“Let us walk out of here,” said D’Agosta. “And nobody’ll get killed.”
“You’ve already killed Pinketts,” Fosco replied crisply. “Here you are, the man who dared lecture me on the sanctity of human life. Pinketts, who was my best and most loyal servant.”
D’Agosta took a step toward the count.
“Agent Pendergast!” Fosco said, turning and raising his voice. “A moment’s reflection will show you this is a game you cannot win. At the count of three, I will order D’Agosta killed. I will die too, at your hand. You, on the other hand, will live to ponder how you brought death to your partner. You know me well enough to know it’s not a bluff. You will lay down the gun—because you have the letter.”
He paused. “One.”
“It’s a bluff!” D’Agosta shouted. “Don’t fall for it!”
“Two.”
Pendergast laid down his weapon.
The count paused again, hands still in the air. “Now, Mr. D’Agosta, you haven’t put down your gun. Do I need to say that last number, or can you understand the situation has gone against you? Even with your remarkable marksmanship, you will not succeed in dropping more than one or two of my men before you are sent back to your Maker.”
D’Agosta slowly lowered his gun. He still had a second strapped to his leg, and he knew Pendergast had one, too. The game was not over by a long shot. And they still had the letter.
Fosco looked from one to the other, eyes glittering. “Very well. My men will escort you to your rooms while I consider your offer.”
{ 80 }
Dawn was finally breaking through the tiny windows of the keep when Pendergast emerged from his room. D’Agosta, sitting by the fire, grunted an acknowledgment. He had spent the night tossing restlessly, unable to sleep, but Pendergast seemed to have had no difficulty.
“Excellent fire, Vincent,” he said, smoothing the front of his suit and taking a seat nearby. “I find these fall mornings a bit chilly.”
D’Agosta gave the fire a savage poke. “Nice sleep?”
“The bed was an abomination. Otherwise, passable, thank you.”
D’Agosta heaved on another log. He hated all this waiting, this not knowing, and was unable to completely suppress his irritation at Pendergast’s going directly to his room the night before without a satisfactory explanation.
“How did you know about that secret society business, anyway?” he asked a little gruffly. “I’ve seen you pull a rabbit out of a hat before, but this one took the cake.”
“What a delightful mixed metaphor. I had a suspicion that Fosco was involved in some way or another, even before I found the horsehair from the Stormcloud at the site of Bullard’s killing.”
“When did you first suspect him?”
“You recall the associate I mentioned, Mime? I had him perform Internet background checks on the recent activities of all who were at Grove’s last party. His research eventually picked up the fact that, six months ago, Fosco quietly purchased a rare seventeenth-century Florentine cross from an antique dealer on the Via Maggio.”
“The one he gave Grove?”
“Exactly. And recall the count himself was careful to point out to me that, had Grove lived only one more day, he would have been forty million dollars richer.”
“Yeah. Anytime someone volunteers an alibi, something’s fishy.”
“The count’s Achilles’ heel is his volubility.”
“That and his big mouth.”
“I began to search for weaknesses in the count. He was clearly a dangerous man, and I felt we needed every advantage we could get—just in case. You may recall the comment of the colonnello’s, back at his barracks, about secret societies. He said the Florentine nobility was ‘rife with them.’ I began to wonder if Fosco belonged to such a secret society, and if so, whether it might be used against him in some way. The Florentine nobility are among the oldest in Europe—their lineages go back to the 1200s. Most of their ancient titles are associated with various arcane orders and guilds, some going as far back as the Crusades. Most have secret documents, rites, and so forth. The Knights Templars, the Black Gonfaloniers, the Cavaliers of the Rose—there are many others.”
D’Agosta nodded silently.
“Some of these societies take themselves extremely seriously, even if their original function has long passed and all that remains are empty observances and ceremonies. The count, coming from one of the most ancient families, surely belonged by hereditary right to a number of them. I e-mailed Constance, who managed to unearth several possibilities. I followed up with some of my own contacts here in Italy.”
“When?”
“The night before last.”