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ans 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； shaded by horse chestnut trees and shut in on three sides by lovely Renaissance buildings stuccoed in hues of ivory； yellow； and ocher。 Dominating the end closest to the river was the plain facade of the Chiesa di Santo Spirito； severe in its simplicity。 An old marble fountain splashed merrily in the center of the piazza。 Students with backpacks clustered around it； smoking cigarettes and chatting。
Pendergast casually removed Beckmann's photograph from his pocket； held it up toward the fountain； and then slowly circled the piazza until the background matched。 He stared for a long moment。 Then he put the photo away。
〃That's where the four of them stood； Vincent；〃 he said； pointing。 〃And there； behind； is the Palazzo Guadagni； now managed as a studentpensione 。 We shall inquire there tomorrow to see if they remember any of our friends； although I do not hold out much hope。 But let us dine。 I find myself in the mood for linguini with white truffles。〃
〃I could really do with a cheeseburger and fries。〃
Pendergast turned to him； a stricken look on his face。 D'Agosta smiled back crookedly。 〃Just kidding。〃
They strolled across the piazza toward a small restaurant； the Osteria Santo Spirito。 Tables had been set up outside； and people were eating and drinking wine； their lively conversation floating into the piazza。
Pendergast waited until they were shown to a table； then gestured for D'Agosta to sit。 〃I must say； Vincent； you are looking fitter these days。〃
〃Been working out。 And after that jaunt in Riverside Park； I've also been brushing up at the shooting range。〃
〃Your firearm skills are the stuff of legend。 That just might e in handy for the little adventure we'll be having tomorrow night。〃
〃Adventure？〃 D'Agosta was tired； but jet lag only seemed to energize Pendergast。
〃We are going to Signa to visit Bullard's secret laboratory。 While you were unwinding in your hotel room this afternoon； I was speaking with various Florentine officials； trying to procure the files on Bullard and BAI's doings here。 But even Fosco's influence got me nowhere。 It seems Bullard is well connected with the right people…or at least knows where to spend his money。 All I was able to procure was a long…outdated map of his plant site。 In any case； it's clear we're not going to get anywhere through regular channels。〃
〃I take it he doesn't know we're ing。〃
〃Our visit will be in the manner of an insertion。 We can get the gear we need tomorrow morning。〃
D'Agosta nodded slowly。 〃Could be exciting。〃
〃Let us hope nottoo exciting。 As I get older； Vincent； I have e to prefer a quiet evening at home to a bracing exchange of gunfire in the dark。〃
51
Bryce Harriman walked north along Fifth Avenue； threading hisway through the crowds with practiced ease； his mind on the devil killings。 Ritts was right： the Von Menck piece had really touched a nerve in the city。 He'd been flooded with calls。 Mostly from cranks； of course…this was thePost ； after all…but still he couldn't recall a bigger reaction to a story。 The whole business of the golden ratio and the way everything fitted so neatly with the historic dates； the aura of mathematics…for an ignorant person； it had all the ring of hard scientific fact。 And； Harriman had to admit； itwas a bit uncanny how the dates just happened to fall in line like that。
He passed the Metropolitan Club； glimpsing the marvels of old New York money within。 That washis world in there； or rather； the world of his grandparents。 Although he was approaching the age where he could start expecting the first of several prestigious club invitations （arranged by his father）； he worried that his current position at thePost would be an impediment。 He needed to get back to theTimes ； and fast。
This was the story that could do it。
Ritts loved him…at least as much as that reptile could love anyone。 But a good story was like a fire。 It needed to be fed。 And this one was already guttering。 He sensed Ritts's good favor could fade as quickly as it came； leaving him and his big new raise unfortably exposed。 He needed a development； even if it was manufactured。 That was what he hoped this return visit to Cutforth's building might provide。 His earlier pieces had already swelled the ranks of the Bible…thumpers； devil worshipers； Goths； freaks； satanists； and New Agers who now gathered daily along the fringes of Central Park opposite the building。 There had already been a couple of fistfights； some name…calling； a few visits by New York's finest to break things up。 But it was all disorganized。 All reactions needed a catalyst and this was no exception。
He was nearing 68th Street。 He could already see the gatherings of freaks on the park side of Fifth Avenue； each in its own little clump。 He sidled up to the milling groups； elbowing his way through the ring of rubberneckers。 Nothing much had changed from the last time he was there； except the crowd had swelled。 A satanist in black leather； clutching a Bud； was hurling curses at a New Ager in hemp robes。 There was the smell of beer and pot； not unlike a rock concert。 At the far end； a man in faded jeans and a Black Watch plaid short…sleeved shirt was speaking to a rather large crowd。 Harriman couldn't hear what he was saying； but of all the acts going on in this circus； his seemed to be the biggest。
Harriman peeled out of the group of onlookers and inserted himself back in； much closer to the man。 He was preaching； that much was clear； but he looked normal； and his voice； instead of cracking at the edge of hysteria； sounded calm； educated； and reasonable。 Even as he spoke； the crowd around him was swelling。 A lot of onlookers were attracted by what he was saying； and even some satanists and Goths were listening。
〃This is an amazing city；〃 the man was saying。 〃I've been here just twenty…four hours； but I can already safely say there's nothing else on earth like it。 The tall buildings； the limousines； the beautiful people。 It dazzles the eye； it surely does。 This is my first time in New York City。 And you know what strikes me most； more than the glitter and the glamour？ It's thehurry 。 Look around you； friends。 Look at the pedestrians。 Look how fast they walk； talking into their phones or staring straight ahead。 I've never seen a thing like it。 Look at the people in the taxis and buses as they pass…even when they're not moving； they seem to be in a rush。 And I know what they're all so busy with。 I've been doing a lot of listening since I arrived。 I've probably listened to a thousand conversations already； most of them one…sided； because people on this Manhattan Island seem to prefer talking into cell phones than talking to real people； face…to…face。 What are they busy with？ They're busy withthemselves 。 With tomorrow's big meeting。 With dinner reservations。 With cheating on their spouses。 With backstabbing a business associate。 All sorts of plans and schemes and stratagems； and none of them any more foresighted than； say； next month's trip to Club Med。 How many of all these busy folk are busy thinking thirty； forty years ahead…to their own mortality？ How many of these folks are busy making their peace with God？ Or thinking of the words of Jesus in Luke：Verily I say unto you； This generation shall not pass away； till all be fulfilled ？ Precious few； I'd guess。 If any。〃
Harriman looked more closely at the preacher。 He had sandy hair； neatly cut； a good…looking all…American face； well…developed arms； trim； neat； clean…shaven。 No tattoos or piercings； no metal…studded leather codpiece。 If he had a Bible； it wasn't in evidence。 It was as if he was talking to a group of friends…people he respected。
〃I've done something else since reaching New York；〃 the man went on。 〃I've visited churches。Lots of churches。 I never knew one city； no matter how big； could boast so many churches。 But see； friends； here's the sad thing。 No matter how many people were thronging the streetsoutside ； I found every one of these churches empty。 They're starving。 They're perishing from neglect。 Even St。 Patrick's Cathedral…as beautiful a Christian place as I've ever seen in my born days…had only a sprinkling of worshipers。 Tourists？ Yes； indeed； by the hundreds。 But of the devout？ Less than the fingers on my two hands。
〃And this； my friends； is the saddest thing of all。 To think that…in a place of so much culture； so much learning and sophistication…there can be such a terrible spiritual emptiness。 I feel it all around me like a desert； drying the very marrow of my bones。 I didn't want to believe what I read in the papers； the awful stories that brought me here to this place almost against my will。 But it's true； my brothers and sisters。 Every last word of it。 New York is a city devoted to Mammon； not God。 Look at him；〃 and he pointed to a well…dressed twenty…something passing by in a pinstripe suit； yakking into a phone。 〃When do you suppose was the last time he thought abouthis mortality？ Or her？〃 He pointed to a woman with bags from Henri Bendel and Tiffany's； climbing out of a cab。 〃Or them？〃 His accusing finger aimed at a pair of college students； walking hand in hand down the street。 〃Or you？〃 His finger now swiveled across the crowd。 〃How long sinceyou thought about your own mortality？ It may be a week away； ten years； or fifty…but it's ing。 As sure as my name is Wayne P。 Buck； it's ing。 Are you ready？〃
Harriman shivered involuntarily。 This guy wasgood 。
〃I don't care if you're an investment banker on Wall Street or a migrant worker in Amarillo； death has no prejudice。 Big or small； rich or poor； death will e for us all。 People in the Middle Ages knew that。 Even our own forebears knew that。 Look at old gravestones and what do you see？ The image of winged death。 And like as not the wordsmemento mori ： 'remember； you will die。' Do you think that young fellow ever stops to think about that？ Amazing： all these centuries of progress； and yet we've lost sight of that one fundamental truth that was always；always the first thought of our ancestors。 An old poet； Robert Herrick； put it like this：
〃Our life is short； and our days run
As fast away as does the sun；
And； as a vapour or a drop of rain
Once lost； can ne'er be found again。〃
Harriman swallowed。 His luck was holding。 This guy Buck was a personal gift to him。 The crowd was swelling rapidly； and people were shushing their neighbors so they could hear the man's quiet； persuasive voice。 He didn't need a Bible…Christ； he probably had the whole thing in his head。 And not only the Bible…he was quoting metaphysical poets as well。
He carefully reached over to his shirt pocket and pressed the record button on his microcassette recorder。 He didn't want to miss a word。 Pat Robertson with his Pan…Cake makeup couldn't hold a candle to this guy。
〃That young man isn't stopping to think that every day he spends out of touch with God is a day that can never； ever be reclaimed。 Those two young lovers aren't stopping to think of how their deeds will be held accountable in the afterlife。 That woman loaded with shopping bags most likely never gave a thought to thereal value of life。 Most lik