p&c.brimstone-第47章

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ulas。　In　a　sudden　blind　rage；　Bullard　raised　his　arm　and　swept　the　nose　cones　from　the　table。　Then　he　turned　back　and；　without　a　word；　continued　down　the　corridor。　
　They　came　to　a　third　door；　thicker　and　smaller　than　the　others；　made　of　stainless　steel　and　brass。　
　There　was　a　shout　from　behind。　Everyone　turned。　
　An　elegantly　dressed　man　was　striding　toward　them；　his　face　white　with　anger。　〃Stop；〃　he　said。　〃Io　domando　una　spiegazione；　Signor　Bullard；　anche　da　Lei。I　demand　an　explanation；　even　from　you。〃　The　man　blocked　their　way；　half　the　size　of　Bullard；　almost　noble　in　his　outraged　dignity。　
　There　was　a　flash　of　movement；　a　grunt；　and　the　man　sank　to　the　ground；　punched　in　the　gut。　He　clutched　his　midriff；　groaning；　and　Bullard　gave　him　a　vicious　kick　with　the　toe　of　his　shoe；　so　hard　the　snapping　of　the　ribs　was　audible　to　all。　The　man　gasped　and　rolled　in　agony。　
　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　ing？〃　
　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　being　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　bat　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　forgottenthat　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。　
　〃Acmodations　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　apermesso　di　soggiorno　；　a　firearm　permit；　an　investigative　authorization　from　the　Questura；　yourcodice　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　e　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。〃　
　The　valet　made　no　move　toward　the　table；　saying　instead；　〃Where　shall　I　put　it？〃　in　English。　D'Agosta　glanced　at　Pendergast　and　saw　a　twinkle　of　amusement　in　his　eye。　
　〃O'　tavule；〃he　answered　more　brusquely。　
　The　man　stood　there　with　the　fruit　in　his　hand；　looking　from　the　table　to　the　desk；　finally　placing　it　on　the　desk。　D'Agosta　felt　a　surge　of　irritation　at　his　willful　inprehension…hadn't　he　given　the　man　a　big　enough　tip？　Words　he　had　so　often　heard　from　his　father　flowed　unbidden　off　his　lips。〃Allòra　qual'è　ò　problema'；　sì　surdo？　Nun　mi　capisc'i？　Ma　che　è　parl'　ò　francèse'？　Mannaggi'　'a　miseria'。〃　
　The　man　backed　out　of　the　room　in　confusion。　D'Agosta　turned　to　Pendergast；　to　find　the　agent　making　a　rare　and　unsuccessful　attempt　to　suppress　an　effervescence　of　mirth。　
　〃What's　so　funny？〃　D'Agosta　said。　
　Pendergast　managed　to　pose　his　features。　〃Vincent；　I　didn't　know　you　had　such　a　flair　for　languages。〃　
　〃Italian　was　my　first　language。〃　
　〃Italian？　Do　you　speak　Italian；　too？〃　
　〃What　do　you　mean；too　？　What　the　hell　do　you　think　I　was　speaking？〃　
　〃It　sounded　remarkably　to　me　like　Neapolitan；　which　is　often　called　a　dialect　of　Italian　but　is　actually　a　separate　language。　A　fascinating　language；　too；　but；　of　course；　inprehensible　to　a　Florentine。〃　
　D'Agosta　froze。　Neapolitandialect　？　The　thought　had　never　occurred　to　him。　Sure；　there　were　families　that　spoke　the　Sicilian　dialect　where　he　grew　up　in　New　York；　but　he'd　just　assumed　his　own　language　was　real　Italian。　Neapolitan？　No　way。　He　spokeItalian　。　
　Pendergast；　noticing　the　look　on　D'Agosta's　face；　continued。　〃When　Italy　was　united　in　1871；　there　were　six　hundred　dialects。　A　debate　began　to　rage　as　to　what　language　the　new　country　should　speak。　The　Romans　thought　their　dialect　was　the　best；　because；　after　all；　they　wereRome　。　The　Perugians　thought　theirs　was　the　purest；　because　that's　where　the　oldest　university　in　Europe　was。　The　Florentines　felt　theirs　was　correct；　because　theirs　was　the　language　of　Dante。〃　He　smiled　again。　〃Dante　won。〃　
　〃I　never　knew　that。〃　
　〃But　people　continued　to　speak　their　dialects。　Even　when　your　parents　emigrated；　only　a　small　portion　of　the　citizenry　spoke　official　Italian。　It　wasn't　until　the　arrival　of　television　that　Italians　began　abandoning　their　dialects　and　speaking　the　same　language。　What　you　consider　'Italian'　is　actually　the　dialect　of　Naples；　a　rich　but　sadly　dying　language；　with　hints　of　Spanish　and　French。〃　
　D'Agosta　was　stunned。　
　〃Who　knows？　Perhaps　our　researches　will　take　us　south；　where　you　can　shine。　But　for　now；　seeing　as　how　it　is　getting　on　toward　dinnertime；　shall　we　head　out　for　a　bite　to　eat？　I　know　a　wonderful　littleosteria　in　Piazza　Santo　Spirito；　where　there　is　also　a　curious　fountain　I　believe　might　be　of　interest　to　our　investigation。〃　
　Five　minutes　later　they　were　walking　through　the　crooked　medieval　streets　of　Florence；　which　led　them　to　a　broad；　spacious　piazza；　sh