Текст книги "Brimstone"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Douglas Preston,Lincoln Child
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Текущая страница: 26 (всего у книги 38 страниц)

{ 63 }

 

Captain of Detectives Laura Hayward sat in the orange plastic chair, coffee going cold in its Styrofoam cup. She was acutely aware of being both the youngest person, and the only female, in this room full of high-ranking police officers. The walls of the conference room were painted the usual pale puce. A picture of Rudolph Giuliani decorated one wall, framed together with a picture of the Twin Towers and, below, a list of police officers killed in the attacks. No picture of the current mayor, president of the U.S., or anyone else.

Hayward liked that.

Commissioner of Police Henry Rocker sat at the head of the table, his large hand permanently closed around a huge mug of black coffee, his permanently tired face gazing down the middle of the table. To his right sat Milton Grable, captain of patrol for the precinct in which Cutforth had been murdered and the tent city erected.

Hayward checked her watch. It was 9A.M. sharp.

"Grable?" Rocker said, opening the meeting.

Grable cleared his throat, shuffled some papers. "As you know, Commissioner, this tent city is becoming a problem. A big problem."

The only acknowledgment of this, it seemed to Hayward, was that the dark circles under Rocker's eyes grew darker.

"We got a couple hundred people living across the street from the most exclusive neighborhood in my precinct-the whole city, in fact-and they're trashing the park, pissing in the bushes, shitting everywhere-" His eyes darted to Hayward. "Sorry, ma'am."

"It's all right, Captain," Hayward said crisply. "I'm acquainted with both the term and the bodily function."

"Right."

"Proceed," the commissioner said dryly. Hayward thought she noticed a subtle flicker of amusement in Rocker's tired eyes.

"We're getting calls up the wazoo"-another glance at Hayward-"from important people. You know who I'm referring to, sir. They're demanding, they’re screaming , for something to be done. And they're right. These people in the park have no permit."

Hayward shifted in her chair. Her job was on the Cutforth murder, not listening to some precinct captain talk about permits.

"It isn't a political protest, a question of freedom of speech," Grable went on. "It's a bunch of religious nuts, egged on by this so-called Reverend Buck. Who, by the way, did nine years in Joliet for murder two, shot some clerk over a pack of gum."

"Is that right?" Rocker murmured. "And why not murder one?"

"Plea-bargained it down. The point I'm making, Commissioner, is that we're not dealing with a simple fanatic here. Buck's a dangerous man. And the damn Post is beating the drum, doing all they can to keep things stirred up. It's getting worse by the day."

Hayward knew the facts already, and she half tuned Grable out, her mind turning to D'Agosta and Italy. She realized, with a twinge she didn't fully understand, that he was overdue for a phone update. Now, there was a real cop. And where did it get him? It was guys like Grable who got the promotions-desk jockeys.

"This isn't just a precinct situation. It's a problem for the whole city." Grable laid his hands on the table, palms-up. "I want a SWAT team to go in there and bring this man out before we have a riot on our hands."

When Rocker replied, his voice was gravelly and calm. "And that's just what we're here for, Captain: to figure out a way not to have a riot on our hands."

"Exactly, sir."

Rocker turned to a man sitting at his left. "Wentworth?"

Hayward had no idea who this was. She'd never seen him before, and there were no insignia on his suit to indicate rank. He didn't even look like a cop.

Wentworth turned, eyes half lidded, fingers tented, and took a long, slow breath before answering.

Psychologist, thought Hayward.

"As far as this, ah, Buck fellow is concerned," Wentworth drawled, "he's a common-enough personality type. Without an interview, of course, it's impossible to develop a firm diagnosis. But from what I've observed, he exhibits a marked psychopathology: possibly paranoid schizophrenic, potential for a Messianic complex. There's a good chance he suffers from a delusion of persecution. This is complicated by the fact that the man is prone to violence. I would definitely not recommend sending in a SWAT team." He paused thoughtfully. "The others are simply followers and will respond as Buck responds: with violence or with cooperation. They will follow his lead. The key here is getting Buck out of the picture. I would suggest that the movement will collapse of its own accord once Buck is removed."

"Right," said Grable. "But how do you get him out, if not with a SWAT team?"

"If you threaten a man like Buck, he'll lash out. Violence is the language of last resort for such a man. I would suggest sending an officer or two in there-unarmed, no threatening, preferably female and attractive-to take him out. A gentle and non provocative arrest. Do it quickly, surgically. Within a day, the tent city will be gone, his followers off to the next guru, or Grateful Dead concert, or whatever they were doing before they read those articles in the Post ." Another long exhalation. "That is my considered advice."

Hayward couldn't help rolling her eyes. Buck, a schizophrenic? His speeches, as lovingly quoted in the Post , showed none of the disorganized thought processes you'd expect from schizophrenia.

Rocker, who was about to pass over her, caught her expression. "Hayward? Do you have something to contribute?"

"Thank you, sir. While I agree with some of Mr. Wentworth's analysis of the situation, I disagree with his recommendation, with all due respect."

She found Wentworth's watery eyes on her, clearly pitying her ignorance. Too late, she realized she had called him "Mr." instead of "Dr." A cardinal sin among academics, and his antagonism was palpable. Well, screw him.

"There's no such thing as a nonprovocative arrest," she went on. "Any attempt to go in there and take Buck away by force-even gently-won't work. If he's crazy, then he's crazy like a fox. He'll refuse to come. As soon as the cuffs appear, your two 'preferably female and attractive' cops will find themselves in a nasty situation."

"Commissioner," Grable interrupted, "this man is openly flouting the law. I'm getting a thousand calls a day from businesses and residents on Fifth Avenue-the Sherry Netherland, the Metropolitan Club, the Plaza. The phone lines are jammed. And you can bet that if they're calling me, they're calling the mayor." He paused, letting this sink in.

"I am acutely aware they have been calling the mayor," Rocker said, his voice low and unamused.

"Then you know, sir, that we don't have the luxury of time. We've got to do something. What other options are there besides arresting this man? Does Captain Hayward have a better idea? I'd like to hear it." He leaned back, breathing hard.

Hayward spoke coolly. "Captain Grable, these businesses and residents you mention should not be allowed to push the police into a hasty and ill-considered operation. “In other words, she thought, they can go fuck themselves.

"Easy for you to say from your perch in the detective bureau. These people are in my face every day. If you had solved the Cutforth homicide, we wouldn't have this problem, Captain ."

Hayward nodded, keeping her face neutral. Score one to Grable.

Rocker turned to her. "Speaking of that, how is the investigation proceeding, Captain?"

"There's some new forensic evidence the boys in lab coats are going over. We're still checking the people on Cutforth's call list during his last seventy-two hours. And we're reviewing the security video cams from his apartment lobby, cross-checking them against residents and known visitors. And, of course, the FBI is following up some promising leads in Italy." This was thin, and Hayward knew it sounded that way. The fact was, they didn't have squat.

"So what’s your plan for dealing with this guy Buck?" Grable, sensing he had the upper hand, faced her belligerently.

"I would advise an even less aggressive approach. Don't push it. Don't do anything to provoke things. Instead, send someone in there to talk to Buck. Lay it out for him. He's got hundreds of people there, ruining the park and disturbing the neighborhood. He is a responsible person at heart and will naturally want to do something about that; he'll surely want to send his followers home to shave, shit, and shower. That's how I'd put it. On top of that, I'd offer Buck a deal: if he sends his followers home, we give him a parade permit. Treat him like a rational human being. All carrot, no stick. Then, as soon as they've broken camp, fence the area under the guise of reseeding. And then give them a parade permit for eight o'clock Monday morning for the far corner of Flushing Meadows Park. That will be the last you see of them."

She saw another cynical glimmer in Rocker's eye. She wondered if it indicated agreement with, or amusement at, her suggestion. Rocker had a good rep among the rank and file, but he was notoriously hard to read.

"Treat him like a rational human being?" Grable repeated. "The man's a convicted murderer."

The psychologist chuckled. Hayward glanced at him, and he returned the look. His expression had become even more condescending. She wondered if he knew something she didn't. This was all beginning to look like a foregone conclusion.

"And if your plan doesn't work?" Commissioner Rocker asked her.

"Then I would defer to, ah, Mr. Wentworth."

"That's Doc-," began Wentworth, but he was interrupted by Grable.

"Commissioner, we don't have the time to try first one plan and then another. We need to get Buck out now. Either he comes nicely or in cuffs-his choice. We do it quick, at dawn. He'll be sweating in the back of a squad car even before his followers know he's missing."

Silence. Rocker was looking around the room. There were a couple of men who hadn't spoken. "Gentlemen?"

Nods, murmurs. Everyone, it seemed, agreed with the psychologist and Grable.

"Well," said Rocker, rising. "I have to go along with the consensus. After all, we don't have a psychologist on staff only to ignore his advice." He glanced at Hayward. She couldn't quite read his expression, but she sensed something not unsympathetic in the look.

"We'll go in with a small group, as Wentworth suggests," Rocker continued. "Just two officers. Captain Grable, you'll be the first."

Grable looked at him in surprise.

"It's your precinct, as you took pains to point out. And you're the one advocating quick action."

Grable quickly mastered his surprise. "Of course, sir. Quite right."

"And also as Wentworth suggests, we'll send in a woman." Rocker nodded to Hayward. "That would be you."

The room fell silent. Hayward saw Grable and Wentworth exchanging glances.

But Rocker was still looking directly at her. Keep things rational for me, Hayward , the look seemed to say.

"Buck will appreciate two ranking officers. That should appeal to his sense of importance." Rocker turned. "Grable, you've got seniority and it's your operation. I leave it to you to organize the details and timing. This meeting is adjourned."

{ 64 }

 

The morning after the trip to Cremona was bright and crisp, and D'Agosta squinted against the noonday sun as he accompanied Pendergast back to Piazza Santo Spirito, across the river from their hotel.

"You checked in with Captain Hayward?" Pendergast asked as they walked.

"Just before going to bed."

"Anything of interest?"

"Not really. What few leads they'd been following up on Cutforth all turned into dead ends. The security video cams at his building told them nothing. It's the same with Grove, apparently. And now, all the top New York brass are preoccupied with this preacher who's taken up residence in Central Park."

This time, D'Agosta found the piazza not nearly as quiet as before: its tranquillity was spoiled by a large group of backpackers sitting on the steps of the fountain, smoking pot and passing around a bottle of Brunello wine, talking loudly in half a dozen languages. They were accompanied by at least ten loose dogs.

"Careful where you step, Vincent," murmured Pendergast with a wry smile. "Florence: such a marvelous mixture of high and low." He raised his hand above the piles of dogshit and gestured at the magnificent building which occupied the southeast corner. "For example, the Palazzo Guadagni. One of the finest examples of a Renaissance palace in the entire city. It was constructed in the 1400s, but the Guadagni family goes back several more centuries."

D'Agosta examined the building. The first story was built in rough blocks of dun-colored limestone, while the upper floors were covered in yellow stucco. Most of the top floor was a loggia: a roofed portico supported by stone columns. The structure was restrained but elegant.

"There are various offices and apartments on the second floor, a language school on the third. And the top floor is a pensione , run by a Signora Donatelli. That, without doubt, is where Beckmann and the rest met back in 1974."

"Does this woman own the palazzo?"

"She does. The last descendant of the Guadagni."

"You really think she'll remember a couple of college students who visited three decades ago?"

"One can only try, Vincent."

They picked their way gingerly across the piazza and through an enormous pair of iron-studded wooden doors. A once-grand but now grimy vaulted passageway led to a stairway and a second-floor landing. Here, a shabby piece of cardboard had been hung on the cornice of a faded Baroque fresco. A hand-drawn arrow and the word Reception had been scrawled on the cardboard with a firm hand.

The reception room was incongruously small for such a giant palace: cluttered yet neat as a pin, bisected by a wooden transom, a battered set of wooden mail slots on one side and a rack of keys on the other. The room had only one occupant: a tiny old lady sitting behind an ancient desk. She was dressed with extraordinary elegance, her hair perfectly dyed and coiffed, red lipstick impeccably applied, with what looked like real diamonds draped around her neck and dangling from withered ears.

She rose and Pendergast bowed.

"Molto lieto di conoscer La, signora."

The woman responded crisply, "Il piacere è mio." Then she continued in accented English. "Obviously, you are not here to take a room."

"No," said Pendergast. He removed his ID, offered it to her.

"You are policemen."

"Yes."

"What is it that you want? My time is limited." The voice was sharp and intimidating.

"In the fall of 1974, I believe, several American students stayed here. Here is a picture of them." Pendergast took out Beckmann's photo.

She did not look at it. "Do you have the names?"

"Yes."

"Then come with me." And she turned and walked around the transom, through a back door, and into a much larger room. D'Agosta saw it was an old library of sorts, with bound books, manuscripts, and vellum documents filling shelves from floor to ceiling. It smelled of parchment and dry rot, old leather and wax. The ceiling was coffered and had once been elaborately gilded. Now it was crumbling with age, the wood riddled with holes.

"The archives of the family," she said. "They go back eight centuries."

"You keep good records."

"I keep excellent records, thank you." She made a beeline to a low shelf at the far end of the room, selected a massive register, carried it to a center table. She opened the register, revealing page after page of accounts, payments, names, and dates, written in a fanatical, tiny hand.

"Names?"

"Bullard, Cutforth, Beckmann, and Grove."

She began flipping pages, scanning each with tremendous rapidity, each flip sending up a faint cloud of dust. Suddenly, she stopped.

"There. Grove." A bony finger, burdened with a huge diamond ring, pointed to the name. Then it slid down the rest of the page.

"Beckmann .     Cutforth .     Bullard. Yes, they were all here in October."

Pendergast peered at the register, but even he was clearly having trouble deciphering the minuscule hand.

"Did their visits overlap?"

"Yes." A pause. "According to this, one night only, that of October 31."

She closed the book with a snap. "Anything else, signore ?"

"Yes, signora . Will you do me the courtesy of looking at this photograph?"

"Surely you don't expect me to remember some slovenly American students from thirty years ago? I am ninety-two, sir. I have earned the privilege of forgetting."

"I beg your indulgence."

Sighing with impatience, she took the photograph, looked at it-and visibly started. She stared a long time, what little color there was in her face slowly disappearing. Then she handed the photograph back to Pendergast.

"As it happens," she said in a low tone, "I do remember. That one." She pointed to Beckmann. "Let me see. Something terrible happened. He and some other boys, probably those others in the photograph, went off somewhere together. They were gone all night. He came back and was terribly upset. I had to get a priest for him . ..."

She paused, her voice trailing off. Gone was the crisp confidence, the unshakable sense of self.

"It was the night before All Saints' Day. He came back from a night of carousing, and he was in a bad state. I took him to church."

"What church?"

"The one right here, Santo Spirito. I remember him panicked and begging to go to confession. It was long ago, yet it was such a strange occurrence it stuck in my mind. That, and the expression on the poor boy's face. He was begging for a priest as if his life depended on it."

"And?"

"He went to confession and right afterwards he packed up his belongings and left."

"And the other American students?"

"I don't recall. Every year they celebrate All Saints' Day, or rather the day before, which I believe you call Halloween. It's an excuse to drink."

"Do you know where they went that evening, or who they might have encountered?"

"I know nothing more than what I have told you."

The ring of a bell came from the front office. "I have guests to attend to," she said.

"One last question, signora, if you please," Pendergast said. "The priest who heard the confession-is he still alive?"

"That would have been Father Zenobi. Yes, Father Zenobi. He is now living with the monks of La Verna."

She turned, then paused and slowly glanced back. "But if you think you can persuade him to break the sacred seal of the confessional, sir, you are sadly mistaken."

{ 65 }

 

D'Agosta assumed that, upon leaving the palazzo, they would return directly to their hotel. But instead, Pendergast lingered in the piazza: strolling, hands in his pockets, eyes glancing first left, then right. After a few minutes, he turned to D'Agosta.

"Gelato? Some of the best in Florence, if I am not mistaken, can be found right here at Café Ricchi."

"I've given up on ice cream."

"I haven't. Indulge me."

They entered the café and approached the bar. Pendergast ordered his cone-tiramisu and crème anglaise -while D'Agosta asked for an espresso.

"I didn't know you had a sweet tooth," D'Agosta said as they leaned against the bar.

"I have something of a weakness for gelato. But our main reason for stopping here is to learn his intentions."

"His intentions? Whose intentions?"

"The man who's following us."

D'Agosta straightened up. "What?"

"No-don't look. He's nondescript, mid-thirties, wearing a blue shirt and dark pants. Quite professional."

Pendergast's cone arrived and he took a dainty bite. Then, suddenly, a change came over his face.

"He's just entered the pensione ," he said. Abandoning his gelato, Pendergast dropped a few euros on the counter and strode out of the café, D'Agosta following.

"Are you afraid for the signora ?"

"The signora is perfectly safe. It's the priest for whom I fear."

"The priest-?" Suddenly, D'Agosta understood. "Then we can stop this guy when he leaves the pensione ."

"That would serve no purpose but to embroil us in endless legalities. Our best chance is the monastery itself. Come, Vincent: we haven't a moment to lose."

In twenty minutes, they were driving through the hills northeast of Florence, Pendergast at the wheel of their rented Fiat. Although D'Agosta had done more than his share of high-speed driving-and though Pendergast was clearly an expert-D'Agosta's heart was beating at an uncomfortable rate. The car was squealing around a series of hairpin curves, none of which had guardrails, at a terrifying clip. With each climbing turn, a rising sea of mountains swam into view before them: the great spine of the Apennines.

"I've been aware of surveillance for some time now," Pendergast said. "Since we found Bullard's body, and perhaps even before. At important moments-such as our trip to Cremona-I've managed to keep him at arm's length. I haven't yet confronted our shadower, hoping instead to learn who's behind him. I did not think he would take such a direct approach as he did just now in the piazza. It means we are getting close to the truth. It also means increased danger, for us and for those with crucial information-such as Father Zenobi."

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.

The car blasted back into the forest and the monastery disappeared from view. "Have we got a chance?" D'Agosta asked.

"It depends on how quickly our man finds Father Zenobi. The monastery is a big place. If only they had a phone!"

The car careened around another turn. D'Agosta could hear a bell ringing, the faint sound of chanting floating toward him over the noise of the engine.

"I think the monks are at prayer," he said. He glanced at his watch. It would be the service of Sext: sixth hour of the Opus Dei.

"Yes. Most unfortunate." Pendergast pushed the car around the final bend, wheels slipping on ancient, mossy cobbles instead of asphalt.

The cobbled road-clearly never built to be driven upon-led up behind the monastery. There, at the stone archway leading through the outer wall of the monastery into a massive cloister, D'Agosta saw the Ducati lying on its tubular frame, fat rear wheel still spinning lazily.

Pendergast slewed to a stop and was out, gun drawn, even before the car was completely at rest. D'Agosta followed hard on his heels. They ran past the bike, across a stone bridge, and into the cloisters. A large chapel stood to the right, its doors wide, the vigorous sounds of plainchant rising and falling on the cool breeze. As they ran, the chanting seemed to hesitate, then die away in a ragged confusion.