"And what is hell itself like? Our ancestors were told it was a burning lake of fire, of sulfur and brimstone, in which one was eternally submerged. A terrible furnace whose flames bring no light, but merely darkness made visible. And in a simpler time, such a depiction was enough."
He stopped again to look around, fixing first one, then another, with his eyes.
"Mind you, I do believe this is hell for some. But it is not the only hell. There are countless hells, my brothers and sisters. There is a hell for each of us. Lucifer may be no match for our God. Yet he was a very mighty angel indeed, and as such, has powers far beyond our poor comprehension.
"You must remember something, and remember it always: Lucifer, the devil, was cast out of heaven because of his overmastering envy and evil. In his implacable jealousy, his unquenchable thirst for revenge, he now uses us as his pawns. Just as the rejected child hates a favored rival, he hates us for what we are: beloved children of God. And which of us can hope to comprehend the depths of his bottomless rage? Each human he corrupts, each soul he takes, is for him a victory: a fist shaken up at God.
"He knows our individual weaknesses, our petty desires; he knows what triggers our vanity or our greed or our lust or our cruelty. We have no secrets from him. He has handcrafted temptations for each one of us; he has strewn our path with a thousand ways to veer into darkness. And once he has successfully lured a soul into his kingdom-once he has won, yet again-do you think Satan will be content to leave that soul in a generic hell? Think again, my friends: think again. He who knows all our weaknesses also knows all our fears. Even those we may not know ourselves. And to complete his victory, to make his victim's suffering supreme , he will fashion each individual hell to be the most unendurable for its particular inhabitant. And worst of all, it will be a hell that lasts forever. And ever. And ever. For some, that may well mean a burning lake of fire. For others, it may mean an eternity nailed up in a black coffin, motionless, lightless, speechless, as insanity doubles and redoubles over long eons. For others, it might mean, say, eternal suffocation. Imagine that for a moment, my friends. Imagine that you've held your breath for two minutes, maybe three. Imagine the desperate need for oxygen, the exquisite torture. And yet in hell, there is no release of breath, no drawing in of good sweet air. Nor is there the blankness of oblivion. There is simply that moment of maximal agony, prolonged forever."
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 beginning the process over. And over. Or imagine the doting mother, forced to watch-again and again and again-how after her own passing her children slide into poverty and neglect, drug addiction, depression, maltreatment, and death."
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, scanned the names, and pressed one. A moment later, a muffled voice rasped over the intercom. Pendergast answered. Then the great door buzzed open and he vanished inside.
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."