormcloud—and I said I doubted he owned anything the devil would want, that I had been hugely fortunate to have a Vermeer, that the devil surely would not have accepted my Caravaggio!”
At this witticism, Fosco burst into laughter.
“I told Bullard that, whatever it was, the devil had to have it immediately. The thirty-year anniversary of our original pact was nearing. Grove and Cutforth were already dead. There was not enough time for him to acquire something of the requisite rarity. I reminded him the devil would be able to see into his heart, that there would be no cheating the old gentleman, and that whatever he offered had better fit the bill or his soul would burn forever.
“That’s when he finally broke down and told me he had a violin of great rarity, a Stradivarius called the Stormcloud—would that do? I told him I couldn’t speak for the devil, but that I hoped for his sake it would. I congratulated him on being so fortunate.”
Fosco paused to place another piece of dripping meat into his mouth. “I, of course, returned to Italy far earlier than I let on to you. I was here even before Bullard arrived. I dug an old grimoire out of the library here, gave it to him, told him to follow the ritual and place the violin inside a broken circle. Within his own, unbroken circle, he would be protected. But he must send away all his help, turn off the alarm system, and so forth—the devil didn’t like interruptions. The poor man did as I asked. In place of the devil, I sent in Pinketts, who is devil enough, I can tell you. With theatrical effects and the appropriate garb. He took the violin and retreated, while I used my little machine to dispense with Bullard.”
“Why the machine and the theatrics?” Pendergast asked quietly. “Why not put a bullet in him? The need to terrify your victim had passed.”
“That was for your benefit, my dear fellow! It was a way to stir up the police, keep you in Italy a while longer. Where you would be easier to dispose of.”
“Whether we will be easy to dispose of remains to be seen.”
Fosco chuckled with great good humor. “You evidently think you have something to bargain with, otherwise you wouldn’t have accepted my invitation.”
“That is correct.”
“Whatever you think you have, it won’t be good enough. You are already as good as dead. I know you better than you realize. I know you because you are like me. You are very like me.”
“You could not be more wrong, Count. I am not a murderer.”
D’Agosta was surprised to see a faint blush of color in Pendergast’s face.
“No, but you could be. You have it in you. I can see it.”
“You see nothing.”
Fosco had finished his steak and now he rose. “You think me an evil man. You call this whole affair sordid. But consider what I’ve done. I’ve saved the world’s greatest violin from destruction. I’ve prevented the Chinese from penetrating the planned U.S. antimissile shield, removing a threat to millions of your fellow citizens. And at what cost? The lives of a pederast, a traitor, a producer of popular music who was filling the world with his filth, and a godless soul who destroyed everyone he touched.”
“You haven’t included our lives in this calculation.”
Fosco nodded. “Yes. You and the unfortunate priest. Regrettable indeed. But if the truth be known, I’d waste a hundred lives for that instrument. There are five billion people. There is only one Stormcloud.”
“It isn’t worth even one human life,” D’Agosta heard himself say.
Fosco turned, his eyebrows raised in surprise. “No?”
He turned and clapped his hands. Pinketts appeared at the door.
“Get me the violin.”
The man disappeared and returned a moment later with an old wooden case, shaped like a small dark coffin, covered with the patina of ages. Pinketts placed it on a table next to the wall and withdrew to a far corner.