But Pendergast simply shook his head and glanced into the yawning mouth of the shaft. "I think his shoe troubles are over." Then he glanced at the remaining guard and flashed him a brief, chilling smile.
The man paled and mumbled something through his gag.
Pendergast turned to D'Agosta. "Show me your finger."
D'Agosta had forgotten all about it. Pendergast took his hand, examined it. "Done with a sharp knife. You're lucky: neither the bone nor the root of the nail was affected." He tore a strip of cloth from the hem of his black shirt and bandaged it. "It might be wise to get you to a hospital."
"The hell with that. We're going after Bullard."
Pendergast raised his eyebrows. "I'm delighted to hear that we are of the same opinion. Yes, now is a good opportunity. As for your finger-"
"Forget the finger."
"As you wish. Here's your service piece."
Pendergast handed him the Glock 9mm, then turned to his minder and aimed his own Les Baer at the man's temple. "You have one chance-only one-to tell us the best route out. I already know a great deal about the layout of this place, so any attempt to deceive will be detected and instantly answered with a bullet to the parietal lobe. Understand?"
The man couldn't talk fast enough.
An hour later, Pendergast and D'Agosta were driving south of Florence on the Via Volterrana, a dark, stone-walled road that curved along the hilltops south of the city. A faint scattering of lights winked from the surrounding hills.
"How did you do it?" D'Agosta asked. He could still hardly believe it. "I thought we were about to buy the farm."
They were still in their black stealth outfits, and only Pendergast's hands and face could be seen. In the dim light of the dashboard, his expression was hard and flat. "I have to admit a moment of discomfort back there myself. We were lucky they decided to separate, to kill us one at a time. That was their first mistake. The second was overconfidence and inattention. The third was my man keeping his gun pressed into me-which, of course, revealed exactly where the weapon was at all times. I always carry a few small tools in my shirt cuff, the hem of my trousers, other places. It's an old magicians' trick. I used these to pick the lock of my cuffs. Luckily, the Italian locks were rather crude. When we halted at the pit, I disarmed my opponent with a blow to the solar plexus, removed my blindfold and gag. I then shot the gun into the air while pushing a heavy rock into the quarry with my foot. Next I instructed my guard to order you brought forward-which he did as soon as he recovered his wind. I regret shooting your guard, but there would have been no way to manage both of them . I do not care for killing people in cold blood, but there was no help for it."
He fell silent.
D'Agosta felt his own anger grow. He had no sense of regret. His finger was throbbing painfully again, in time to the beat of his heart. Bullard. Pendergast had been correct: the man would pay dearly.
The car swung around a curve, and there, a half mile ahead, D'Agosta could see the outline of a villa silhouetted against the faint glow of the night sky, a crenellated tower on one end framed by cypress trees.
"Machiavelli's place of exile," murmured Pendergast.
The car dipped into a valley, cruising along an ancient wall. Pendergast slowed as they approached an iron gate, then turned off the road. They hid the car in an olive grove and approached the gate.
"I was expecting heavy security," Pendergast said after quickly examining the lock. "Instead, this gate's open." He peered through. "And the guardhouse appears to be unoccupied."
"Are you sure we're at the right villa?"
"Yes." He slowly eased the gate open, and they stepped into the darkness of the villa's great park. Two rows of cypresses lined a drive that led up a hill covered with more olive groves. Pendergast paused, dropping to his hands and knees to examine faint tread marks in the gravel of the drive. Then he stood, looked around, and nodded toward a dense forest of umbrella pines that lay to one side. "That way."
They moved through the pines, Pendergast stopping every now and then, apparently looking for guards or other signs of security. "Odd," he murmured to himself. "Very odd."
Soon they reached a thick hedge of laurel, immaculately clipped and impenetrable. They walked along the hedge to a locked gate, which Pendergast deftly picked. Beyond lay a formal Italian garden, low boxwood hedges laid in rectangular shapes, bordered by beds of lavender and marigolds. In the center stood a marble statue of a faun playing panpipes, water pouring from the pipes and splashing into a mossy pool below. Beyond rose the dark facade of the villa.
They paused to examine the huge structure. It was stuccoed in a pale yellow. A loggia ran across the fourth floor, just under the tiled roof: a row of columns topped by Roman arches. The only sign of life was a faint, flickering glow through the open leaded windows of what appeared to be a grand salone on the second floor.
Pendergast moved forward again and D'Agosta followed, the burbling fountain masking their footsteps. In another few minutes, they reached the outer wall of the villa itself. There was still no sign of any security.
"Strange," whispered Pendergast.
"Maybe Bullard isn't home."
They passed under one of the great windows of the alone . That was when the smell hit D'Agosta. It was just a fleeting whiff, yet it felt like a physical blow. Instantly his anger turned to disbelief, then to creeping dread.
"Sulfur."
"Indeed."
Fumbling half unconsciously for his cross, D'Agosta followed Pendergast around the side of the house to the great portone of the villa.
"It's open," Pendergast said, slipping inside.
After the briefest of hesitations, D'Agosta followed. They paused in the entryway, examining the great vaulted spaces of the piano terra , dark with ancient frescoes and trompe l'oeil.
The smell was stronger here. Sulfur, phosphorus-and burned grease.
Now Pendergast moved up the great sweep of stairs leading to the second floor and the alone . D'Agosta followed him down a vaulted hallway to a massive set of wooden doors, bolted and banded in iron. One was ajar, and a flickering light came from beyond.
Pendergast pushed it wide.
It took D'Agosta a moment to register. The light came, not from a burning candle or the great fireplace in the far wall, but from the middle of the room. There, in the center of a crude circle, something was in the last stages of burning, just a few licks of flame rising from charred lumps.
It was the outline of a human being.
With horror and disbelief, D'Agosta took in the smoldering, greasy outline; the ashy remnants of the skeleton, every fire-cracked bone in place, spread-eagled on the floor. There in its proper place was the belt buckle, there were the three metal buttons of a jacket. Where one of the pockets had been was now a fused lump of euros. The remains of a gold pen rested among the ashes of the upper ribs. The burned bones of one hand still sported a pair of familiar-looking rings.
But not all had burned. A single foot was perfectly preserved, burned only as far as the ankle. It looked absurdly like a movie prop, still encased in a beautifully polished handmade wing tip. And there at the other end was another piece of the body: just the side of the face, with one staring eye, a lock of hair, and a perfect pink ear, all intact, as if the fire that had consumed this person had suddenly ceased at a line drawn down the side of the head. The other half was mere skull, blackened, split and crumbled by heat.
Enough of the face remained to leave no doubt who this was. Locke Bullard.