Текст книги "Brimstone"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Douglas Preston,Lincoln Child
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Текущая страница: 22 (всего у книги 38 страниц)

{ 53 }

 

D'Agosta lay motionless, hardly daring to breathe, while the beam of the spotlight lanced through the leaves and vines. The voices were even closer now, and he could make out what the men were saying. They were American. There were two of them, it seemed, and they were walking slowly along the inner perimeter of the fence. He felt a sudden, almost irresistible desire to look up. But then the brilliant beam landed square on his back, and he went still as death. The beam lingered, unmoving. The men had stopped. There was a scratching sound, the flaring of a match, followed by the faint smell of cigarette smoke.

". ....real bastard," came one of the voices. "If it weren't for the money, I'd go back to Brooklyn."

"The way things are going, we might all be heading back," replied the other.

"The fucker's gone crazy."

A grunt of assent.

"They say he lives in a villa once owned by Machiavelli."

"Who?"

"Machiavelli."

"He's that new tight end for the Rams, right?"

"Forget it." The light abruptly swiveled away, leaving sudden darkness in its wake. It was a handheld torch, D'Agosta realized, carried by one of the men.

The cigarette arced through the darkness, landing near D'Agosta's left thigh, and the men continued on.

Several minutes passed. Then, abruptly, Pendergast was at his side.

"Vincent," he whispered, "the security here is considerably more sophisticated than I had hoped. This is a system designed not just to thwart corporate espionage, but to keep out the CIA itself. We can't hope to get inside with the tools at hand. We must retreat and plan another avenue of attack."

"Such as?"

"I have developed a sudden interest in Machiavelli."

"I hear you."

They crept back the way they had come, through the groaning, ruined building. The trip seemed longer than before. When they were halfway through, Pendergast paused. "Nasty odor," he murmured.

D'Agosta smelled it, too. The wind had shifted, and the scent of decay reached them from a far room. Pendergast opened a shutter on the flashlight, allowing a faint illumination. The greenish light disclosed what had once been a small laboratory, its roof caved in. Below, several heavy beams lay crisscrossed on the ground, and-protruding from them-a rotting, partly skeletonized head of a boar, its tusks broken off into stubs.

"Booby trap?" whispered D'Agosta.

Pendergast nodded. "Designed as an unstable, rotting building." He let the shaft of green light fall here and there, finally pausing on a doorsill. "There's the trigger. Step on that and you bring down the works."

D'Agosta shivered, thinking how he'd blithely crossed this very threshold not ten minutes before.

They passed carefully through the rest of the building, warning creaks of wood sounding occasionally over their heads. Beyond lay the broad field. It looked to D'Agosta like a lake of blackness. Pendergast lit another cigarette, then knelt and moved forward cautiously, blowing smoke before him once again, until the first laser beam became visible, pencil-thin and glowing dully. Pendergast nodded over his shoulder, and they returned to the laborious work of crawling through the field, keeping under the beams.

This time the process seemed interminable. When D'Agosta finally allowed himself a glance ahead, he was shocked to find they had only reached the middle of the field.

Just then there was a sudden commotion in the grass ahead of them. A family of hares burst into view, startled, leaping in several directions at once and bounding off into the blackness.

Pendergast paused, took in another lungful of smoke, and blew it at the spot where the rabbits had been. A crisscrossing of laser beams became visible.

"Nasty bit of luck," he said.

"Triggered the beam?"

"I'm afraid so."

"What do we do now?"

"We run."

Pendergast leaped up and flew like a bat across the field. D'Agosta rose and began to follow, doing his best to keep up with the agent.

Instead of heading back the way they had come, Pendergast was making for the woods to their left. As they approached the trees, D'Agosta heard distant shouts and the starting of car engines. A moment later, several pairs of headlights came sawing across the meadow, trailed by the much more brilliant beam of a mounted spotlight, as a pair of military-style jeeps came tearing around the ruined buildings.

Pendergast and D'Agosta crashed into the dense undergrowth of the woods, clawing through brambles and heavy brush. After a hundred yards, Pendergast took a sharp turn and continued at a right angle to their previous course, the haversack bouncing wildly on his shoulder. D'Agosta followed, heart hammering in his ears.

Pendergast took another sharp turn and they plunged on. Suddenly they emerged onto an old road filled with waist-high grass. They pushed through it, D'Agosta struggling to keep Pendergast in sight. Already he was growing winded, but fear and adrenaline spurred him on.

A powerful beam lanced down the length of the road and they dived to the ground. Once it swept past, Pendergast was up and running again, this time into another copse at the far end of the abandoned road. More beams flickered through the trees, farther away, and voices floated toward them over the sullen air.

Inside the copse, Pendergast stopped to pull out his map and scan it with the green flashlight while D'Agosta caught up. Then they continued on, this time along a gentle rise. The woods grew thicker, and it seemed they had managed to put space between themselves and their pursuers. For the first time, D'Agosta allowed himself to hope they might escape, after all.

The trees thinned and D'Agosta saw a scattering of starlight. And then suddenly rising before them was an immensity of black-a wall, twenty feet high, all rotten bricks, dangling vegetation, and vines.

"This isn't on the map," said Pendergast. "Another blast wall-a late addition, it seems."

He glanced in either direction. Through the trees below, D'Agosta could see the flicker of flashlights. Pendergast turned and ran along the base of the wall. It curved along the top of a gentle ridge, its overgrown rim outlined against the night sky.

Ahead, where the wall descended, D'Agosta could see dancing lights through the vegetation.

"We climb," said Pendergast.

He turned, seized a root, pulled himself up. D'Agosta did likewise. He grabbed a stem, another, found a foothold. In his haste, one of the plants tore out of the wall, sending down a shower of rotting brick. D'Agosta dangled, recovered. He could see Pendergast already far above him, climbing like a cat. The lights below were coming up the hill, while another group to their right was also closing in.

"Faster!" Pendergast hissed.

D'Agosta seized a vine, another, slipping, scrambling, one leg scrabbling in space.

He now heard a cacophony of voices behind him. Pendergast was just reaching the top of the wall. There was a shot and the thud of the bullet on the wall to his right. One more hoist up, one more foothold.

Two more shots. Pendergast was reaching down, grabbing him by the arms, hauling him to the top. The lights had now reached the open area just before the wall, bobbing frantically, flashing up on the wall and hitting them.

"Down!"

D'Agosta was already throwing himself down on the crumbling, overgrown top of the massive wall. It was at least ten feet from side to side.

"Crawl."

Digging in his elbows and knees, he began to crawl across the top of the wall, keeping cover in the vegetation. There was a burst of automatic-weapons fire, the rounds snicking through the bush above, showering him with twigs and leaves.

They reached the other side-only to see more men there, arriving with dogs: silent dogs held on leashes. D'Agosta ducked back and rolled from the edge as more shots raked the bushes to one side of him.

"Jesus!" He lay on his back for a moment, staring at the unmoving stars.

The sudden baying of dogs reached his ears. The dogs had been released.

Now there were voices on either side, a babel of Italian and English. Powerful lights passed overhead, shone from below. D'Agosta could hear the rustle and scramble of climbing.

Pendergast was suddenly at his ear. "We stand up and run. Stay in the middle of the wall and run at a crouch."

"They'll shoot us."

"They're going to kill us, anyway."

D'Agosta stood, began to run-not exactly run, but push and crash through the heavy vegetation growing out of what must have once been a walkway at the top.

Lights raked the top of the wall, and a burst of gunfire sounded. And a voice: "Non sparate!"

"Keep running!" Pendergast cried.

But it was too late. There, in front of them on the wall, dark figures were mounting, blocking the way. Lights shone in their direction. D'Agosta and Pendergast dove to the rubble, flattening themselves.

"Non sparate!" someone shouted again. "Do not shoot!"

From behind, D'Agosta saw that a second group had surmounted the wall. They were surrounded. D'Agosta lay huddled in a pool of brilliant light, feeling exposed, naked.

"Eccoli!  There they are!"

"Hold your fire!"

And then a voice-quiet and reasonable-said:

"You may both stand up now and surrender. Or we will kill you. Your choice."

{ 54 }

 

Locke Bullard stared across the table at the two men shackled to the wall. Two sons of bitches dressed in black special-ops outfits. They were Americans, that much was clear; probably CIA.

He turned to his security chief. "Wipe the paint off their faces. Let's see who they are."

The man pulled out a handkerchief and brusquely wiped off the paint.

Bullard could hardly believe his eyes. They were the two people he least expected: the police sergeant from Long Island and Pendergast, the FBI special agent. Immediately, he realized Vasquez had failed. Or more likely, run off with the money. Unbelievable. Yet even without Vasquez, it stunned Bullard to think these two had somehow followed him to Italy and managed to break through several layers of security at the lab. He kept underestimating them, again and again. He had to get out of that habit. These two were formidable. And that's exactly what he didn't need. He had something a lot more important to do than mess around with these two.

He turned to the security director. "What happened?"

"They penetrated outer security at the old railroad grade, made it as far as the second ring. They tripped the laser grid at the inner field."

"You found out what they're after? What they heard?"

"They heard nothing, sir. They got nothing."

"You sure they never made it past the second ring?"

"Absolutely, sir."

"Any comm devices on them?"

"No, sir. And none dropped. They came in deaf and dumb."

Bullard nodded, his shock slowly giving way to rage. These two had insulted him. They’d damaged him.

He cast his eye toward the fat one, who-as it happened-didn't look quite so fat anymore. "Hey, D'Agosta, you shed a few pounds? How's the hard-on problem?"

No answer. The fuck was looking at him with hatred. Good. Let him hate.

"And the not-so-special agent. If that's what you really are. Want to tell me what you're doing here?"

No response.

"Didn't get jack shit, did you?"

This was a waste of time. They hadn't penetrated the second, let alone the third, ring of security, which meant they couldn't have learned anything of value. Best thing now was to get rid of them. Sure, the feds would be all over the place tomorrow, but this was Italy, and he had friends in the Questura. He had five hundred acres in which to hide the bodies. They wouldn't find shit.

One hand was in his trouser pocket, rolling around some euros. The hand fell on his pocketknife. He removed it, opened the nail file, began idly cleaning his nails. Without looking up, he asked: "Wife still doing the RV salesman, D'Agosta?"

"You're a Johnny-one-note, you know that, Bullard? Makes me think you've had some problems along those lines yourself."

Bullard felt a surge of rage, which he quickly mastered. He was going to kill them, but first D'Agosta was going to pay a little. He continued with his nails.

"Your hit man fucked up," D'Agosta went on. "Too bad, him going the cyanide highway before he could implicate you. We'll still see you get stuck with a conspiracy rap, though. You'll do hard time. Hear me, Bullard? And once you're safely in the Big House, I'll personally make sure somebody makes you his number one bitch. Oh, you'll make some skinhead a nice punk, Bullard."

It was only through long practice that Bullard managed to keep his composure. So Vasquez hadn't run off with the money. He'd taken the job and failed. Somehow, he'd failed.

He reminded himself it hardly mattered now.

He examined his work, closed the nail file, opened the long blade. He kept it razor-sharp for occasions just like this one. Who knew: he might even get some information.

He turned to one of his assistants. "Put his right hand on the table."

While one guard grabbed D'Agosta's face in a meaty paw and slammed it back against the wall, the other unmanacled one hand, jerked it forward, and pinned it to the table. The cop struggled briefly.

Bullard eyed the class ring on the hand. Some shitty P.S. in Queens, probably. "Play the piano, D'Agosta?"

No answer.

He swiped the knife down across D'Agosta's right middle fingernail, splitting the tip of the finger.

D'Agosta jerked, gasped, pulling his finger free. Blood welled out from the wound: slowly at first, then faster. The man struggled wildly, but the guards regained a lock on him. Slowly, they forced the hand back into position against the table.

Bullard felt a flush of excitement.

"Son of a bitch !" D'Agosta groaned.

"You know what?" Bullard said. "I like this. I could do this all night."

D'Agosta struggled against the guards.

"You're CIA, aren't you?"

D'Agosta groaned again.

"Answer me."

"No, for chrissakes."

"You." He turned to Pendergast. "CIA? Answer me. Yes or no?"

"No. And you're making an even larger mistake than you made earlier."

"Sure I am." Why was he bothering? And what difference did it make? These were the bastards who had humiliated him in front of the whole city. He felt rage seize him again, and-more carefully now-he took the knife and sliced it hard across the table, taking the tip off D'Agosta's already damaged finger.

"Fuck!" D'Agosta screamed. "You bastard !"

Bullard stepped back, breathing hard. His palms were sweating; he wiped them on the sleeve of his jacket, took a fresh grip on the knife. Then he caught sight of the wall clock. It was already close to two. He couldn't let himself get caught up in a minor distraction. He had something more important to do before dawn. Something much, much more important.

He turned back to his security chief. "Kill them. Then get rid of the bodies. Dump their weapons with them. Do it over at the old shafts. I don't want any forensics left on the premises, especially not around the lab. You know what I mean: hair, blood, anything with DNA. Don't even let them spit."

"Yes, sir."

"You-," began Pendergast, but Bullard spun around and landed a massive uppercut in his stomach. Pendergast doubled over.

"Gag them. Gag them both."

The security men rammed balls of cloth into their mouths, then bound them tightly with duct tape.

"Blindfold them, too."

"Yes, Mr. Bullard."

Bullard looked at D'Agosta. "Remember how I promised to pay you back? Now your finger's as short as your dick."

D'Agosta struggled, making inarticulate sounds as the blindfold went on.

Bullard turned to his assistant, nodded at the table. "Clean up that mess. And then get the hell out of here."

{ 55 }

 

Gagged and blindfolded, hands cuffed behind his back, D'Agosta was herded along by one of the two security men. He could hear the chink of Pendergast's shackles beside him. They were moving through what seemed a long, damp underground passageway: the air stank of fungus, and he could feel the chill humidity soaking into his clothes. Or maybe it was his own sweat. His middle finger felt like it had been dipped in molten lead. It was pulsing in time to his heartbeat, the blood running freely down the small of his back.

There was something unreal about the whole situation. At any other time, the thought he'd just lost the end of a finger would be all-consuming. Yet right now only the pain itself registered. Everything had happened so quickly. Just hours before, he'd been relaxing in a luxurious suite. Just a few hours before, he'd been almost tearful at seeing his own native land at long last. And now here he was-a dirty cloth stuffed in his mouth, his eyes blindfolded, arms bound, being led to an execution-style death.

He couldn't really believe he was about to die. And yet that was exactly what was going to happen unless either he or Pendergast could think of something. But they had been thoroughly searched. And Pendergast's most powerful weapon-his tongue-had been silenced. It seemed impossible, unthinkable. And yet the fact was he had only minutes left to live.

He tried to force the sense of unreality away; tried to forget the searing pain; struggled to think of some last-minute escape, some way to turn the tables on the two men that were so matter-of-factly leading them off to their deaths. But there was nothing in his training, nothing even in the detective books he'd read or written, to give him a clue.

They paused, and D'Agosta heard the groan of rusty metal being forced open. Then he was shoved forward, and the trilling of crickets and the humid night air hit his nostrils. They were outside.

He was prodded forward by what was undoubtedly the barrel of a gun. Now they were walking on what felt through the soft shoes like a grassy trail. He could hear the rustling of leaves above his head. Such small, insignificant sensations-and yet they had suddenly grown unbearably precious to him.

"Christ," said one of the men. "This dew is going to ruin my shoes. I just paid two hundred euros for them, handmade over in Panzano."

The other chuckled. "Good luck getting another pair. That old geezer makes like one pair a month."

"We always get the shit jobs." As if to underscore this, the man gave D'Agosta another shove. "They're soaked through already, goddamn it."

D'Agosta found his thoughts stealing toward Laura Hayward. Would she shed a tear for him? It was strange, but the one thing he most wanted right now was to be able to tell her how he went out. He thought that would make it easier to bear, easier than just vanishing, than never knowing .

"A little shoe polish and they'll be like new."

"Once leather gets wet it's never the same."

"You and your fucking shoes."

"If you paid two hundred euros, you'd be pissed, too."

D'Agosta's sense of unreality grew. He tried to embrace the throbbing pain in his finger, because as long as he could feel that, he knew he was still alive. What he feared was when the pain ended .

Just a few more minutes now. He took a step forward, another, then stumbled against something in the grass.

A slap to the side of the head. "Watch your step, asshole."

The air had grown cooler, and there was a smell of earth and decaying leaves. He felt a terrible helplessness. The gag and blindfold robbed him of all ability to make eye contact with Pendergast, to signal, to do anything.

"The trail to the old quarry goes that way."

There was a rustling, then a grunt. "Jesus, it's overgrown in here."

"Yeah, and watch where you put your feet."

D'Agosta felt himself shoved forward once again. Now they were pushing through wet foliage.

"It's right up ahead. There's a lot of stones near the edge, don't trip." A guffaw. "It's a long way down."

More pushing through bushes and wet grass. Then D'Agosta felt himself brusquely halted

"Another twenty feet," his man said.

Silence. D'Agosta caught a whiff of something wet and cold-the exhalation of stale air from a deep mine shaft.

"One at a time. We don't want to fuck this up. You go first. I'll wait here with this one. And hurry up, I'm getting bitten already."

D'Agosta heard Pendergast being pushed forward, heard the swish of wet footsteps through the undergrowth ahead. The first man had a tight hold on his cuffs, a gun barrel pushed hard into his ear. He should do something, he had to do something. But what? The slightest move and he was dead. He couldn't believe what was happening. His mind refused to accept it. He realized that, deep down, he'd been certain Pendergast would manage to do something miraculous, pull another rabbit out of his hat. But the time for that was past. What could Pendergast do: gagged, blindfolded, a gun to his head, standing at the edge of a precipice? The last small bit of hope drained away.

"That's far enough," came the voice from about thirty feet away, slightly muffled by the foliage. It was the second man, speaking to Pendergast. D'Agosta caught another whiff of cold air from the mine shaft. Insects whined in his ear. His finger throbbed.

It really was over.

He heard the sound of a round being racked into a pistol chamber.

"Make your peace with God, scumbag."

A pause. And then the sound of a gunshot, incredibly loud. Another pause-and then from far below, echoing up the shaft in a distorted way, the sound of a heavy object hitting water.

There was a longer silence, and then the man's voice came back, a little breathless. "Okay. Bring up the other one."