human trespass. There was no litter, no graffiti, no sign of campfires or broken wine bottles.
The limousine wound its way slowly along a maze of weed-choked roads, curving past a row of giant warehouses, now empty, windows like dead eyes, fields of wild strawberries growing around the cracked walls. The car continued through an archway in an old brick wall, past more ruins and heaps of brick and broken concrete, until it hit a second gate. This gate was far more 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 coming?'
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.
