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g left out。 The stakes were greater than his life…because； it seemed； the consequences would not end with his death。
He paused； preparations almost plete。 It would not be long now。 It would be over and then he could begin again。 There would be； of course； minor loose ends to take care of： the disappearance of Pendergast and D'Agosta； for example； the Chinese and what had happened in Paterson。 But it would be a relief to return to business as usual。 Those problems； as tricky as they were； belonged to the real world； and he could handle them。 They were small potatoes pared tothis 。
He went over the manuscript page again； then yet again； making sure he had missed nothing。 Then； almost against his will； his gaze shifted to the old rectangular box sitting on the table。 Now it was time forthat 。
He reached out； undid the brass latch。 He caressed the polished surface of the box and then…with a terrible reluctance…opened it。 A faint scent of antique wood and horsehair wafted upward。 He breathed it in： this ancient perfume； this priceless scent。 With a trembling hand； he reached into the darkness of the box； stroked the smooth object inside。 He did not dare take it out…handling it had always frightened him a little。 It was not made for him at all。 It was made for others。 Others who； if he was successful； would never see it again 。 。 。
A sudden rush of regret； anger； fear； and helplessness staggered him。 He was almost overwhelmed by the sheer force of it。 Incredible that a thought could virtually bring him to his knees。 He gasped again； breathing hard； took a firm grip on the heavy table。 What had to be done； had to be done。
He carefully closed the box； latched it； and placed it on the ground inside the smaller； broken circle。 He wouldn't look at it again； wouldn't torture himself further。 With a troubled heart； he glanced over at the clock。 It responded by chiming out the quarter hour； the bell…like tones a strange counterpoint to the oppressive darkness of the room。 Bullard swallowed； worked his jaw； and finally； with a supreme effort； spoke the words he had memorized so carefully。
It was the work of ninety seconds to plete the incantation。
At first； nothing happened。 He strained； listening； but there was not a sound； not a sigh； nothing。 Had he said it incorrectly？ With the help gone； the place was as quiet as the tomb。
His eye drifted back to the manuscript page。 Should he recite it again？ But no…the ceremony had to be performed precisely； without deviation。 Repetition could have disastrous； unimaginable consequences。
As he waited； there in the faint light； he wondered if perhaps it wasn't true； after all： that it was all hollow superstition。 But at this thought； such a desperate mixture of hope and uncertainty rose within him that he forced himself to push it aside。 He was not wrong。 There could be no other answer 。 。 。
Then he felt； or thought he felt； a strange shifting of the air。 A faint smell came to him； drifting across thesalone 。 It was the acrid odor of sulfur。
A breeze shifted the curtains of the window。 The room seemed to grow dimmer； as if a great darkness was encroaching from all directions。 He felt himself go rigid with fear and anticipation。It was happening。 The incantation was working； just as promised。
He waited； almost afraid to breathe。 The smell got stronger； and now it almost seemed as if tendrils of smoke were drifting in the lazy air of the room； tendrils that licked about the windows and curled in the corners。 He felt a strange sense of apprehension； of physical dread。 Yes； it was aphysical sensation； a harbinger of what was to e； and the air seemed to congeal with a rising warmth。
Bullard stood within the greater circle； his heart pounding； his eyes straining to see beyond the darkened doorway。 A vague outline 。 。 。 a lumbering； slow…moving shape 。 。 。
He'd done it！ He'd succeeded！He was ing！He was really ing 。 。 。 ！
57
D'Agosta felt numb。 The shot； the silence； and the finalsplash…this was really it。
〃e on；〃 his minder said； giving him a push。
D'Agosta couldn't move； he couldn't believe what was happening。
〃Move！〃 The man jabbed D'Agosta in the back of the head with his gun barrel。
He stumbled forward； mechanically trying to keep his footing among discarded pieces of stone。 The moldy breath of the open shaft washed over him。 Six steps； eight； a dozen。
〃Stop。〃
Now he could feel the foul air tickling his nose； stirring his hair。 Everything seemed abnormally clear； and time had slowed to a crawl。Jesus； what a way to go out。
The gun barrel pressed hard against his skull。 D'Agosta squeezed his eyes tightly closed behind the blindfold； prayed for a quick end。
He took a shallow breath； another。 Then came a deafening gunshot。 He fell forward into space 。 。 。
。 。 。 Vaguely； as if at a great distance； he sensed a steel arm shooting out from behind and hauling him back from the utter brink。 The hand let go； and D'Agosta collapsed immediately onto the rock…strewn grass。 A moment later he heard a body…not his…hitting the water far below。
〃Vincent？〃
It was Pendergast。
A snick and his blindfold was removed； another snick and Pendergast had cut off his gag。 D'Agosta lay where he had fallen； stunned。
〃Wake up； Vincent。〃
Slowly； D'Agosta came back。 Pendergast was standing to one side； gun trained on his own minder； binding him to a tree。 D'Agosta's man was nowhere to be seen。
D'Agosta stumbled woodenly to his feet。 He felt a strange wetness on his face。 Tears？ Dew from the grass？ It seemed a miracle。 He swallowed； managed to croak； 〃How 。 。 。 ？〃
But Pendergast simply shook his head and glanced into the yawning mouth of the shaft。 〃I think his shoe troubles are over。〃 Then he glanced at the remaining guard and flashed him a brief； chilling smile。
The man paled and mumbled something through his gag。
Pendergast turned to D'Agosta。 〃Show me your finger。〃
D'Agosta had forgotten all about it。 Pendergast took his hand； examined it。 〃Done with a sharp knife。 You're lucky： neither the bone nor the root of the nail was affected。〃 He tore a strip of cloth from the hem of his black shirt and bandaged it。 〃It might be wise to get you to a hospital。〃
〃The hell with that。 We're going after Bullard。〃
Pendergast raised his eyebrows。 〃I'm delighted to hear that we are of the same opinion。 Yes； now is a good opportunity。 As for your finger…〃
〃Forget the finger。〃
〃As you wish。 Here's your service piece。〃
Pendergast handed him the Glock 9mm； then turned to his minder and aimed his own Les Baer at the man's temple。 〃You have one chance…only one…to tell us the best route out。 I already know a great deal about the layout of this place； so any attempt to deceive will be detected and instantly answered with a bullet to the parietal lobe。 Understand？〃
The man couldn't talk fast enough。
An hour later； Pendergast and D'Agosta were driving south of Florence on the Via Volterrana； a dark； stone…walled road that curved along the hilltops south of the city。 A faint scattering of lights winked from the surrounding hills。
〃How did you do it？〃 D'Agosta asked。 He could still hardly believe it。 〃I thought we were about to buy the farm。〃
They were still in their black stealth outfits； and only Pendergast's hands and face could be seen。 In the dim light of the dashboard； his expression was hard and flat。 〃I have to admit a moment of disfort back there myself。 We were lucky they decided to separate； to kill us one at a time。 That was their first mistake。 The second was overconfidence and inattention。 The third was my man keeping his gun pressed into me…which； of course； revealed exactly where the weapon was at all times。 I always carry a few small tools in my shirt cuff； the hem of my trousers； other places。 It's an old magicians' trick。 I used these to pick the lock of my cuffs。 Luckily； the Italian locks were rather crude。 When we halted at the pit； I disarmed my opponent with a blow to the solar plexus； removed my blindfold and gag。 I then shot the gun into the air while pushing a heavy rock into the quarry with my foot。 Next I instructed my guard to order you brought forward…which he did as soon as he recovered his wind。 I regret shooting your guard； but there would have been no way to manage both of them 。 。 。 I do not care for killing people in cold blood； but there was no help for it。〃
He fell silent。
D'Agosta felt his own anger grow。He had no sense of regret。 His finger was throbbing painfully again； in time to the beat of his heart。Bullard。 Pendergast had been correct： the man would pay dearly。
The car swung around a curve； and there； a half mile ahead； D'Agosta could see the outline of a villa silhouetted against the faint glow of the night sky； a crenellated tower on one end framed by cypress trees。
〃Machiavelli's place of exile；〃 murmured Pendergast。
The car dipped into a valley； cruising along an ancient wall。 Pendergast slowed as they approached an iron gate； then turned off the road。 They hid the car in an olive grove and approached the gate。
〃I was expecting heavy security；〃 Pendergast said after quickly examining the lock。 〃Instead； this gate's open。〃 He peered through。 〃And the guardhouse appears to be unoccupied。〃
〃Are you sure we're at the right villa？〃
〃Yes。〃 He slowly eased the gate open； and they stepped into the darkness of the villa's great park。 Two rows of cypresses lined a drive that led up a hill covered with more olive groves。 Pendergast paused； dropping to his hands and knees to examine faint tread marks in the gravel of the drive。 Then he stood； looked around； and nodded toward a dense forest of umbrella pines that lay to one side。 〃That way。〃
They moved through the pines； Pendergast stopping every now and then； apparently looking for guards or other signs of security。 〃Odd；〃 he murmured to himself。 〃Very odd。〃
Soon they reached a thick hedge of laurel； immaculately clipped and impenetrable。 They walked along the hedge to a locked gate； which Pendergast deftly picked。 Beyond lay a formal Italian garden； low boxwood hedges laid in rectangular shapes； bordered by beds of lavender and marigolds。 In the center stood a marble statue of a faun playing panpipes； water pouring from the pipes and splashing into a mossy pool below。 Beyond rose the dark facade of the villa。
They paused to examine the huge structure。 It was stuccoed in a pale yellow。 A loggia ran across the fourth floor； just under the tiled roof： a row of columns topped by Roman arches。 The only sign of life was a faint； flickering glow through the open leaded windows of what appeared to be a grandsalone on the second floor。
Pendergast moved forward again and D'Agosta followed； the burbling fountain masking their footsteps。 In another few minutes； they reached the outer wall of the villa itself。 There was still no sign of any security。
〃Strange；〃 whispered Pendergast。
〃Maybe Bullard isn't home。〃
They passed under one of the great windows of thesalone 。 That was when the smell hit D'Agosta。 It was just a fleeting whiff； yet it felt like a physical blow。 Instantly his anger turned to disbelief； then to creeping dread。
〃Sulfur。〃
〃Indeed。〃
Fumbling half unconsciously for his cross； D'Agosta followed Pendergast around the side of the house to the greatportone of the villa。
〃It's open；〃 Pendergast said； slipping inside。
After the briefest of hesitations； D'Agosta followed。 They paused in the entryway； examining the great vaulted spaces of thepiano terra ； dark with ancient frescoes and trompe l'oeil。
The smell was stronger here。 Sulfur； phosphorus…and burned grease。
Now Pendergast moved up the great sweep of stairs leading to the second floor and thesalone 。 D'Agosta followed him down a vaulted hallway to a massive set of wooden doors； bolted and banded in iron。 One was ajar； and a flickering light came from beyond。
Pendergast pushed it wide。
It took D'Agosta a moment to register。 The light came； not from a burning candle or the great fireplace in the far wall； but from the middle of the room。 There； in the center of a crude circle； something was in the last stages of burning； just a few licks of flame rising from charred lumps。