Bullard turned to one of the men. "I fired this man. Martinetti was trespassing. I deeply regret that he resisted apprehension, assaulted a security officer, and had to be subdued by that officer."
He turned to one of the security officers escorting them. "Did you hear what I said?"
"Yes, sir," the man said in an American accent.
"Make it so."
"Yes, sir."
"Call a detail to remove this man and prefer charges against him for trespassing." Bullard stepped over the prostrate form and looked into the retinal scan himself. There was a click of disengaging metal, then the vault door swung open, exposing machined stainless steel and brass. Beyond lay a small vault. On one side were several hard drives, locked in transparent plastic cases and carefully stacked atop plastic filing cabinets. On the other was a small, rectangular box of polished walnut, surrounded by a cluster of sophisticated electronics: climate-control sensors, humidity readouts, a seismograph, gas analyzer, barometers, and temperature gauges. Bullard strode over to the box, picked it up gently by the handle. It was so light that in Bullard's massive grip it seemed weightless. He turned.
"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 millennia. Italy was the birthplace of so much: art, architecture, sculpture, music, science, and astronomy. The great names of the past rolled through his mind: Augustus Caesar, Cicero, Ovid, Dante, Christopher Columbus, Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo, Galileo . The list stretched back more than two thousand years. D'Agosta felt certain no other nation on earth had produced such genius.
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, Vinnie, here .
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."