Brimstone

Maximal agony, prolonged forever. Despite himself, Harriman shivered in the warm night.

"Other hells might be more subtle. Imagine the man who always feared going crazy, doing so over decades or even slow centuries. And then begi

Here he stopped, and stepped up to the very edge of the rock.

"Take a moment to think of the very worst hell you could imagine for yourself. And then realize that Satan, who knows you even better than you know yourself, could fashion one far worse. And he will. He already has. In anticipation. Because he has only one salve for his bitter pain: the despair, the desperate pleadings, the cries and sufferings of his victims."

Buck paused again. He took a deep breath, then another. Then, in an even lower voice, he went on.

"I've said there was a hell for each of us. That hell is there, waiting for each one of you. Satan has made your hell so very easy to find, with a wide and comfortable road leading straight to it. It is far, far easier for us to go with the flow, to stroll unthinking down that broad pleasant avenue, far easier than to search for the rough, hidden turnoff that leads to heaven. We must fight against the lure of the easy road. It is a fight, my friends; a fight to the death. Because that is the only way-the only way-we are going to discover that difficult trail to heaven. I ask you to remember this in the trials we are about to face."

And then he turned and stepped down out of sight.

{ 74 }

When D'Agosta entered Pendergast's hotel suite, he found the agent at breakfast. The table was set with assorted fruits, breakfast rolls, and the inescapable and inevitable tiny espresso. Pendergast was nibbling daintily at poached eggs and reading what looked like a set of faxed documents. For a brief moment, D'Agosta thought of the earlier meal they'd shared, back in Southampton, when this case was still brand-new. It seemed a distant memory indeed.

"Ah, Vincent," Pendergast said. "Come in. Would you care to order something?"

"No, thanks." Although it was a beautiful morning and sunlight gilded the rooms, D'Agosta felt as if a threatening cloud was hanging over them both. "I'm surprised you've got an appetite."

"It's important I take some refreshment now. I'm not sure how long it will be until my next meal. But that shouldn't stop you: come, have a croissant. These Alsatian plum preserves from Fauchon are delightful." He put the faxes aside and picked up La Nazione .

"What's that you were reading?"

"Some faxes from Constance. I'll need all the, ah, ammunition I can gather for what's to come. She has proven most helpful."

D'Agosta stepped forward. "I'm coming with you," he said grimly. "I want to get that straight here and now so there won't be any questions later."

Pendergast lowered the paper. "I assumed you'd make such a demand. Let me remind you the invitation was for me alone."

"I doubt that fat-assed count would have any objections."

"You're probably right."

"I've come all this way. I've been shot at more than once, lost the end of a finger, almost been pushed off a cliff, almost been driven off a cliff."

"Right again."

"So don't expect me to spend the evening relaxing by the pool with a few cold ones while you're in Fosco's lair."

Pendergast smiled faintly. "I have one more errand to run before leaving Florence. Let's discuss it then."

And he raised the paper once again.

Two hours later, their car stopped on a narrow street in Florence, outside a vast, austere building of rough stone.

"The Palazzo Maffei," Pendergast said from behind the wheel. "If you wouldn't mind waiting here a moment? I won't be long." He got out of the car, approached a brass plaque of door buzzers set into the facade, sca

D'Agosta watched, curious. He'd picked up enough Italian to know that what Pendergast said into the intercom hadn't sounded right. It sounded more like Latin, to tell the truth.

Getting out of the car, he crossed the narrow street and examined the buzzers. The one Pendergast pressed was labeled simply Corso Maffei . This told D'Agosta nothing, and he returned to their rental car.

Within ten minutes, Pendergast emerged from the building and got back into the driver's seat.

"What was that all about?" D'Agosta asked.

"Insurance," Pendergast replied. Then he turned to look intently at D'Agosta. "The chances of success in this venture are not much better than fifty-fifty. I have to do this. You do not. I would personally prefer it if you didn't come."

"No way. We're in this together."

"I see you are determined. But let me just remind you, Vincent, that you have a son and what appear to be excellent prospects for advancement, promotion, and a happy life ahead of you."

"I said , we're in this together."

Pendergast smiled and laid a hand on his arm-a strangely affectionate gesture from a man who hardly ever showed affection. "I knew this would be your answer, Vincent, and I am glad. I have come to rely on your common sense, your steadiness, and your shooting ability, among other excellent qualities."

D'Agosta felt himself unaccountably embarrassed and he grunted a reply.

"We should reach the castle by midafternoon. I'll brief you on the way."

The road ru

The road loosely followed the ridges above the Greve River. As they passed over the Passo dei Pecorai, the town of Greve came into view far below, lying in a low valley along the river. As they came around another bend in the road, Pendergast pointed a finger at his side window. "Castel Fosco," he said.

It stood on a lonely spar of rock far up in the Chiantigian hills. From this distance, it looked to D'Agosta like a single massive tower, crenellated and time-worn, rising above the forest. The road turned, dipped, and the castle disappeared. A moment later Pendergast turned off the main road, and after a confusing series of turns onto ever-smaller lanes, they arrived at a mossy wall with an iron gate. The marble plaque beside it read Castel Fosco. The open gate was rotten and rusted, and it seemed to have settled crookedly into the very ground itself. An ancient dirt road ran up from the gate through some vineyards, climbing a steep hillside and disappearing over the brow of the hill.

As they wound their way up the hillside, Pendergast nodded toward the terraced vineyards and groves that lined the road. "A rich estate, apparently, and one of the largest in Chianti."

D'Agosta said nothing. Every yard they drove farther into the count's domain seemed to increase the sense of oppression that hung over him.

The road topped the ridge and the castle came into view again, much closer now: a monstrous stone keep perched on a crag far up the mountainside. Built into one side of the keep was a later, yet still ancient, addition: a graceful Renaissance villa with a pale yellow stuccoed exterior and red-tile roofs. Its rows of stately windows stood in strong contrast to the grim, almost brutal lines of the central keep.