Brimstone

They came to a heavy iron door, set into an even heavier stone wall. Deeper within the castle, D'Agosta could see that the stonework was beaded with moisture.

"The keep," Fosco said as he unlocked the door with another key.

Immediately inside was a wide, windowless circular staircase that corkscrewed its way up from the depths and curved out of sight above their heads. Fosco removed a battery-powered torch from a wall sconce, turned it on, and led the way up the stairs. After five or six revolutions, they stopped at a small landing containing a single door. Opening it with yet another key, Fosco ushered them into what looked like a small apartment, retrofitted into the old castle keep, its tiny windows overlooking the valley of the Greve and the rolling hills marching toward Florence, far below. A fire burned in a stone fireplace at one end, and Persian rugs covered the terra-cotta floor. There was a comfortable sitting area in front of the fire; a table to one side well furnished with wines and liquors; a wall of well-stocked bookshelves.

"Eccoci quà! I trust you will find your chambers comfortable. There are two small bedrooms on either side. The view is refreshing, don't you think? I am concerned that you brought no luggage. I will have Pinketts furnish you with anything you might need-razors, bathrobes, slippers, sleeping shirts."

"I very much doubt we will be staying the night."

"And I very much doubt you will be leaving." The count smiled. "We eat late, in the Continental fashion. At nine."

He bowed, backed out of the door, shutting it with a hollow boom. With sinking heart, D'Agosta heard a key rasp in the lock, and then the footsteps of the count disappearing quickly down the stairway.

{ 76 }

The staging area for the move on Buck's encampment was a maintenance parking lot behind the arsenal, well out of sight of the tent city. Commissioner Rocker had called up no fewer than three NYPD riot control divisions, along with a SWAT team, two hostage negotiators, officers on horseback, two mobile command units, and plenty of rank and file with helmets and bulletproof vests to manage the arrests. Then there were the fire trucks, ambulances, and prisoner transport vans, all standing by at a discreet distance on 67th Street.

Hayward stood at the northern fringe of the staging area, giving her radio and weapon a final check. The crowd of uniformed officers milling around with batons and riot shields was enormous, not to mention various operations specialists with wires dangling from their ears and even a few confidential informants dressed as tent city residents. She understood the reason for the overkill: if you went in, you went in with overwhelming force, and nine times out of ten the opposition caved. The worst thing you could do was let them think they might have a chance if they made a stand.

And yet these people thought they had God behind them. These weren't striking bus drivers or municipal workers with spouses and kids, two cars in the driveway. These were true believers. They were unpredictable. Her approach made more sense.

Didn't it?

Rocker appeared out of the crowd, strode over, and laid a hand on Hayward's shoulder. "Ready?"

She nodded.

He gave her a fatherly pat. "Radio if you run into heavy weather. We'll move in early." He glanced at the array of men and equipment behind them. "I hope to hell none of this is necessary."

"So do I."

She could see Wentworth at one of the mobile command units, wire dangling from his ear, talking, gesturing this way and that. He was playing cop, having the time of his life. He glanced in her direction and she turned away. It would be humiliating if she failed. Not only that, it would seriously damage her career. Wentworth had already predicted failure, and it was only through Rocker's support that her mission had been approved at all. Not for the first time since the last meeting, she wondered why she'd stuck her neck out. This was not the way to advance a career. How many times had she seen that those who went with the flow rode the tide to success? D'Agosta's attitude must be rubbing off on her.

"Ready?"

She nodded.

Rocker released her shoulder. "Then have at it, Captain."

She took one more look back at the safety of the staging area. Then she set off along a walkway that curved north around the arsenal, taking her badge from her pocket and clipping it to her jacket as she did so.

In a few minutes, the straggling outer tents of the encampment came into view. She slowed, getting a feel for the crowd. It was noon, and people were moving around everywhere. There was the smell of frying bacon in the air. As she neared the first line of tents, people stopped to stare. She nodded in a friendly way, receiving hostile looks in response. The crowd seemed a lot more tense than on Friday-and no wonder. They weren't stupid. They knew they weren't going to get away with threatening police officers. They were waiting for the second shoe to drop. She just had to make sure they realized she wasn't that shoe.

She entered one of the crooked lanes, feeling all eyes on her, hearing whispered comments. The words Satan and unclean reached her ears. She kept a friendly smile on her face, an easiness in her walk. She remembered her professor in Social Dynamics saying a crowd was like a dog: if you showed fear, it would bite; if you ran, it would chase.

The path was familiar, and in less than a minute, she found herself approaching Buck's tent. He was sitting at a table out front, reading a book, totally absorbed. The same officious man who had accosted her and Grable two days before-Buck had called him Todd-suddenly appeared in front of her. Already a crowd was forming. Nothing ugly: just curious, silent, and hostile.

"You again," the man said.

"Me again," Hayward replied. "Here to chat with the reverend."

"They're back!" the man cried to the others, stepping forward to block her way.

"Not 'they.' Just me."

The murmur of the crowd rose like an electric buzz. The air was suddenly tense. Hayward glanced back, surprised at how large the crowd was growing. Focus on Buck. But he remained reading at the desk, ignoring her. From here, she could make out the title: Foxe's Book of Martyrs, Reader's Digest Edition.

Todd advanced to the point where he was almost-but not quite-touching her with his body.

"The reverend can't be disturbed."

Hayward felt a twinge of something uncomfortably like doubt. Was this plan of hers really going to work? Or was Wentworth right, after all?

She spoke loudly enough for Buck to hear. "I'm just here to talk. I've got no arrest warrant. I just want to talk to the reverend, one human being to another."

"Prevaricator!" someone shouted from the crowd.

She had to get past this aide-de-camp blocking her way. She took a step forward, brushing him.

"That's assault, Officer," Todd said.

"If the reverend doesn't want to talk to me, let me hear him say it himself. Let the reverend make his own decisions."

"The reverend asked not to be disturbed." They were still touching, and it gave Hayward the creeps, but she sensed a back-down in the making.

She wasn't wrong. Todd took a step back, still blocking her way.

"Roman!" came a cry from the crowd.

What is it with this Roman shit? "All I ask is five minutes of your time, Reverend," she called, leaning around Todd. "Five minutes."

At last, Buck laid down the book with great deliberation, rose from the table, and finally raised his head to look at her. The instant her eyes met his, she felt a chill. On Friday he'd seemed a little unsure of what he'd wrought; perhaps amenable to persuasion. But today there was a coolness, a calmness, a sense of utter self-confidence she had not seen before. The only emotion she sensed in him was a passing flicker, perhaps, of disappointment. She swallowed.