Brimstone

"Let's go."

"Mr. Bullard, perhaps you might care to check the contents?"

Bullard turned to the man who'd spoken. "I'll check soon enough. If it isn't there, losing your jobs will be the least of your worries."

"Yes, sir."

The tension in the room was palpable. The men shifted uneasily, apparently reluctant to leave. Bullard brushed past them, started to duck through the vault door, turned back. "You coming?"

The men followed him out of the vault. The door hissed shut behind. Bullard stepped over Martinetti again and walked through the three sets of doors, the men in his wake, the only sound the clicking of heels on the polished corridors. In another few minutes, he was back at the curb, where the limousine sat idling. The men stood on the sidewalk uncertainly, looking at Bullard. There was no more mention of lunch.

Without a backward glance, Bullard got in the car, slammed the door. "To the villa," he said, placing the wooden box very carefully on his lap.

{ 50 }

D'Agosta stood at the windows of his suite in the Lungarno Hotel, looking out over the deep green of the Arno, the pale yellow palaces of Florence lining both banks, the Ponte Vecchio with its crooked little buildings perched out over the water. He felt strangely expectant, even a little light-headed. He wasn't sure if it was jet lag, the opulence of his surroundings, or the fact that he was in his country of origin for the first time in his life.

D'Agosta's father had left Naples as a boy with his parents, right after the war, to escape the terrible famine of '44. They settled on Carmine Street in New York City. His father, Vito, outraged by the rising power of the Mafia, had fought back by becoming a New York City cop, and a damn good one. His shield and awards still stood in a glass case on the mantel like holy relics: police combat cross, medal of honor. D'Agosta had grown up on Carmine Street, surrounded by Italian immigrants from Naples and Sicily, immersed in the language, the religion, the cycles of saints' days and celebrations. From childhood, Italy had for him taken on the air of a mythical place.

And now here he was.

He felt a lump rising in his throat. He had not expected it to be such an emotional experience. This was the land of his ancestors going back mille

He opened the window and breathed in the air. It was something his wife never understood, his immense pride in his heritage. It was something that she had always thought a little silly. Well, no wonder. She was English. What had the English done but scribble a few plays and poems? Italy was the birthplace of Western civilization  The land of his ancestors. Someday he would take his son, Vi

These delicious reveries were interrupted by a knock on the door. It was the valet with his luggage.

"Where would you like it, sir?" the valet said in English.

D'Agosta made a flourish with his hand and launched nonchalantly into Italian.  "Buon giorno guagliòne. Pe' piacère' lassàte ì valigè abbecìno o liett', grazie."

The valet looked at him strangely, with what seemed to D'Agosta a fleeting look of disdain. "Excuse me?" he asked in English.

D'Agosta felt a brief swell of irritation "Ì valigè, aggia ritt', mettitelè' allà." He pointed to the bed

The valet placed the two bags by the bed  D'Agosta fished in his pockets but could not find anything less than a five-euro note. He gave it to the valet.

"Grazie, signore, Lei è molto gentile. Se Lei ha bisogno di qualsiasi cosa, mi dica."  And the valet left.

D'Agosta hadn't understood a word the man had said after "Grazie, signore." It didn't sound at all like the language his grandmother spoke. He shook his head  It must be the Florentine accent throwing him off: he knew he hadn't forgotten that much. Italian was his first language, after all.

He looked around  This was like no hotel room he had ever stayed in before, the height of clean, understated taste and elegance. It was also huge: almost an apartment, really, with a bedroom, sitting room, marble bath, kitchen, and well-stocked bar, along with a wall of windows looking out over the Arno, the Ponte Vecchio, the Uffizi Gallery, the great cupola of the Duomo. The room must've cost a fortune, but D'Agosta had long ago given up worrying about how Pendergast spent his money, if indeed it was his money. The guy remained as mysterious as ever.

There came another soft knock on the door, and D'Agosta opened it. It was Pendergast. The detective, still dressed in his usual black-which somehow looked less out of place in Florence than it did in New York-glided in. He carried a sheaf of papers in one hand.

"Accommodations to your satisfaction, Vincent?"

"A bit cramped, lousy view of some old bridge, but I'll get used to it."

Pendergast settled on the sofa and handed D'Agosta the sheaf of papers. "You will find here a permesso di soggiorno , a firearm permit, an investigative authorization from the Questura, your codice fiscale , and a few other odds and ends to be signed-all through the count's good offices."

D'Agosta took the papers. "Fosco?"

Pendergast nodded. "Italian bureaucracy moves slowly, and the good count gave it a swift kick forward on our behalf."

"Is he here?" D'Agosta asked with little enthusiasm.

"No. He may come later." Pendergast rose and strolled to the window. "There is his family's palazzo, across the river, next to the Corsini Palace."

D'Agosta glanced out at a medieval building with a crenellated parapet. "Nice pile."

"Indeed. It's been in the family since the late thirteenth century."

Another knock came at the door.

"Trasite'," D'Agosta called, proud to be able to use his Italian in front of Pendergast.

The valet came in again, carrying a basket of fruit. "Signori?"

"Faciteme stù piacère' lassatele 'ngoppa' o' tavule."

The valet made no move toward the table, saying instead, "Where shall I put it?" in English. D'Agosta glanced at Pendergast and saw a twinkle of amusement in his eye.

"O' tavule," he answered more brusquely.

The man stood there with the fruit in his hand, looking from the table to the desk, finally placing it on the desk. D'Agosta felt a surge of irritation at his willful incomprehension-hadn't he given the man a big enough tip? Words he had so often heard from his father flowed unbidden off his lips.  "Allòra qual'è ò problema', sì surdo? Nun mi capisc'i? Ma che è parl' ò francèse'? Ma

The man backed out of the room in confusion. D'Agosta turned to Pendergast, to find the agent making a rare and unsuccessful attempt to suppress an effervescence of mirth.

"What's so fu

Pendergast managed to compose his features. "Vincent, I didn't know you had such a flair for languages."

"Italian was my first language."

"Italian? Do you speak Italian, too?"

"What do you mean, too ? What the hell do you think I was speaking?"

"It sounded remarkably to me like Neapolitan, which is often called a dialect of Italian but is actually a separate language. A fascinating language, too, but, of course, incomprehensible to a Florentine."