“I wasn’t aware my life was in your hands, Mr. Pendergast. It seems to me it’s the other way around.”
D’Agosta saw a movement out of the corner of his eye. Pinketts had withdrawn a 9mm Beretta and had it trained on them. D’Agosta’s hand moved toward his own weapon, unstrapped the keeper.
Pendergast stopped him with a shake of his head. Then he removed an envelope from his pocket. “A letter identical to this one has been placed with Prince Corso Maffei, to be opened in twenty-four hours if I have not returned to reclaim it.”
At the name of Maffei, Fosco paled.
“You are a member of the secret society known as the Comitatus Decimus, the Company of Ten. As a member of this society, which dates back to the Middle Ages, you inherited and were entrusted with certain documents, formulas, and manuscripts. You abused that trust, in particular on October 31, 1974, when you went through a mock ceremony using those same instruments to frighten a group of American students. Then you compounded it with these killings.”
The paleness had given way to mottled fury. “Pendergast, this is absurd.”
“You know better than I it is not. You belong to this secret society by virtue of your title. You had no choice in the matter: you were born into it. You didn’t take it seriously as a young man; you thought it a joke. Only years later did you realize the severity of that mistake.”
“This is all bluster, a poor attempt to save your own skin.”
“It’s your skin you should be concerned about. You know what awaits those who break the society’s seal of silence. Remember what happened to the marchese Meucci? The ten men who head the Comitatus have enormous money, power, and reach. They will find you, Fosco—you know that.”
Fosco said nothing, simply staring back at Pendergast.
“As I said, I will give you your life back by retrieving that letter—but only after I have received your signed confession and escorted you to the carabinieri headquarters. The violin you may keep. It is yours, after all. A fair deal, when you consider it.”
Fosco tore open the letter with a fat hand and began to read. After a moment, he paused and looked up. “This is infamy!”
Pendergast merely watched as Fosco returned his attention to the document, hands visibly shaking.
D’Agosta observed this interchange with growing comprehension. Now he understood the purpose of Pendergast’s stop that morning, a stop he had referred to as “insurance.” He had been depositing the copy of his letter with this Prince Maffei. How Pendergast had put all this together, and exactly what it meant, D’Agosta didn’t know. No doubt he would learn in time. But his overwhelming feeling was one of relief. Once again, Pendergast had saved their asses.
The count lowered the document abruptly. His face had gone white.
“How did you know this? Someone must have already broken the seal of the Comitatus! Someone else must pay, not me!”
“I learned it from you, and nobody else. That is all you need to know.”
Fosco appeared to be struggling to master himself. He placed the letter on the table, faced Pendergast. “Very well. I had expected a strong opening move, but this one does you credit. Twenty-four hours, you say? Pinketts will escort you back to your rooms while I consider my riposte.”
“No fucking way,” said D’Agosta. “We’re leaving. You can telephone our hotel when you’re ready to hand over the confession.” He glanced at Pinketts, who had his gun trained on them, the muzzle moving back and forth. D’Agosta figured the chances were pretty good that—if he timed it right—he could put a bullet in Pinketts before the man could react.
“You will go to your quarters and await my answer,” the count said imperiously.
When nobody moved, he gave an almost imperceptible nod to Pinketts.
All it took was a faint movement in the man’s hand, and D’Agosta had dropped, rolled, and fired in one smooth, endlessly practiced move. Without even a cry, Pinketts staggered back against the wall, Beretta still in hand, firing once above their heads. D’Agosta rose to his knee and fired two more shots. Pinketts jerked, the gun skidded across the floor, coming to rest in a corner. Pendergast had his own gun out and was now aiming at the count.
Slowly, Fosco raised his hands.
Suddenly, men appeared in the doorways leading out of the dining room: rough-looking men in peasant dress, guns in hand, faces set. They came in orderly, deliberately, without haste, sure of themselves. In a moment, more than half a dozen had entered, guns aimed at Pendergast and D’Agosta.
There was a long silence, interrupted only by a long, gargling rattle from Pinketts that wheezed off into silence.
Fosco’s hands were still raised. “We seem to be at a standoff,” he said. “How very theatrical. You kill me, my men kill you.” Though the words sounded light, they held a harsh, chill undertone.