p&c.brimstone-第57部分

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ore　modern　than　the　first：　attached　to　a　sophisticated　double　perimeter　of　blastproof　chain…link；　topped　with　glittering　coils　of　concertina；　and　surrounded　by　a　wide　motion…sensor　field。　
　Again　the　limousine　was　inspected；　this　time　much　more　thoroughly；　before　the　gate　opened　electronically　on　well…oiled　hinges。　
　And　now　a　shocking　contrast　met　the　eye。　Beyond　one　last　ruined　facade…drowning　in　vegetation…lay　a　manicured　lawn；　sweeping　up　to　a　gleaming　building　dressed　in　titanium　and　glass；　an　architectural　masterpiece　hidden　among　the　ruins。　It　was　framed　by　shrubbery　that　had　been　trimmed　and　shaped　to　perfection。　An　automatic　sprinkler　system　cast　an　arc　of　water　that　glittered　rainbows　in　the　strong　Florentine　sunlight。　
　In　front　of　the　building　stood　three　men。　As　the　black　car　pulled　up；　one　of　them；　clearly　agitated　but　making　a　strong　effort　to　suppress　it；　came　over　and　opened　the　door。　
　〃Bentornato；　Signor　Bullard；〃he　said。　
　Bullard　got　out；　his　enormous　frame　swelling　as　he　stood　up。　Ignoring　the　proffered　hands；　he　arched　his　back；　stretched　his　arms。　He　seemed　to　be　looking　over　the　heads　of　the　men　as　if　they　didn't　exist。　His　massive；　ugly；　knotted　face　was　an　impenetrable　mask。　
　〃We　should　be　pleased　if　you　could　lunch　with　us；　sir；　before…〃　
　〃Where　is　it？〃　Bullard　cut　him　off。　
　There　was　a　dismayed　silence。　〃This　way。〃　
　The　small　group　turned；　and　Bullard　followed　them　down　the　limestone　walkway　into　the　cool　interior　of　the　building。　They　passed　down　a　corridor　through　two　sets　of　automatic　doors；　each　requiring　a　retinal　scan　from　the　leader　of　the　group。　
　At　one　point；　Bullard　stopped　and　looked　into　a　room　leading　off　the　corridor。　The　others　paused　expectantly。　The　room　was　a　laboratory；　full　of　equipment　and　whiteboards　covered　with　formulas。　
　He　stepped　into　the　room；　glanced　at　a　nearby　table　covered　with　what　appeared　to　be　aircraft　nose　cones。　Each　was　painted　a　different　color；　and　a　pin　was　stuck　into　each；　bearing　a　label　of　notes　and　chemical　formulas。　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　bri