Brimstone

"It would be my pleasure."

"And now it would be better if you leave. We'll make no note of your presence in the official report. To have the American FBI reporting a crime on Italian soil .    " His smile broadened. "It just wouldn't do."

He briskly shook their hands and turned on his heel, crossing himself so rapidly as he passed the altar D'Agosta wasn't sure if he had done it at all.

{ 60 }

D'Agosta had seen a lot of police headquarters in his time, but the so-called barracks of the carabinieri in Florence beat them all. It wasn't a barracks at all, but rather a decaying Renaissance building-D'Agosta thought it was Renaissance, anyway-facing a narrow medieval street. It was huddled up beside the famous Ognissanti Church, its gray limestone facade streaked with dirt, every ledge and projection covered with needle-like spikes to ward off pigeons. Florence itself was nothing like what he'd imagined: even in the warm, mid-October light, the city seemed austere, its crooked streets always in shadow, the rough-cut stone facades of its buildings almost grim. The air smelled of diesel fumes, and the impossibly narrow sidewalks were clogged with slow-moving tourists dressed in floppy hats and khaki shorts, with packs on their backs and water bottles strapped to their waists, as if they were on an expedition into the Sahara rather than walking around perhaps the most civilized city in the world.

They had met the colo

The colo

They turned into another vaulted corridor lined with stone pillars-the crumbling remains of religious frescoes still visible-past a battered statue of a saint; then up a massive flight of stone stairs and into a warren of modern cubicles constructed haphazardly out of what had once been a single pillared room.

"The caserma, " said Esposito as they walked, "was once the monastery co

They turned a corner and proceeded down yet another vaulted corridor. "The refectory, where the monks used to eat, has an important fresco by Ghirlandaio that nobody ever sees."

"Indeed."

"Here in Italy, we make do with what we have."

Reaching the far end of the corridor, they went up another flight of stairs. From the landing, they passed through what D'Agosta realized must have once been a secret door in the wall; mounted a tiny circular staircase; passed through crowded rooms smelling of mold and overheated fax machines-and then suddenly arrived at a small, grimy door bearing nothing but a number. Here Esposito stopped with a smile. Then he pushed the door open and ushered them in.

D'Agosta stepped into a light-flooded room that ended in a wall of glassed-in columns and arches. Beyond lay a sweeping view southward, over the Arno River. Almost despite himself, he was drawn toward the view.

From above, finally, Florence looked like he had imagined it: a city of church domes and towers, red-tile roofs, gardens, and piazze, surrounded by steep green hills covered with fairy-tale castles. There was the Ponte Vecchio and the Pitti Palace; the Boboli Gardens; the dome of San Frediano in Cestello; and, beyond, the hill of Bellosguardo. It was a moment before he could shift his attention back to the room itself.

It was large and open, filled with rows of old mahogany desks. The floor, polished by five hundred years of feet, was inlaid in a striking array of colored marbles, and on the stuccoed walls hung giant paintings of old men in armor. There was a tense air in the room, and a number of men in suits at the desks were glancing nervously in their direction. The killing-and its bizarre particulars especially-were clearly on everyone's mind.

"Welcome to the Nucleo Investigativo, the elite unit of the carabinieri of which I am in charge. We investigate the major crimes." Esposito looked at D'Agosta sideways. "Is this your first visit to Italy, Sergeant D'Agosta?"

"It is."

"And how do you find it?"

"It's .     not quite what I expected."

He could see a faint look of amusement in the man's eyes. Esposito's hand swept over the skyline. "Beautiful, no?"

"From up here."

"The Florentines .    " He rolled his eyes. "They live in the past. They believe they created everything beautiful in the world-art, science, music, literature-and that is enough. Why do anything more? They've been resting on their laurels for four hundred years. Where I grew up we have a saying: Nun cagnà 'a via vecchia p'a nova, ca saie chello che lasse, nun saie chello ca trouve. "

"Don't live in the past-you will know what you've lost but not what you've found?" D'Agosta asked.

Esposito went still. Then he smiled. "Your family is originally from Naples?"

D'Agosta nodded.

"This is remarkable. And you actually speak Neapolitan?"

"I thought I grew up speaking Italian."

Esposito laughed. "This is not the first time I have heard of this happening. You are fortunate, Sergeant, to speak a beautiful and ancient language no longer taught in any school. Anyone can learn Italian, but only a real man can speak Napolitano. I myself am from Naples. Impossible to work there, of course, but a marvelous place to live."

"Si suo

Esposito looked even more astonished. "'Blessed be you if you dream of Naples.' What a lovely saying. I've never heard it before."

"When I was a little boy, my grandmother used to whisper that in my ear every time she kissed me good night."

"And did you ever dream of Naples?"

"I sometimes dreamed of a city that I thought was Naples, but I'm sure it was all my imagination. I've never been there."

"Then don't go. Live in your dreams: they are always so much better " He turned to Pendergast. "And now-as you Americans say-to business."

He led them to a small sitting area in a far corner of the room, couches and chairs positioned around an old stone table. Esposito waved his hand." Caffè per noi, per favore."

In moments, a woman appeared with a tray of tiny cups of espresso. Esposito took one, tossed it back, then drank a second just as quickly. He slipped out a pack of cigarettes, offered them around.

"Ah, you Americans never smoke." He took one himself, lit it, exhaled. "This morning, between seven and eight, I received sixteen telephone calls-one from the American Embassy in Rome, five from the American Consulate on the Lungarno, one from the U.S. State Department, two from the New York Times , one from the Washington Post , one from the Chinese Embassy in Rome, and five from various unpleasant people in Mr. Bullard's company." He looked up, eyes twinkling. "Given that, and what you told me just now in the café, it's clear this Bullard was an important man."