“Please.” And Esposito gestured for him to proceed.
D’Agosta led the group out of the dining room, through the large and empty kitchen, and into the pantry beyond. The staircase leading down to the storage cellars was now covered by a massive armoire, copper pots and cookware hanging from its ancient brass hooks.
Bingo! D’Agosta thought.
“The stairway’s behind there,” he said. “He’s covered it up with that armoire.”
Esposito nodded to his two men, who moved it with great difficulty. D’Agosta felt himself go cold. The stairway was gone. In its place was bare wall, ancient and dusty as the rest of the room.
“Feel it!” he said, unable now to keep the frustration and mounting horror from his voice. “He’s bricked it in! The mortar’s got to be still wet!”
The colonnello stepped forward, removed a penknife from his pocket, and stabbed its point into the mortar. Small, dried pieces crumbled away in a train of dust. He dug it in farther, probing. Then he turned and, without a word, handed the knife to D’Agosta.
D’Agosta knelt, felt along the bottom. The wall looked old, dusty—there were even what appeared to be cobwebs exposed by the moving of the armoire. He stepped back, looked around the room. No mistake: this was the right place.
“The count has covered it up. Disguised it somehow. There was a door here.”
Another, longer, silence fell. Esposito’s eyes met D’Agosta’s, then looked away.
Seeing the speculative look, D’Agosta felt a renewed sense of steely determination settle over him. “Let’s join your men. Search the whole goddamned place.”
An hour later, D’Agosta found himself back in the central gallery. They had explored more passages, salons, rooms, vaults, basements, and tunnels than he’d ever imagined one castle could hold. The castle was so large, so sprawling, it was impossible to know whether or not they had covered all its drafty spaces and dank stairwells. All his muscles quivered with weariness. The canvas bag with the microwave weapon hung like a dead weight by his side.
As the search progressed, Esposito had grown increasingly quiet. Throughout it all, Fosco had stayed by their side, solicitous, patient, unlocking every door, even suggesting new routes of inquiry from time to time.
Now, the count cleared his throat. “Could I suggest we return to my library? We can talk more comfortably there.”
As they seated themselves around the fire, one of the carabinieri came in and whispered in Esposito’s ear. The colonnello nodded, then dismissed the man with a gesture, his expression unreadable. Fosco once again offered him a cigar, and this time Esposito accepted. D’Agosta watched all this with a sense of growing disbelief. He felt rage taking over now, almost beyond his ability to control, combined with a sense of horror and grief. It was unreal, a nightmare.
Esposito spoke at last, his voice neutral. “My men looked into the Stylo. It was returned to Eurocar at 13:00 yesterday. The chit was signed by A. X. L. Pendergast, paid for with an American Express card belonging to Pendergast. A Special Agent A. X. L. Pendergast had a reservation on a flight to Palermo at 14:30 from Firenze Peretola. We’re still trying to find out whether he was, in fact, on that flight. The airlines these days are so difficult . . .”
“Of course it will appear he was on the flight! Can’t you see what Fosco’s game is?”
“Sergeant—”
“It’s all bullshit!” D’Agosta said, rising from his chair. “Orchestrated by Fosco! Just like he walled up the passageway, disguised the apartment. Just like he’s planned every fucking thing!”
“Sergeant, please,” Esposito said quietly. “Control yourself.”
“You said yourself we were dealing with a determined man!”
“Sergeant.” The voice was firmer.
D’Agosta stood, almost out of his mind with rage, frustration, and grief. Fosco had Pendergast’s credit card. What did it mean? And now the bastard was slipping through his fingers. Pendergast was gone, vanished. He made an almost superhuman struggle at control—if he lost it, he would never have another chance. He had to find a chink in the count’s armor. “He’s not in the castle, then. They’ve taken him into the woods, up on the mountain. We’ve got to search the area.”
Esposito puffed thoughtfully on the cigar, waiting for D’Agosta to finish. Then he spoke. “Sergeant D’Agosta. In your story, you claim the count killed four people to get back a violin—”
“At least four people. We’re just wasting time here! We have to—”
Esposito raised a hand for silence. “Excuse me. You claim the count killed these men with that device you’re carrying.”
“Yes.” D’Agosta tried to control his breathing.
“Why don’t you show it to the count?”
D’Agosta pulled the microwave device from the bag.