Brimstone (Pendergast #5)

“Let me complete that task. Then I will return to you. You . . . you may then dispose of me as you see fit. I give you my word as a gentleman.”


Fosco laughed. “Do you take me for a fool? I am to believe you shall return, willingly, like Regulus to Carthage, to meet your end? Bah! Even if you do keep your word, when should I expect you? Twenty or thirty years from now, when you have grown old and tired of life?”

No answer came from the darkness of the niche.

“But this task you mention. It intrigues me. A family member, you say? Give me more details.”

“Free me first.”

“That is impossible. But come—I see we are simply bandying words. And I weary of this task.” And more quickly now, Fosco finished the tenth course and started on the eleventh and last.

It was when only a single stone remained to be fitted and mortared into the wall that Pendergast spoke again. “Fosco”—the voice was faint, sepulchral, as if emerging from the deepest recesses of a tomb—“I ask you, as a gentleman and a human being. Do not place that brick.”

“Yes. It does seem a shame.” And Fosco hefted the final brick in his hand. “But I’m afraid the time has come for us to part. I thank you for the pleasure of your company these last few days. I say to you, not arrivederla, but addio.” And he forced the last stone into place.

As he smoothed away the last bit of excess mortar, Fosco heard—or thought he heard—a sound from the tomb within. A low moan, or exhalation of breath. Or was it just the wind, crying through the ancient catacombs? He pressed his head to the freshly laid wall and listened intently.

But there was nothing further.

Fosco stepped back, kicked a pile of scattered bones into position before the wall, then grabbed the torch and made his way hastily through the rat’s nest of tunnels to the ancient stairwell. Reaching it, he began to climb—a dozen steps, two dozen, three—heading for the surface and the warm evening sunlight, leaving the restless netherworld of shadows far behind.





{ 85 }


D’Agosta sat silently in the backseat of the car as it moved up the winding mountain road. The countryside was as beautiful as it had been two days before: the hills clad in autumn raiment, shining rust and gold under the early morning sun. D’Agosta barely noticed. He was staring up at the cruel-looking keep of Castel Fosco, just now rising into view above its spar of gray rock. Merely seeing the castle again brought a chill not even the convoy of police cars could allay.

He shifted the weight of the canvas bag from one leg to the other. Inside was Fosco’s diabolical weapon. The chill evaporated before the furious, carefully controlled anger that burned within him. D’Agosta tried to channel that anger: he’d need it for the encounter to come. The maddening, excruciating twelve-hour delay was finally over. The paperwork, the warrant, had finally come through; the bureaucracy had been satisfied. Now he was back here, on the enemy’s home ground. He had to stay calm, stay in control. He knew he had only one shot to save Pendergast—if indeed Pendergast was still alive—and he wasn’t going to blow it by losing his cool.

Colonnello Esposito, sitting beside him, took a last deep drag on his cigarette, then ground it out in an ashtray. He’d been quiet during the drive, moving only occasionally to light a new cigarette. Now he, too, glanced out the window.

“A most formidable residence,” he said.

D’Agosta nodded.

Esposito pulled out a fresh cigarette, reconsidered, replaced it, and turned to D’Agosta. “This Fosco you describe seems a shrewd character. It will be necessary to catch him red-handed, secure the evidence ourselves. We will therefore go in fast.”

“Yes. Good.”

Esposito ran a hand over his brushed-back gray hair. “He is also clearly one who leaves nothing to chance. I worry that Pendergast may be . . .” His voice trailed off.

“If we hadn’t waited twelve hours—”

The colonnello shook his head. “One cannot change the way things are.” He fell silent while the cars passed the castle’s ruined outer gate and made their way along the avenue of cypress trees. Then he stirred again. “One request, Sergeant.”

“What?”

“Let me do the talking, if you please. I will make sure the conversation is in English. Fosco speaks English well?”

“Perfectly.”

D’Agosta was more exhausted than he ever remembered being. Every limb ached, and his skin was scratched and torn in countless places. Only his iron resolve to rescue Pendergast, his fear about what his friend might be undergoing at the hands of the count, kept him going. Maybe he’s still alive, he thought. Back in the same cell. Of course he is. He must be.

D’Agosta prayed briefly, fervently, that this would prove the case. The alternative was too dreadful to contemplate.

The cars pulled into the graveled parking area just outside the inner wall. Here, in the deep shadow of the stone buttresses, it was chilly. D’Agosta opened the car door and stepped out briskly despite his aches and pains.