The car squealed around another curve. D'Agosta braced himself against the lateral g-forces, sweat breaking out on his brow.
"I've seen you weasel information out of all kinds of people," he said when it was safe to draw breath again. "But if you can convince a priest to reveal a thirty-year-old confession, I'll swim all the way back to Southampton."
Another long, screeching turn, the car hanging practically over the edge of a chasm.
This time, D'Agosta almost had to pry his fingers from the dashboard. "Do you think we might slow down?"
"I don't think so." And Pendergast nodded over his shoulder.
The car made another semi controlled skid around a corner, and as D'Agosta fell against the passenger window he got a terrifying glimpse back down the mountainside. About three switchbacks below he could see a motorcycle, black and chrome, its angular chassis exposed and gleaming. It was approaching fast.
"There's a motorcycle on our tail!" he said.
Pendergast nodded. "A Ducati Monster, S4R model, if I'm not mistaken. A four-valve twin, well over a hundred horsepower, light but very powerful."
D'Agosta glanced back again. The rider was dressed in red leather, wearing a helmet with a smoked visor.
"The man from the plaza?" he asked.
"Either him or somebody allied with him."
"He's after us?"
"No. He's after the priest."
"We sure as hell can't outrun him."
"We can slow him down. Get out your weapon."
"And do what?"
"I'll leave that to your discretion."
Now D'Agosta could hear the high-pitched whine of an engine in high gear, approaching from behind. They tore around another corner, scattering clouds of dust as the Fiat slewed, first right, then left. But already the motorcycle was biting into the same corner, leaning at an incredible angle, almost pegging the road. The rider straightened quickly and began closing the gap, preparing to pass.
"Hang on, Vincent."
The car swerved into the left lane just as the motorcycle came alongside, then swerved back with a shriek of rubber, cutting him off. D'Agosta looked back and saw the motorcyclist dropping back, preparing to make another run past them.
"He's coming on the right!" he shouted.
At the last minute, Pendergast jerked the car to the left again, correctly anticipating a feint; there was a screech of tires behind them as the motorcyclist dumped his rear brake and the bike rose in a reverse wheelie. The rider straightened, recovered. D'Agosta saw him reach into his jacket.
"He's got a gun!"
D'Agosta planted himself against the passenger door and waited, his own weapon at the ready. He doubted that a man on a motorcycle, going eighty miles an hour on a winding mountain road, could fire with any accuracy-but he wasn't going to take any chances.
With a burst of speed, the motorcycle closed again, the gun leveling, steadying. D'Agosta aimed his weapon.
"Wait until he fires," Pendergast murmured.
There was a bang and a blue puff, instantly whisked away; a simultaneous thump; and the back window went abruptly opaque, a web of cracks running away from a perfect 9mm hole. An instant later Pendergast braked with terrifying suddenness, throwing D'Agosta forward against the seat belt, then swerved and accelerated again.
D'Agosta unbuckled the seat belt, jumped into the backseat, kicked away the sagging rear window, steadied his gun, and fired. The cyclist swerved and dropped back behind a curve, kicking his way down through the gears.
"The bastard-!"
The car slid into the next corner, fishtailing on loose gravel and sliding perilously close to the cliff edge. D'Agosta knelt in the rear seat, hardly daring to breathe, aiming through the ruined window, ready to fire as soon as the motorcycle reappeared. As they ripped around another hillside, he saw the Ducati flash into view about a hundred yards back.
Pendergast downshifted, the engine screaming with the effort, the rpm needle redlining. The car went into another long, sickening turn.
As they accelerated out of the curve, the road emerged onto a shoulder of a mountain, heading straight through a long, dark forest of pine trees, tunneling into shade. A sign flashed past: Chiusi della Verna 13km. Keeping watch on their rear, D'Agosta could see a whirlwind of dancing pine needles thrown up by their passage.
. ....And there came the Ducati, swinging around the curve. D'Agosta aimed but it was an impossible shot, two hundred yards back from a moving car. He sat, awaiting his chance.
With a piercing whine, the motorcycle came surging forward, screaming into fifth, then sixth gear, approaching at ever-increasing speed. The man had put away his gun, and both his gloved hands were on the handlebars, his head lowered.
"He's going to try another run past us."
"No doubt." Pendergast stayed in the center of the road, accelerator floored.
But the car was no match for the Ducati. It came straight up behind them, accelerating all the way. The thing must top out at a hundred and eighty , D'Agosta thought. He knew it would try to turn and dart past them at the last moment, and there would be no way for Pendergast to guess if the rider would veer to the right or the left. He steadied his gun. He had vastly improved his shooting from many sessions at the 27th Precinct range, but with the vibration, the motion of the car, the motion of the bike-it was going to be tough. The bike was going at least twice their speed now, coming up on them fast . ...
D'Agosta squeezed off a shot, aiming low at the machine, and missed.
The car made a violent motion to the right as the bike came blasting past on the left-dual silencers flashing, rider leaning so far forward he seemed draped over the front fork-and was gone around the next curve.
"I lost that coin toss," Pendergast said dryly.
They were now approaching the curve themselves, their speed beyond any possibility of controlling the turn. Pendergast braked hard while simultaneously jamming on the gas pedal and twisting the wheel left. The car spun violently around, twice, perhaps three times-D'Agosta was too shaken to be sure-before coming to rest on the very edge of the cliff.
They paused just a moment, the acrid smell of burned brake pads wafting over the car.
"Fiat, for all its troubles, still knows how to make a decent vehicle," said Pendergast.
"Eurocar isn't going to like this," D'Agosta replied.
Pendergast jammed on the gas, and the car screeched back onto the road, accelerating into the next turn.
They tore through the fir forest once again before mounting another series of steep switchbacks, worse than the last. D'Agosta felt his stomach begin to rise uncomfortably. He allowed himself a single glance out over the edge. Far below-very, very far below-he could see the Casentino Valley, dotted with fields and villages. He looked quickly away.
Turn after turn they mounted, Pendergast driving in grim silence. D'Agosta reloaded and checked his gun: it beat looking out the window. Suddenly houses flashed past, and they whipped through the town of Chiusi della Verna, Pendergast leaning on the horn, pedestrians jumping into the doorway of a shop in terror as the car blasted by, clipping the side-view mirror from a parked van and sending it bouncing and rolling down the street. Just past town was another faded sign: Santuario della Verna 6km.
The road climbed steadily through a steep forest, one brutally sharp turn after another. And then suddenly they emerged from the trees into a meadow, and there-directly ahead but still a thousand feet above them-stood the monastery of La Verna: a great tangle of ancient stone, perched on a crag that seemed to hang over open space. It was windowless, so old and vast and scarred by time it looked a part of the cliff face itself. Despite everything, D'Agosta felt a chill go down his spine; he knew from Sunday school that this was perhaps the holiest Christian monastery in the world, built in 1224 by St. Francis himself.